Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“How so? Did something happen to cause it? Is this about your parents?” Nico asks in a softer voice and strokes my shoulder. His gaze penetrates me like a sharp needle, making my heart beat faster. He’s a handsome man, I’ve seen how people look at him, yet his attention is on me only.
I clear my throat. “No, my parents died in a boat accident. But when I was younger, Carl would often talk about home invasions, and people who might want to take advantage of me if I wasn’t careful, so I started researching to prepare myself and know what to look out for. To have some peace of mind.”
Nico’s hand slides across my back, awakening my skin, and I don’t want it gone, not when it’s so cold our breath creates beautiful swirls of vapor. “Did it help?”
I snort. “No. I mean, yes, in the long run. I decided to take precautions and even hired a self-defense teacher. Look how useful that was when that fucker spiked my drink,” I add, shaking my head.
Nico nods. “Don’t blame yourself, unless you’re always alert, someone can sneak up on you. So the crimes don’t unnerve you anymore? You often sound excited on the podcast when you can share new tidbits.”
I smirk as we come near the Winter Emporium and see it full of customers. It is the weekend after all. “I would ask if you think it’s weird, but I already know the answer. I guess it’s fascinating to know what motivates people, especially serial killers, who really don’t seem to think like the average person. It’s… so interesting,” I say, meeting Nico’s gaze. “And yet, there are commonalities. Does the Christmas Killer collect the teeth as trophies, or is there some meaning to pulling all of his victims’ teeth?” I ask in a low voice.
Nico’s smile widens, and my heart skips a beat. Could I ever feel this way about a normal person? Maybe his true identity is part of the thrill and I’m just ashamed to admit it to myself?
A normal person in my situation would have long sought help. Maybe I’m not as normal as I always thought?
That, or Stockholm Syndrome is already taking root.
“I have to keep some secrets to keep you interested,” he says playfully as if we weren’t talking about murder trinkets but his shoe collection.
“Well okay, do you take photographs then?” I ask, biting my lip.
“If I do, would you like to see them?” Nico repositions my hat, but it’s surely just an excuse to touch me and I don’t mind. Wearing clothes he got for me, all the way down to underwear gives me a buzz. It’s as if he’s marked me with them. The question stirs something deep in my chest, a hunger for information no one but me would be privy to.
I would be disturbed if I found a dead body, but it’s different to see pictures. On top of that, if they’re all of terrible people who deserved what came for them⸺
“Yes,” I whisper as we stand still, intimately close, our eyes locked as if we were telling each other personal secrets. And while my plan for today included getting the hell out of his grasp, here I am, considering a reason to once again follow him down to his basement.
Maybe I’m one of those idiots who believe themselves to be way smarter than they are?
The tension between us thickens, and I wonder if he’s about to kiss me. We are standing so close, and Nico is openly gay in this town. He might do it. Would I be okay with that? A chaste little smooch at a wholesome Christmas market?
What’s happened to my brain? Am I really melting at the very idea?
“Eggnog, Nico?” a man yells from a nearby stall, and the moment is broken, yet I still ache down to my bones for a kiss. Before my fateful nightclub outing, I had no idea how starved my body is for touch, yet being in Nico’s presence makes that painfully clear.
Nico turns to the guy and pulls me along. “I can’t say no to that.”
I glance at a mobile coffee shop closing for the evening. It’s in the form of a small old-fashioned truck in shades of brown and navy, but as the owner gets in the driver’s seat, I join Nico on a bench under a wooden roofing. The burner in front of us has real flames inside, and the heat they produce feels delightful on my icy hands. Within moments, we’re holding a paper cup of eggnog each, and I dive in, showing the stall owner a thumbs up. The beverage is rich, and creamy, with notes of nutmeg and vanilla, and it’s either the best I’ve ever had, or just tastes exquisite at a Christmas market, with a handsome man at my side.