Silent Night (Twisted Holidays)

4. Hayley

FOUR

HAYLEY

Bentley treads into the kitchen, his hair askew from sleep, his chest bare, wearing only a pair of pyjama pants. “What are you doing up? It’s one a.m.”

“Got thirsty,” I admit the truth. It is why I originally came down…before finding the stranger in our house. The stranger presently hiding three feet behind me in the pantry.

Bentley glances at the open pizza box.

“And hungry,” I supply. “Period cravings and all.” That part’s a lie, but it’s meant to deter him from whatever reason he’s slowly pacing across the kitchen toward me.

Bentley stops close to me, his feet almost touching mine. With a tilt of my neck, I stare him down, exactly as he’s doing to me, trying to show him he can’t scare me. “Why don’t I believe you?”

I shrug, inching away from him. “Because you have trust issues.”

“Hm.” He reaches out slowly, but I avoid his touch by stepping back again. He follows, and we complete this dance until my back hits the fridge right beside the pantry. It’s cracked open a fraction, meaning I forgot to shut it completely, but I avoid letting my gaze linger, not to draw Bentley’s attention toward it and the person hiding inside .

Thankfully, he’s too distracted with trying to intimidate me. He slides his finger along my tank top’s strap, lingering around the swell of my breast. I’m quick to smack him away, but he’s quicker to position both his arms beside my head and press closer to me.

“Bentley,” I say in a warning tone.

“Relax,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking uptight. I can be the man to loosen you right up though.”

“God, you make me sick.” I jerk my arms until gaining control of them again and shove his chest. He backs up, grinning.

“And you’re so easy to mess with. Like I said before, we’re not related so there’s nothing wrong with it. Anyway, enjoy your…whatever it is you’re doing. I’m going back to bed. If you get cold later, feel free to join me in my bed. I’ll keep you nice and toasty.”

Ew.

With a final mocking salute, he spins on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen. I wait, pressed against the fridge, until I hear him far enough away to assume he’s gone back upstairs.

I force a few deep breaths, shaky now from my interaction with him. It’s funny how he makes me more nervous than the criminal hiding in the pantry.

The criminal I should have had removed immediately, whether with Bentley’s help or the cops. Or both. After all, what else should one do when finding someone breaking into their house?

When coming down and finding him rooting through the kitchen, I was struck with the immediate fear but played it off casually, figuring he’d be like old schoolyard bullies. Avoid showing fear to not empower them. But then the stranger turned around and I saw who it was.

Still, I can’t believe the coincidence.

For the weeks following when I found him sulking around in my childhood home, hand gripping one of Dad’s valuables, I thought about him. Even then, there was something alluring about him that I never made sense of. It wasn’t until later analyzing my interest in guys that it all made sense.

That same Christmas morning sparked many changes in my life. Not only meeting him, but the downfall of my parents. I learned my mother’s secret, which was the initial fracture of our family. When she and Dad began arguing, the holiday was completely ruined. Even today, the shouting echoes with that horrible memory, and no Christmas has been happy since. Dad’s rage was justified to Mom’s actions, but I yelled at them to stop fighting; to leave it alone for the day that was supposed to have pleasant memories. I’d threatened to run away if they didn’t stop, and accidentally let it slip where I’d be—with the boyfriend they didn’t know about.

He was two years older than me and ran with a rough group of people. Now looking back on that time in my life, I recognize he wasn’t the best choice for me. Or legal. But at the time, I was enthralled with him because he was so “free,” even though he had no life aspirations to do anything actually useful. He and his buddies hung around one of their parents’ basements, smoking dope, playing video games, and getting drunk day in and day out. To stupid eighteen-year-old me, he was thrilling. Fun. Everything I thought I wanted. He gave me attention when my parents were always too busy. Filled in the loneliness left in me when Dad was constantly working and Mom chose shopping and spa days with her friends—and her side relationship apparently—over spending time with me.

When I meant to run to his place, I ended up turning around and heading back home instead. That’s when I discovered the stranger in Dad’s office. He looked scared and cold. His clothing looked fairly new but too thin for the winter weather. Considering how I took off in only a t-shirt and cardigan, yeah, it was definitely thick coat weather. He had dark marks beneath his eyes, making me wonder when he last slept. There was something so…lost…in his gaze that called to me. A loneliness I recognized all too well in myself .

Since I was an asshole brat who was pissed at her parents, I let him go with the decorative dagger I knew cost quite a bit. For weeks afterwards, I wondered where my dark stranger—a nickname I gave him—went to. What he did. Who he was.

That’s when, I realized I was drawn to the dark and dangerous ones. The ones who make me feel something other than this emptiness I so often do. Him, the college guy I was dating, and the few boyfriends after him. The ones who should have cops called on them, rather than doing what I am.

Taking a deep breath and turning toward the pantry, I figure it’s a good enough time for the stranger to come out now that Bentley’s back in bed. Now, I need to get him gone, though I haven’t figured out how to do so yet.

“You can?—”

Hands reach for me, dragging me inside the pantry instead, yanking the door shut. My back hits the shelves as a large body presses me into them, his hair tickling my cheek, his growl coasting over my skin and straight to my insides.

“Who the fuck is he?”

Jealousy pours off him in thick waves, if that wasn’t so ridiculous considering he doesn’t even know me. Hands grip my wrists, and his nose skirts the side of my face, following a similar path Bentley took. Unlike him, the red flags that should be erecting, don’t.

“My stepbrother.”

He strokes a finger along the same tank strap that Bentley did, and with it, goosebumps sprout. I bite down on the small shiver, not wanting him to see how he’s affecting me. His touch eviscerates Bentley’s unwanted one and I could happily let him touch me everywhere.

“Why didn’t you tell him I was in here?” With the lack of light in the pantry, his expression is shielded, but god do I want to see him.

“Because then we’d have a problem on our hands. ”

“We” he repeats with emphasis, a bit of a chuckle in the single word. “We’re a we now?”

“Um.” I didn’t mean it like that. “I, uh, just meant…”

“Relax.”

I do immediately, his command latching onto a forbidden, dark part of me that’s more than happy to obey this stranger.

His cheek brushes mine, his hairs tickling the side of my face again as he leans closer. I’m a statue of indecision, knowing I should push him off of me, but not wanting to either. He could very well kill me now, go after Bentley, and rob us. We’d be ruled as a murder scene and if he’s good, he could get away with it too.

His hands encircle my wrists, pinning them to my sides. “That’s twice now you’ve saved me when you could have gotten me in trouble. Starting to think you’re full of bad ideas, girl.”

“Maybe.” Wouldn’t be the first time. “You talk like you want to get in trouble.”

He chuckles, his breath blowing down the front of my tank, and fuck, I’m thankful he can’t see how my body reacts. “I want you to be smart and have some sense. Letting a stranger roam your house, touch you...” To emphasize his words, his grip tightens. “Eat your food is a bad idea.”

“I know,” I breathe, my lungs feeling seconds from exploding. I tilt my face slightly, catching the glimmer from his eyes as he meets my gaze. “What’s your name?”

I half-expect him to avoid answering, but he replies, “Saint.” It was too quick an answer, so I feel he’s telling the truth.

“Why do I get the sense you’re no saint?”

“Because I’m not.” He pulls back slightly, the shadowed version of him tipping his head. “Saints are good guys, and baby, I’m everything but. They worship at altars, while I’m ready to make you mine.”

Good fucking Christ. He—Saint—needs to get out of here, out of my life before I make a huge fucking mistake. That’s what he’d be. The criminal sneaking into my house, who claims he won’t hurt me sounds like a lie waiting to happen.

“What’s your name, sweet girl?”

For the first time all night, I hesitate. It’s silly really because it’s only my name. Without a last name to go along with it, he can’t really gain anything from it. But it feels different. More intimate if he knows who I am.

He takes my long pause the correct way. “Not going to tell me? Finally you’re being smart. I like that, though it’s a shame I won’t know the name of the girl who’s saved me twice. That’s more than anyone else has ever done for me.”

That comment makes my heart pang. He sounds so lonely, so lost. “Why do you keep saying I’ve saved you?”

His hands release my wrists, and one trails up the inside of my arm as he replies, “Because you could have locked me in your father’s office until your parents got back, and then had me arrested. Tonight, you could have fought back, told your stepbrother about me hiding in your pantry, called the cops yourself…so many options, but you didn’t do any of them.”

“Night’s not over.”

He chuckles, the sound way too dark, dangerous, and delicious for my libido. He’s still touching me, still standing close. I need to breathe something that isn’t him—my newest bad idea.

“I want out of here.”

Saint, for all he’s said, keeps his initial word about not hurting me and immediately backs away, pushing open the pantry door. He steps out first, not meeting my eyes as I follow, walking to the other side of the room, breathing in much-needed air.

“Stay here,” I murmur as I head down the hallway, wondering if he’ll listen. He’s played the friendly thief well so far, so is this where he follows and murders me? Or will he bolt, scared I’ve changed my mind and escape while he can? We’re both skirting a tentative, precarious line, neither one willing to fully make the jump.

After checking that the living room is empty of stepbrothers, I use the bright Christmas tree lights to illuminate my path to the tree, finding two presents I know he’ll make money off of. Mom FaceTimed me the other month, raving about the things she bought Dean for Christmas, and thankfully, knowing Mom, I’m very familiar with her wrapping skills. Or lack thereof, which means anything in a gift bag beneath the tree is from her because she sucks at using wrapping paper. I double check the tag, pleased with myself when I’m correct.

With the presents in hand, I carry them back to the kitchen, to Saint who’s lingering in the same spot I left him.

“These are—were—gifts from Mom to my stepdad, and she told me what’s inside them, so I know they’ll be helpful to you. This is a chain.” I hand over the smaller bag. “Worth a lot, knowing the kinds of places my mom shops at. And a new cell phone.” I slide the larger bag into his hand.

He doesn’t peek inside them, just stares at me, his brows lifting and scrunching together. “You’re giving me these?”

I shrug. “You were going to steal from us anyway. If you are, may as well get the better of the gifts beneath the tree. If she wanted him to have these, she shouldn’t have disappeared last minute. Serves her right.”

Saint slowly shakes his head. “My fuck, you really are full of bad ideas. How have you survived life this long?” He breaks his stare with me to peek inside the bags, looking through the pile of tissue paper my mother not-so-artfully placed on top of the items. “Merry Christmas to me then.”

“I figure you can use them better than my stepfather can. Now that you have what you’ve come for, I should ask you to leave.”

His crooked grin sets my insides on fire. “Suddenly so polite, but you have it, Miss.” Then he bends slightly in a mock bow before tucking the bags beneath his arm and re-zipping his jacket, which looks pitifully thin. I wonder if I should steal one of Dean’s heavy and expensive coats for him but also wonder if too much charity will offend the man used to stealing what he wants on his own terms.

Saint walks to the back door, opening it as a burst of winter air blasts inside. I resist from running off, my pyjamas pitiful against the cold weather. It goes to show how heated this house is compared to the outdoors, and immediately, I feel bad for the guy I’m sending out into it.

But asking him to stay is probably the worst thing I could do. Worse than anything else I’ve done tonight.

He spins on the step and I grasp the door’s handle, shutting it halfway to keep out as much cold as I can. The overhead light flicks on with his motion, both of us giving it a considerably long look before he returns to me, his tongue sweeping his teeth.

“Can I ask for one more thing, sweet girl?” His words are frost-lined, leaving his lips in a puff of white.

“What’s that?”

His gaze rakes over me for what should be the final time, landing on my chest. My nipples are hard from the icy weather, but folding my arms over my chest proves he has an effect on me so I resist.

“I want your name.”

Tapering the smile that nearly slips onto my mouth, I silently tell him goodbye and good luck as I shut the door, watching him through the glass. He smirks back, his blinks slow as snow begins to fall in that instant, the million and one unique flakes landing on his shoulder, his dark hair, and his eyelashes, melting when they lower.

With a final tip of his head, he reaches for his hood and throws it over his head, backing away from the door. I watch as Saint, the stranger appearing twice in my life, disappears into the frosty night.

After a few minutes, the sensored porch lights switch off and with them, my dark adventure is over.