CHAPTER ONE
Nyx
Christmas has always demanded too much from people who have nothing left to give.
I watch the city pass by through the taxi window, lights blurring into gold and white as rain slicks the streets. Storefronts glow with artificial warmth—promises of joy, forgiveness, togetherness. All things I no longer believe in.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
I don’t look.
I already know who it’s from. I already know what it says. Apologies dressed up as excuses. Regret that arrived too late. Love that wasn’t strong enough to stay loyal.
I slip the phone into my coat pocket and exhale slowly, counting my breaths the way I learned to when everything started falling apart.
This trip is supposed to be temporary. Just the holidays. Just enough time to breathe. To reset. To remember who I was before everything cracked open.
The taxi pulls up in front of a townhouse wrapped in tasteful white lights—elegant, restrained, expensive. The kind of place that whispers money instead of shouting it.
I pay the driver and step out into the cold. The air bites immediately, sharp and grounding. Snow threatens from heavy clouds above, the kind that makes the world feel quieter than it should.
Inside, warmth greets me instantly. Cinnamon. Wood polish. Something darker beneath it.
Masculine.
I stop just inside the doorway.
He’s standing near the fireplace, jacket already discarded, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with strength. He’s still in a way that feels deliberate—like a man who doesn’t waste motion or words.
Then he turns.
And looks at me.
The room seems to tilt, just slightly.
His eyes are dark and steady, sharp with intelligence and something else I can’t immediately name. Not hunger. Not kindness. Awareness. The kind that feels invasive without ever crossing a line.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften his expression when our gazes lock.
He simply watches me.
I become acutely aware of everything at once—my damp boots, the weight of my coat, the faint tremor in my hands. I feel exposed, like he’s already cataloguing details I didn’t offer.
“Nyx!” my best friend’s voice cuts in brightly as she rushes toward me. “You made it!”
She pulls me into a hug, chattering about traffic and weather and how glad she is I’m here. I hug her back, grateful for the distraction, but my attention keeps slipping—unwanted and persistent—back to him.
“This is Alexander Blackwood,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder. “My father.”
Father.
The word lands heavier than it should.
Alexander Blackwood inclines his head slightly. Not a greeting. Not quite a dismissal either.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” he says.
His voice is low. Calm. Controlled.
I nod, suddenly uncertain of my footing. “You too.”
The lie slips out easily. Smoothly.
Because something about him already feels like a mistake waiting to happen.
His gaze doesn’t linger too long—just long enough to unsettle me—before he turns back toward the fire, as if I were something he’s decided not to touch.
But I feel it anyway.
The shift in the room.
The awareness.
The sense that my quiet plan to survive the holidays just changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But with a man who looks at me like rules are negotiable…
and consequences are his to manage.
