In the dream, it’s cold.
I’m not sure when it happened. First, I was dancing, sweeping along the marble floors in elegant twirls, wrapped in Tristian’s arms, and the next, I’m awash with it. It’s not cold like it was last night on the way home, the chill of the winter air invading my bones. It’s a refreshing sort of cold, soothing my overheated skin with intermittent flutters of warmth and softness. I curl into it, because even though I’m not sure why, I know this is a good cold. Good, like blue eyes. Familiar. Comforting. Safe.
The intermittent warmth moves up my body, from my hip to my breast, lingering there for a moment, soft and wet around my nipple, and then up to my collarbone. My neck. My ear.
Tristian’s whisper barely penetrates my comfortable fog. “If your brother could see you right now, he’d cream himself.” There’s a deep, low chuckle, but the mention of Killian hits me like a contact grenade.
It explodes in my chest, a longing so internal and fierce that my belly clenches with the need for it. For him. I need Killian’s hands on me. I need his mouth on my sleeping lips, coaxing them open for his tongue. God, how long has it been since I heard his hushed voice in my ear, telling me how hard I make him? When was the last time he pulled my knees apart and took me all for himself? Was it only mere months ago that he was on top of me as I slept, rocking so sweetly between my thighs?
I’ve known I missed it, but right now, it’s worse than ever, because Tristian is here instead, and I love him. I love Tristian. But he’s not Killian, and the enticing pitch of his whisper doesn’t fill the space. It just makes the absence more noticeable, as if he’s showing me that something is missing.
Mindlessly, I sigh. “Killian…”
There’s a quick intake of breath, and then Tristian’s gentle rumble. “You miss him, sweetheart?” There’s a rustle near my head, and then the tickle of something in my hair. “You miss Killer waking you up with his cock, don’t you?”
“Mmmm,” I hum, turning my head as if I could find his lips with mine. I don’t, and it doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t make sense that Killian’s not here.
“Shhh,” Tristian says, and then the warmth is against my forehead. A kiss to soothe my frown. “You know you can have him whenever you want. Don’t worry.”
The voice drags me closer to the surface and I stretch my toes, fighting against the weight of sleep to follow it. When I blink my eyes open, I realize Tristian’s dragged the blanket down, revealing the naked expanse of our bodies. He’s propped up on an elbow as he gazes down at me, temple resting on his fist. His other hand is holding his phone. It isn’t until he lowers it that I realize he’s been recording me.
“Urgh,” I grumble, trying to cover myself up. “No videos.”
He gives me a rueful grin, catching my hand in his own, knitting our fingers together. “Sorry. I couldn’t think of anything to get Killer this year. He’s so hard to buy for.”
“You’re all hard to buy for.” I rub my eyes, still feeling the heaviness of exhaustion.
“Want me to delete it?” he asks, thumb sweeping against the back of my hand. “I will. You can watch me.”
I take a long second to think about it—about Killian seeing me like that, so needy and desperate for him. On one hand, it might be a horrible tease. On the other…
Well.
It might be a horrible tease.
I give a slight shake of my head.
“Ruthless.” Tristian smirks at me. “That’s my girl.” His expression darkens, even as his eyes take in my naked body. “He’s going to need something to get him through the next few months.”
“What?” I stretch, flexing my calves. “Why?”
“That choice I made last night? The one where I picked you?” He runs his finger over the scars in my chest, gently tracing the letters. “I wasn’t just picking you. I was choosing them. Us. This.” He makes a vague but expansive gesture. “Your big brother is going to have to do something similar, and that means leaving some things behind.”
“He’s going to leave Daniel?” As soon as I say it I know that’s wrong. “No. He’s going to quit football.” It settles in my gut with a hard certainty, and suddenly, I don’t know how I hadn’t seen this coming all along.
“Getting shot, the shit going on at the Hideaway, all the threats with you…” He sighs, head shaking. “Things are out of control. He can feel it. We all can, and it’s his job to step up. That’s what Killer does, you know.” Tristian raises his eyes to mine, searching. “When things get hard, he makes the calls no one else has the guts to.”
“So he’s giving up his dreams.” A wave of sadness crests over me. Dimitri’s already lost his dreams because of me. Now Killian? I meant it last night when I vowed to stay, but I’m not some starry-eyed little girl anymore. I know what I am to the people closest to me. An albatross.
The smile Tristian gives me is small and bittersweet. “No, sweetheart, he’s claiming his destiny. That NFL life was just a fun distraction and we all know it. It’s why he’s trying not to go to that banquet in a few weeks. You know he’s usually the type to rip the band-aid off, but not here. The banquet is honoring student-athletes as a precursor to the draft season. He’s got that shit in the bag, but once he accepts it and is forced to tell the coach he’s quitting the team, it all becomes reality.”
“I guess…it’s just always been part of his identity.” Images of Killian back in high school, wearing his jersey in the halls, his sweaty clothes in our shared bathroom hamper, the trophies and wins. He’s right, this is going to be as hard on him as it was for Tristian to take me on that dance floor in front of his family. As much as Dimitri giving all his money to Daniel to pay for me in the pit.
I’ll never understand why the price of this—of us—is so high.
“He’ll survive,” he says, tipping my chin with his finger. “It’s what we do.”
The room’s darker than it should be and the cold is rapidly becoming something of the bad variety. I remember us getting home late—after midnight. After the dance. After the Christmas party. I remember coming up the stairs with him and letting Tristian take my dress off. I remember taking off his clothes, mapping out his toned muscles with my curious fingertips. None of them have ever let me do that before—just explore—but Tristian laced his fingers behind his head and laid there while I… discovered him, the arrogant arch of his brow doing nothing to dampen my enjoyment of it. His body is immaculate. A temple, he’d called it. Afterward, I remember his lips on the back of my neck as he curled around me. But nothing else.
“What time is it?” I croak.
Tristian curls his fingers, skating his knuckles over the curve of my breast. “Six.”
“In the morning?” I’m not sure what face I make, but it must be one for the ages, because Tristian actually full-out laughs, shoulders shaking.
“Yes, six in the morning.” He grabs my thigh in a gesture that’s probably thoughtless, but makes my spine tingle with how proprietary it is. “I kind of have plans for the next hour, so I thought you might like to go back to your room. I don’t want to keep you awake with my talking.”
I press my leg into him, enjoying the way he’s massaging my thigh. “Talking?”
“Video call with the twins, so we can open presents together.” He gestures with a nod to his chair in the corner.
“Oh.” There are two very badly wrapped presents sitting in the middle of it, covered in bows and ribbons and glittering stickers. I smile. “Awww.”
He nods. “Yeah, they went a bit hog-wild on the trimmings.”
Suddenly, it hits me, and I rub a hand down my face. “God, you should have stayed the night over there with them instead of carting me all the way back here.”
“Not a chance in hell.” He tips down to kiss me, and even though he hovers there, pinching my bottom lip between his, he doesn’t deepen it. He pulls back to look at me with those blue eyes, and it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him like this: sleep-mussed and soft, a pillow crease still branded into his cheek. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
I’m not sure how the same man who has the power to turn my blood to ice can also melt my insides so effectively, but that’s what he’s done. I’m sure there’s more to say. I can see it in his eyes as they search my face, the litany of things he wants to give to me. It hasn’t escaped my notice that he hasn’t said it back.
“I think I might love you.”
But I didn’t say it hoping he would. The moment was more a gift to myself than one to him.
“It might be mine, too,” I say, pouting. “Except the part where you’re kicking me out of your bed. And before the sun’s even risen, at that.”
He frowns. “I’m not kicking you out. I just know you’re tired. We only went to sleep a few hours ago.”
“I know,” I assure him, turning into his body. “I’ll go. Just let me work up to it. My bed’s going to be all cold.” I whimper at the thought of sliding between the chilly sheets.
“Hmm.” He cups the back of my head in his palm, giving my hair a stroke. “I’m sure we can find somewhere warm for you to cuddle up for a few hours. Come on.”
With that, he rips the blanket away, making me yelp at the sudden rush of frigid air. I cover my breasts uselessly, fixing him with a glower. “You know, a girl could feel a little cast aside here!”
He hops up from the bed, just as naked as I am, but looking a lot less shivery about it. “Please, you know every man in this house lives and breathes for the possibility you’ll come to his bed.” Bending down, he snatches his dress shirt up from where I’d dropped it hours ago and holds it open for me. “Up you go.”
Groaning, I climb out of bed, but even when he helps me thread my arms through his crisp, white shirt, it does little to ease my chattering teeth. He doesn’t make me stand around waiting, though. Without even bothering to pull on some boxers, he threads our fingers together and drags me right out of his room and into the much colder hallway. The wood floor is like ice on my feet, so I tiptoe behind him, not even bothering to pay much attention to where he’s taking me.
Tristian pushes open the door opposite of his and leads me into Dimitri’s room. This room is just as dark as Tristian’s, but there’s music playing through the speakers—something fast and punky. It’s still tidy, with a clear pathway to the piano and bed. Tristian pulls a face at it, but tugs me toward the bed and the dark lump in the middle of it.
“Rath.” Tristian waits, but when he doesn’t get a response, he cups a hand over his junk and lifts his leg to push the lump with his foot. “Wake up, you degenerate.”
There’s a flinch from beneath the blankets, and then a flurry of motion that ends in Dimitri bolting upright, large knife clutched in his fist.
Tristian flings out an arm to push me back. “Easy, dude, chill. It’s just us.”
“What?” Dimitri asks, blinking an alarmed, but sleep-heavy gaze over the room. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Tristian assures, keeping his voice low and calm. “Just need a warm body to park our Lady beside, brother. That’s all.”
Dimitri’s eyes finally fall on me. The tension drops from his body like a bag of bricks, and he flops back down, stuffing the knife back under his pillow. “Fuck, about gave me a goddamn heart attack.” He disappears beneath the blanket once again.
Only this time, a hand emerges.
He curls his palm in a ‘gimme’ gesture, and Tristian pushes me forward, watching as I grab the outstretched hand. Dimitri yanks me into the bed hard enough that I basically tumble into it, but just as quickly as I hit the mattress, he’s swallowing me up in his nest of blankets, dragging me into his warm, bare chest.
He makes a soft, pleased sound after arranging me to his liking. “Fuck yeah.”
It’s so incredibly warm, the blankets blocking out anything but his heat and steady breaths. Every muscle in my body melts as I nestle into him, dragging in a lungful of his spicy scent.
I hum, my eyes growing heavier. “Merry Christmas to me.”
From outside the blankets, Tristian’s distant, muffled voice says, “I can buy you three hours. After that, I make no promises.” And then a click of the door closing.
Promises about what? I mean to ask, but I’m dragged so quickly under the warmth of Dimitri’s embrace, impossibly intoxicating, that all I can do is give in to it.
It’s odd how sleeping is so different with each of them.
Sleeping beside Killian means the constant promise of danger and thrill. The entire time is spent with this morsel of anticipation growing inside my mind, impatient for that first soft touch. It’s not a surface thing, either. It’s subconscious, as if he’s burrowed into my brain and planted his seeds there. If I know he’s coming—hell, sometimes even when I don’t—it’s all I dream about. The wait. The hope. The exhilaration.
When I sleep beside Tristian, I dream of being weightless, gliding across an expanse of zero gravity. I never have to worry when I’m sleeping with him. My brain just shuts itself off, as if it knows I’m being cared for, looked after, in the presence of a danger to anyone but myself. When I’m with him, everything feels okay.
But Dimitri?
Sleeping with him is like a drug. It’s the very first temptation I ever gave into in this house. The warmth and comfort, the sleepy pull of our bodies as we curl up like soft animals, the gentle way I wake when I’m with him…it’s addictive. There are mornings where I wake up alone and ache with how much I’d rather be here, in Dimitri’s bed, burrowed into the cradle of his body. There’s nothing sharp or painful here. No barbs or thorns. No hurts worth paying mind to. Just the two of us, gradually emerging from slumber.
I know he’s awake when I feel his cock twitching against the thigh I have thrown over his hips. I’ve nestled my cheek into the crook of his neck, and I’m laying on his arm—which must be numb—but he’s using it to clutch me to his side, so maybe not.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the healing wound on his chest. The ‘S’ I carved there is scabbed over, but all the redness around the edges has dissipated. The second thing I notice is that he’s on his phone, casually scrolling through a playlist. I watch like that for a while, not giving away that I’m awake, and it feels like a little thrill, stealthily observing him. He’s unnaturally still, his chest rising and falling evenly, but his thumb is erratic, swiping through songs at light speed. One of the best things about Dimitri is how unpretentious he is about the music he likes. He’ll add Bach to the same playlist that boasts obscure internet trap hop, Motown, Scandinavian death metal, and a remix of an eighties cereal jingle. There’s no rhyme or reason to his choices except for one that’s entirely internal.
Idly, I wonder if this is what it feels like for Tristian, getting a glimpse at someone’s behavior when their defenses are down.
Speak of my devil. His name pops up on the screen with an incoming voice call.
Dimitri swiftly declines it and then pulls up their text window. I watch as he sends off a series of emojis:
Sleeping face, book, middle finger.
A moment later, Tristian sends his own:
Knife, syringe, gun.
Dimitri responds:
Yawn, eggplant, ‘ok hand’.
Tristian responds with a single emoji—pinching hand—and it makes Dimitri’s chest hitch with a silent laugh.
“If I’m reading this right,” he barely startles at the realization I’m awake, “you fell asleep with a book, so Tristian should leave you alone. Then he threatens you with assorted violence. And now you’re going to jerk off until you go back to sleep again.”
His voice is deep and still rough with sleep, rumbling beneath my ear. “You’ve decoded our secret language.” Dimitri’s hand moves over my ribs, making me squirm. It’s even warmer and more comfortable here than I remember it being when I first tumbled in beside him. My ankle is tangled up between his, and he gives it a slow rub with the heel of his foot. “The knife is Killer,” he quietly adds, turning to press his nose into my hair. “You’re the book.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip, looking at the screen. “What’s Tristian?”
Dimitri brings up the emoji library and clicks on an elaborate cupcake. “Drives him crazy,” he explains.
I bury a smile, and the yawn that accompanies into it, into his neck. “I can only imagine.”
He sets the phone aside and rolls into me, pressing a series of lazy kisses to my jaw. “I think Killer’s getting impatient. He says he doesn’t have all day, but between you and me, I think he just wants to do presents.”
I hum, turning my head to give his wandering lips access to my neck. “There are presents?”
“Of course there are presents.” His hand finds the crease of Tristian’s dress shirt and dips beneath it, invading the spot of skin right below my breast. “Tristian and I always get him the same thing. Credit with his favorite ink man. He and Tristian always get me credit at the overpriced instrument shithole in North Side. And I always get Tristian drugs.”
That brings me up short. “Tristian doesn’t do drugs. Not, like, real drugs.”
Dimitri lifts his head to look at me, eyes sweeping down as he pulls my shirt back. “Sure, he does.” His fingertip circles my nipple, watching it stiffen to a point. “Once a year, Christmas day, he’ll let me get him fucked up without asking where I got it and what it’s cut with.” Gently—almost tenderly—he cups my breast in his hand. “It’s the one day he actually lets go. He even eats junk.”
I snort, skating my fingertips over his wrist. “No way.”
Dimitri gives me a lopsided smirk. “Just wait, you’ll see. Tomorrow he’ll act like a little bitch about it. Probably do some kind of detox cleanse or whatever the fuck. But today, I get to pump that fucker with absolute garbage. It’s amazing, you’ll love it.”
I wish I’d known that. “I couldn’t find anything to get the three of you,” I confess.
But he just shrugs. “We figured.” So casually that I’m not even expecting it, he bends down to take my nipple between his lips. Just like that, I’m a mess of white-hot want. The cool metal of his lip rings against my skin does little to soothe it. “Don’t worry, we didn’t get you anything ridiculous. Sometimes they don’t understand, you know?” His dark eyes rise to mine. “That money makes people like us twitchy.”
I’m sure there’s a point to be made, but it’s hard to focus on it when he’s hovering over my breast like this, pensive and unhurried. I thread my fingers through his hair and arch against his mouth, eliciting a ragged laugh.
He brushes his lips against my nipple, saying, “The thing I got you was free, though.”
“It was?”
He cuts his eyes to the bedside table, nodding. “Top drawer. Check it out.”
When I reach over to open it, he moves his mouth to the center of my chest, kissing the scars as I rummage through. I raise an eyebrow, holding up a box of condoms. “Did you keep the receipt?” Because there might have been a time I wanted them, but I can’t even remember it. Now the thought of them being inside me without leaving a trace of themselves behind is actively off-putting.
“Those are old,” he says, grabbing the box and flinging it across the room. “The paper, on top.”
I find it, pulling it from the drawer and giving it a long look over. It’s a paper on Soviet dystopias, written by D. Rathbone, and features a simple rubric, written in red cursive:
Analysis – B, Grammar – D, Evidence – A.
In a big circle below it is the letter ‘C’.
I bolt upright, ignoring his groan of protest. “Oh my god, you got this on your own?”
He flops back, looking put out as I cover my chest with the paper. “Not really. I’m kind of seeing someone—for extra help.”
“A tutor?” For some reason, the thought of him sitting with someone else—another girl—and working through his reading issues makes my chest ignite in a hot, possessive fury.
He doesn’t make me suffer long, reaching out to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “The music director set me up with this guy. A literacy coach.” The corners of his eyes tighten at the admission. “I had to give up my studio space on Tuesdays and Thursdays to work with him, but it’s free, and he’s not a dick about it.”
“Holy shit. A real literacy coach?” I say, gaping at him. Not just some tutor, or some student who’d bend at his every whim. An actual professional who understands his limitations, but also understands his potential.
I tackle him with a kiss that’s too full of my own smile to reach the proper ambition.
As much as I don’t mind helping Dimitri, I know that actually asking someone for help, with zero strings attached, is huge. Revealing his vulnerabilities to me was easier because he had the power. I’ve never been prouder of this man.
“If I’d known you’d be this excited about a ‘C’ maybe I would have tried harder a while back.” His hands slip to my hips and I rock against him. Building warmth rises between us but before my lips can meet his again, a loud banging on the door jolts us apart.
He picks up his phone and checks the time. “He said three hours. On the dot.”
I expect him to ignore it, but he doesn’t. A different sort of energy sparks through him. “Come on,” he says, rolling me off. “Let’s go see what Santa brought us.”
