Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
In a bout of frustration, I give the gingerbread man an upside-down horseshoe for a mouth and Xs for eyes. That’s how I feel. I grab the small ladle from the pot of chocolate icing and pour it all over his body. This cookie is in mourning for Christmas, not celebrating it.
I can sense Saint’s gaze on me from the other side of the counter. His gingerbread man is smiling and wears a sweater with Santa’s face, which Saint carefully drew on with a toothpick, as if any of this matters. He can pretend we’re a real couple if he wants, but I know what this really is, and I can only play along for so long.
So I rip off the next cookie’s hands and splash him with red icing, because that feels way more appropriate than acting as if any of this is normal.
Saint’s voice penetrates the dense soup of my thoughts. “What are you doing?”
I look up and show him the gingerbread man, then snap off his head before pushing it his way. “This is Ted. Get it?”
Saint’s lips thin, and the muscles in his jaw twitch as he stares me down with eyes like two knives. “This isn’t funny.”
“I mean, I guess we’re not cannibals.” I say but eat the head anyway. I have to admit it’s fucking delicious.
Saint’s eyes widen. “Those are for next week!”
I groan and swallow, because what am I supposed to do? Spit it out now? “Why? Who is gonna police when we eat cookies?”
“Fuck you.” Saint stares at me, gripping the edge of the counter, and I can almost physically sense the sparks inside him.
I should be afraid. I know he’s dangerous, but the anger in me leaves no space for fear, and for once, I’m glad of it, because I’m sick of living in its shadow.
“What did I do now? I’m decorating the damn cookies, in the outfit you chose, listening to your playlist!” But the mood soured like week-old milk left on the radiator and we both know it.
“That’s what we agreed on. I am fulfilling my part of the bargain, so suck it up!” Saint yells, and I freeze, realizing this is the first time he’s ever raised his voice in my presence. The song ends, leaving us with a moment of dense silence that’s already choking me.
“No! If I can't decorate them how I want to, I don’t want to do this at all!” I blow up and throw the decapitated cookie at him in a fit of helpless fury.
He ducks, then takes one of the bowls with sprinkles and tosses it my way. I expect it to break my nose, but it flies above my head, scattering bits of sugary chocolate over me before breaking as it collides with the wall.
“Why are you doing this?” Saint roars, heading my way like a grizzly bear that’s had enough teasing.
“What did I do?” I back around the counter, watching his every move. “I was decorating, like you told me to, but no, I have to be as bland about it as you! I wanted to inject my personality into them, but that’s not good enough. Stay away!” I warn him, grabbing the pot of warm chocolate.
A food fight. This could be funny. Quaint. Adorable.
But I’m not laughing, and he eyes me as though I’ve ruined Christmas.
“Don’t,” he mutters, tense like a bow about to release an arrow.
When I swing my arm to get the pot out of his reach, he grabs my wrist, and I splash the chocolate on his face, the stupid pajamas, and the floor.
He either moves unnaturally fast, or I’ve lost a second, because the next thing I know is the wall against my back and his hand squeezing my throat. He’s done this so many times before, but his grip is actually tight this time, as if for once he means it.
My heart starts beating all too fast, but then he sneers and squeezes my neck with more force. This is the real him. He's not my pet wolf. He's feral, maybe even rabid, and he will bite when prodded. I try to gasp in panic, but it’s no use, so I grab his wrist and forearm, desperate to wrestle it away. His chocolate-stained face should amuse me, but it kind of looks like blood, and laughter is the last thing on my mind.
He’s going to kill me.
He’s going to kill me over cookies.
I catch his gaze with a pleading expression as my vision gets blurry. He blinks, scowls, and then tears his hand away, recoiling as I slide down the wall, struggling for breath.
Shock sets in as I freeze, focused on the plush gray slippers on his feet. I can’t force myself to look up when he takes a step back, then another, as if needing to create some distance between us.