Page 16 of Dark Christmas

I nod. “Exactly. A few years ago, I left it all behind. Came here for a new adventure.” It’s a line I’ve used before, but something about saying it to her feels different. I’m too close to telling her the truth.

“That’s another thing we have in common,” she says with a soft smile.

I meet her eyes, nodding again. “Seems so.” I pause, then add, “All of my family is still back in Russia. So, for the most part, I’m alone here.”

“What’s your company like? Big operation?”

I shake my head. “It’s just me and a few contractors. None of them live in the city, though. Mostly remote work.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?”

I pause, watching her carefully. “Not at all,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

Truth is, I don’t waste time thinking about loneliness. It’s a concept that doesn’t fit into my world—keeping a low profile ensures survival.

She smiles. “Sounds like we’re both small-business, entrepreneurial types.”

A small smirk plays on my lips. “Indeed, we are.”

To my surprise, I’m actually enjoying this conversation more than I thought I would. Talking with her comes easily. She’s not trying to impress me or dig too deeply into things I’d rather keep hidden.

But as much as I’m intrigued by her mind, my body is demanding attention. The physical pull I feel toward her is growing stronger, nearly impossible to ignore.

A dark part of me—one I’ve long since learned to control—wants to take her right here, right now. I imagine her spread across the dining room table, naked and vulnerable, her legs open for me, her eyes filled with pure desire.

The thought of her writhing beneath me, giving herself over completely... is enough to make my pulse quicken.

I snap back to reality, controlling my facial expressions as I rein in the surge of lust.

Not yet, I tell myself.

She glances at me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

I blink, shaking off the dark thoughts that had taken root. I lie easily, slipping into a practiced smile. “I’m fine. Just thinking about work.”

“Oh, so now I’m boring you?”

“Amelia, you could never bore me,” I say with more feeling than I intended.

We finish the meal, and as she sets her fork down, she practically gushes. “Melor, seriously, that was amazing. I’ve never had beef stroganoff that good in my life.”

“Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? I loved it. You might’ve missed your calling, you know. Could’ve been a chef.”

I watch as she picks up her plate and heads to the sink, and before I know it, she’s starting the dishes. I follow her, half-expecting to feel indifferent, but instead, I find myself enjoying this small, domestic moment with her.

“You don’t have to help,” I say, though I make no effort to stop her.

“I know,” she replies, smiling over her shoulder. “But I like helping. Besides, it’s the least I can do after you cooked.”

We move around the kitchen easily, passing dishes, scrubbing, drying. There’s an ease between us, though the tension is growing with every second. Every brush of her hand against mine, every glance, feels charged.

I hand her a dish to dry, and our fingers touch for just a moment longer than necessary. She meets my eyes, and for a brief second, neither of us moves.

“Thanks again for dinner,” she says softly, breaking the silence. But her voice has a different tone now, something quieter, more vulnerable.

“Anytime,” I respond.