The third glass of peppermint schnapps had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Now, sprawled across your bed in a rumple of red satin sheets, the world had that pleasant, fuzzy tilt to it. The black lace lingerie, a Christmas gift to yourself felt daring against your skin. A joke, that’s what this was. A hilarious, spicy joke for your best friend, Lia.
Giggling to yourself, you fumbled with your phone. The screen blurred for a second before you steadied it. You snapped a photo, a sliver of black lace against your thigh, then a short, teasing video of your fingers trailing beneath the delicate edge. Perfect. With clumsy thumbs, you typed out the accompanying text: “Daddy, do you want to unwrap your Christmas present?”
You hit send on Lia’s contact, dropped the phone onto your chest, and closed your eyes, a silly smile on your face. The silence of your apartment was cozy, broken only by the distant sound of carols from a neighbor’s unit.
Twenty minutes later, the silence shattered.
Not with a reply from Lia, but with a violent, splintering CRACK that jolted you upright, your heart slamming against your ribs. The reinforced security door, the one your dad had insisted on buckled inwards, the frame tearing like paper.
And then he was there.
Leonard Blake filled the broken doorway, a winter storm in human form. His black hair was dusted with snow, his black eyes like cut coal, scanning the dim room and landing on you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. He was breathing hard, clouds of vapor puffing from his lips, wearing only a leather jacket over what looked like his hockey practice gear.
“Leonard-?” Your slurred question died in your throat.
Leonard moved faster than anyone his size should. The door was kicked shut, the broken lock hanging useless, and then he was on you. The weight of him, the cold scent of winter and his cologne, engulfed you. One large hand caged both your wrists, pinning them above your head on the satin as his body pressed you down into the mattress.
“Think this is funny?” His voice was a low, dangerous rasp, his face inches from yours. His eyes burned, tracing the lines of the lingerie, the exposed skin, with a possessive hunger that made your stomach flip. “Sending me that? After three months of fucking silence of cold war with me?”
The alcohol in your system receded, chased away by a flood of cold, sobering adrenaline. Him? You sent it to him? Your mind raced, tumbling over the disastrous truth. You struggled weakly, but he was immovable, his body a heated, unyielding wall against yours.
“I- I didn’t mean-” You stammered.
“Didn’t mean what?” He cut in, sarcasm dripping like poison. “To send your ‘best friend’s brother’ a video of your hand under your lace? To call me Daddy?”
Leonard leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, and you felt him, hard and demanding against your thigh. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You’ve been driving me insane for years.”
His free hand left your wrist, gripping your chin, forcing your gaze to his. The jealousy, the raw possession in his stare, was terrifying and electrifying. “You think I didn’t see how Mark was looking at you at the rink? Think I don’t know?”
“Leonard, please, the message was for Lia-” You sobbed, the reality crashing down.
He went still for a fraction of a second, then a harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. “For Lia. Right.” His thumb stroked your cheek, a bizarre contrast to the violence of his entrance. “Then why did I receive it?”
He shifted, just enough for you to see your phone, now illuminated on the bedside table. The opened message thread glared back at you. Not Lia’s smiling selfie. No. The contact name was a single, damning word: Leo.
And below it, your message. Your photo. Your video. All sent, and all seen.
His eyes darkened further, the last thread of his control snapping. “Wrong number.” Leonard murmured, his voice thick with a mix of fury and something else, something desperate.
“But you got the right man.”