Santa, Sir

Reindeer Games

Ronan’s POV

The faint aroma of stale coffee and industrial-strength cleaner hung in the air, a familiar scent now synonymous with the quiet hours after the mall closed. My office, a glorified closet tucked away in the service corridor near the loading docks, was a stark contrast to the chrome and steel of Rourke Customs. Here, the only metal was the rickety filing cabinet, crammed with outdated employee records and holiday season budgets. I sat behind the chipped laminate desk, the red velvet Santa jacket a heavy, ridiculous weight across my lap. The fake white beard and wig lay coiled beside it, a caricature of cheer.

A soft rap on the door. "You decent, or are you still practicing your ho-ho-ho’s?" Marcus's voice cut through the silence.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open, his frame filling the cramped space. Marcus, my head mechanic and only friend, was a solid, dependable presence. He carried the weary scent of the shop's late shift, oil and sweat clinging to his worn leather jacket. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a flicker of something close to apprehension as they settled on the Santa gear.

"Still here?" he asked, a brow lifting. "Thought you'd be back at the shop, tearing apart that carb for the 'Valkyrie.'"

"That carb can wait." I picked up the fake beard, turning it over in my hands. The synthetic fibers felt alien. "I have… other projects."

Marcus leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Other projects. Right. The one’s in green tights."

I met his gaze. "This one has potential."

"Potential for what, Ronan?" Marcus pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. He picked up a stray plastic candy cane from the desk, twisting it until it snapped. "This isn't like you. Not this. Not with someone like her."

"Someone like her?" I leaned back in the creaking chair. "Enlighten me."

"I did some research. She's fresh meat, Ronan. Young, just got dumped by some loser who bled her dry. I saw the application notes." His voice dropped, losing its usual sardonic edge. "Vulnerable. That's what she is. Scared and desperate for a paycheck."

I watched him. "How is that a problem?"

"For you? Probably not. For her? Maybe." Marcus tossed the broken candy cane into the waste bin. "You usually go for… women who know what they're signing up for. Who walk in with eyes wide open and a list of demands as long as your arm."

"Katie also has demands," I said, a slow smile spreading. "Just not ones she recognizes yet."

Marcus scoffed, a low sound. "That's what worries me. You're playing with fire, Ronan. She's not built for your games. She's not one of your… clients."

"She isn't." I rose, walking to the small, dusty window overlooking the deserted mall corridor. "She's something else entirely."

"She's looking for a job, Ronan. Not… whatever this is." Marcus gestured vaguely at the Santa suit. "You put on that suit, and you're a god to these kids. You put on that suit, and you're a menace to the elves. It's a game, you said. Low stakes." He paused. "This feels like anything but low stakes."

I turned from the window. "I need a submissive, Marcus. A real one. Not a performance."

"And you think she's it? The girl in the ill-fitting elf costume, who probably thinks 'submission' means filling out tax forms on time?" Marcus rubbed a hand across his jaw. "She's already been through hell. Another man trying to control her… is that really what she needs?"

"Chad tried to control her by stripping her of everything. Her money, her confidence, her self-worth," I said, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "He broke her, not in the way that makes her ready for what I offer, but in an insidious way. Crippling."

"And you think you're going to fix that by… playing master?" Marcus's voice was blunt, challenging.

"I'm going to show her a different kind of control. One that's consensual. Defined. Safe." I picked up the jacket again, my fingers tracing the faux fur trim. "One that she can understand, and ultimately, find power in."

"Power?" Marcus looked skeptical. "You don't hand out power, Ronan. You take it."

"I'm not taking anything she doesn't willingly offer." My voice was firm, an edge of warning in it. "This isn't Chad. This is different."

"Different how?" Marcus's gaze was unwavering. "She's confused. Scared. You see it, I see it. You see a challenge. I see someone who's barely holding it together."

"She's a blank slate. Uncorrupted by the expectations of this world, or the self-proclaimed 'kinksters' who think a collar is just a fashion accessory," I explained. "She responds to genuine dominance. To true conviction. She doesn't know what she wants because she's never experienced it properly. She's never been permitted to surrender."

"And you're going to give her that permission?" Marcus shook his head. "You're talking about tearing down every defense she has, only to rebuild her in your image. That's not a game, Ronan. That's an excavation."

"Sometimes, an excavation is necessary for new foundations to be laid."

"And if those foundations don't hold? What then?" Marcus's voice was low. "You walk away. You always do. You build the perfect sub, then you let her go. But this one… this one feels different. More fragile. More likely to shatter."

My fingers tightened on the velvet. "Then I will ensure she doesn't shatter."

"You've got rules, Ronan. Distances. You keep yourself separate. You don't get involved." Marcus stepped closer, his voice soft, almost a plea. "Katie's vulnerability, her raw honesty… it could crack through all that. It could break your rules. And once that happens, you're lost in the mess just like everyone else."

I stared at the fake beard. "I am not lost, Marcus. I am calculating."

"You're calculating the risk. But for once, you're calculating it for more than just yourself." Marcus paused, his eyes searching mine. "She could be the one who makes you feel something you've spent a lifetime avoiding."

A tremor ran through me, a faint ripple beneath the carefully constructed layers of control. "I feel only what I choose to feel."

"Do you?" Marcus's voice was quiet. "Or do you just choose what you allow yourself to feel?" He pushed off the desk, heading back to the door. "Just… be careful, Ronan. This isn't a motorcycle engine you're rebuilding. This is a person. And she's already been through enough."

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the sterile silence. I looked at the Santa suit, the red velvet, the white trim. A disguise. A uniform. A means to an end.

My intentions with Katie. Marcus saw them as dangerous, a threat to her. Perhaps even a threat to me. But I saw only the possibility. A chance to mold something exquisite from chaos, to give a lost soul the structure and release she desperately needed, even if she couldn't articulate it.

The rules I lived by, the emotional distance I maintained, they were my armor. But Katie… Katie, with her defiant eyes and quick wit, her unconscious yearning for a hand to guide her through the wreckage of her life, was a tiny, unpredictable spark. And sparks, sometimes, could ignite an inferno.

I picked up the Santa jacket, the heavy velvet cool against my skin. "Let's see if you can break me, little elf," I murmured to the empty room. "Let's see if you even come close."