Early Christmas Present

Early present

Chapter 4

Dominic crossed his arms and stared at the unconscious woman on the sofa with a look of pure disbelief.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is exactly how people get murdered. Door wide open, passed out on the sofa, no awareness of anything.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to scold her or roll her up in a blanket like a lost kitten.

As he paced the room, his ears picked up a soft sound — the kind of fragile, muffled noise someone makes when they’re half asleep and half broken.

A tiny hiccup.

Then a sniffle.

Ruth shifted on the sofa, turning her face toward the backrest, eyes still closed. Her voice came out slurred, barely audible.

“Why… why did they do that to me…?” she mumbled, lips trembling. “I was good to them. Both of them.”

Dominic froze.

She wasn’t awake.

She wasn’t talking to him.

She was talking to her pain.

Her words spilled out like heavy drops of whiskey-soaked confession.

“They knew… they knew how unlucky I am… I told them everything… and they still… still stabbed me in the heart.” Her fingers curled against the pillow, gripping it as though holding onto someone who wasn’t there anymore.

Dominic’s chest tightened — uncomfortably, unexpectedly.

He wasn’t built for emotional moments. He dealt in bullets, lies, and survival. But watching this small, broken woman mumble her grief into a sofa cushion stirred something in him he didn’t want to identify.

Ruth continued, voice thick and pitifully honest, “And Santa… ugh, Santa… didn’t even give me what I asked for.”

Dominic blinked. “…Santa?”

She sniffled loudly, head wobbling.

“I asked for a handsome, muscular man who can cook… someone who won’t cheat… someone who won’t treat me like a curse…” She made a frustrated little grunt. “But NOOOO. My ex-boyfriend had none of that. No muscles. No cooking skills. NOTHING. And he STILL cheated!”

Her voice rose as she muttered, “All men are scumbags… scumbags… except maybe Santa. If he’s buff.”

Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, that's new,” he murmured, half amused and half exasperated. “ a drunk woman negotiating with Santa like he’s on Tinder.”

He stepped closer, crouching beside her. Her eyelashes were wet, and tear streaks glistened on her cheeks. For reasons he did not care to examine, Dominic gently wiped one away with the back of his knuckle.

She didn’t wake.

She only curled deeper into herself.

And something inside him — the part he thought had died under missions and blood and a lifetime of hardened instinct — softened.

He sighed.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he muttered, “sleeping on this sofa is going to murder your spine.”

Carefully, far more carefully than someone in his profession should be capable of, Dominic slid his arms beneath her. She was lighter than he expected — warm, soft, and completely unaware of the assassin-level chaos happening in her living room.

Ruth murmured something unintelligible and pressed her face into his chest as he lifted her.

Dominic froze for half a second.

…Okay.

That did things to him he was not prepared to admit.

He cleared his throat and carried her into her bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. Her hand tugged at his sleeve before she settled, as though clinging to anything that wouldn’t betray her.

Dominic exhaled slowly and pulled the blanket over her.

He hesitated at the doorway, watching her breathe, watching her pain flicker across her sleeping expression.

He hadn’t expected this.

Any of it.

He’d broken into an apartment seeking safety, not… this.

With a crooked, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he whispered:

“Well, darling… looks like your early Christmas present is here.”

Then he stepped back, unknowingly sealing both their fates with those words.