With a sly grin, I consider my next move. She’s looking at me with that defiant tilt to her chin, daring me to up the ante. If she wants to play, I can play. “I’ll just have to find other ways to thaw then,” I say, my tone subtly coaxing.

  Her cheeks flush. Good to know she rattles.

  Nina pushes off the doorframe, all haughty indifference. “Enjoy your frozen change of clothes.” Then, that incandescent green gaze drops to my nether regions. “I hope nothing shrivels.”

  And the way she looks back up at me, a little suggestively and with a satisfied, impudent smirk, has the opposite effect of shriveling anything down there.

  6

  NINA

  Revenge is coming. I sense it in Tristan’s exaggerated graciousness as he offers me the bread basket during dinner. Or in the attentive way he pours me water, asking, “Ice?”

  “I can take it myself, thank you.”

  “No need.” He grabs the ice tongs and drops three cubes in my glass, tortuously slow. They look only half-made—too small—but still clink loudly as they fall into the glass. Each chink reverberates against my spine.

  Tristan looks at me, blue eyes so deep and clear they could belong to a glacier. His beauty is undeniable, the kind that could easily grace the covers of magazines or make an entire room fall silent as he walks in. Dark hair, the color of midnight, falls effortlessly around a face chiseled from alabaster, providing a stark contrast that only accentuates the intensity in those eyes that seem to hold the world’s secrets.

  He’s a work of art.

  But I see past the facade, into the shadows lurking beneath the surface of his perfect features. It’s in the way his gaze holds mine, intense and unyielding as if he’s peering into my very soul, searching for something he can twist and bend—hurt, his specialty. His appearance is a deception, a mask so beautifully crafted that it’s almost impossible to discern the darkness that dwells underneath. And yet, I can feel it, a cold undercurrent that whispers of danger, reminding me that even the most exquisite roses have thorns.

  I tap my foot under the table, wondering what he has planned to get back at me for hiding his suitcase. I know he has something in store. This kindness is just a provocation. One more polite gesture, and I’m going to lose it and scream. I glare at him, my nerves tangling into knots.

  “Relax, Nina,” Mom says, piling mashed potatoes onto my plate. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

  “I’m fine,” I mutter, darting a glance at Tristan. He grins at me, and I scowl. Jerk.

  As we eat, my eyes follow Tristan’s every move, waiting for the other shoe to drop. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grab it, my pulse quickening when I see the sender. A text from Tristan.

  The Prince of Darkness

  You look lovely when you’re paranoid ;)

  Lovely. The word washes over me like warm honey, unexpected, sweet, and annoyingly sticky. It’s ridiculous, really, how a single positive adjective from him can send such conflicting signals through my body. Part of me—the part that’s hated him for what feels like an eternity—wants to toss my phone right at his smug face. But there’s this other part, a traitorous, whisper-thin sliver of my consciousness that flutters at the compliment, however backhanded it might be.

  I scowl, trying to shake off the absurd fluttering in my stomach. It’s Tristan, for crying out loud. The same guy who’s made it his mission to make my life a living hell every chance he gets. And yet, here I am, caught in the crossfire of my tumultuous feelings, hating how my heart skips a beat when another speech bubble appears underneath the first text.

  But seconds tick by, and no new texts come through.

  I glance up from under my eyelashes to find Tristan fumbling with his phone under the table, a frown creasing his forehead.

  Come on, I think impatiently. What’s taking so long?

  I shift in my seat, checking my screen again, but the speech bubbles continue to mock me, moving but unchanging. I stare at Tristan, willing him to look up. But he remains focused on his phone, oblivious to my inner turmoil. I’m half tempted to snatch the darn thing from his hands to see what he’s writing, but that would be too desperate even for me.

  The clank of silverware against plates fills the air as we continue with our dinner. My parents and Dylan are talking, but I’m unable to concentrate on the conversation or the food in front of me. The speech bubbles on my phone screen are like a persistent echo in an empty room, impossible to silence. Their constant bubbling is gnawing at my insides and threatening to make me lose my mind.

  That’s when I notice Tristan has put his phone away and is scarfing down Mom’s roast with gusto. I stare at my screen again. The speech bubbles are still there. But if he’s not typing anymore… I frown. Am I out of signal? No, I have full bars. So why isn’t his message coming through? With the time he took, Tristan must’ve written a poem. Is my phone broken? I shake it, then tap on the screen. The speech bubble opens up as an image attachment. The jerk has sent me a GIF. He wasn’t typing anything.

  When I look up, Tristan is watching me, a smug smirk on his face. He winks.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, my mind a whirlwind of irritation, confusion, and an inexplicable respect. That was an admittedly good prank. With a huff, I shove the phone back into my pocket. Let him preen, think he’s won. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled.

  In need of a respite, I reach for my glass and take a drink. The water glides down my throat, soothing, until my eyes cross over a dark shape swirling in the liquid.

  A scream claws its way up my windpipe, shattering the comfortable hum of dinner. The glass slips from my grasp, water sloshing down my front, icy rivulets snaking through my clothes as panic and disgust war for dominance.

  “Honey, are you alright?” My dad pats me between the shoulder blades as I cough out more water.

  “There’s a bug in my water!” I gasp out, my voice hitching, as every pair of eyes at the table snaps toward me.

  My mom is up in an instant, concern etched in her features. “A bug? In the dead of winter, honey?”

  “It’s in my glass!” I point, my hand trembling, only to watch in mounting horror as my dad fishes out the offending object with a spoon.

  He inspects it, then chuckles, holding it out for me to see. “Nina, it’s just a raisin.”

  A raisin. Not a bug. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. How did a raisin get in my glass?

  My scalp prickles and I turn my head to find Tristan’s gaze locked on me. He’s trying to stifle a laugh, unsuccessfully, his shoulders are shaking with silent mirth.

  Our eyes meet, and in his, I recognize a glimmer of triumph. Oh, I see, this was his play all along. The showcase of politeness was just to gain access to my food and water supply. The text message was a diversion to lull me into a false sense of security before the major attack. He knows I hate bugs and that I freak out even for the smallest midge.

  I narrow my eyes at him. He merely raises his glass in a mock toast, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

  I’m soaked, embarrassed, and now more determined than ever. I push back from the table, hands balled into fists at my sides. “You’re dead, Montgomery,” I hiss on my way to change.

  His grin only widens. “Promises, promises.”

  I storm away before I do something I regret, like punch that infuriating smirk right off his face. In my room, I peel off my wet sweater and use it to towel off.

  After I’ve changed into dry clothes, there’s a knock at my door. I throw it open, ready to tear into Tristan, but it’s my brother on the other side.

  “I come in peace,” Dylan says, hands raised.

  I cross my arms, eyebrow lifting skeptically. “What do you want?”

  “To make sure you’re not planning to murder my best friend.” Dylan pushes past me into the room.

  “No promises,” I mutter darkly.

  My brother sits on the edge of my bed. “Come on, Nina. It was just a harmless prank. And I’m sure you’ve started it somehow.”

  I purse my lips, neither confirming nor denying.

  “Promise me you won’t go crazy and ruin Christmas for everyone,” Dylan says.

  “You’ve already ruined Christmas by bringing Malefico here.”

  Dylan scolds me with a reproachful stare.

  “Fine.” I flop onto my bed next to him with a huff. “I won’t kill him.”

  “Or maim him,” Dylan adds, only half joking. “Or publicly humiliate him.”

  “I get the picture,” I grumble.

  Dylan reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Atta girl. Now let’s go back downstairs. Uncle Milo, Agatha, Eric, and the kids are coming over for Charades night.”

  Milo is Dad’s brother. Agatha, his daughter. And Eric, her husband. They have two kids, Teddy, three, and Zoe, nine.

  I raise an eyebrow. “They’re coming even in this weather?”

  “They live too close for a little blizzard to stop them. And it’s Charades night.”

  “Do I have to play?”

  “Yes.” Dylan nods. “Mandatory family fun. They’ll be here soon.”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Come on. You know Teddy will cry all night if he doesn’t see you.” He pats my shoulder. “And Zoe will have no cool role model.”

  I roll my eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

  Dylan hardly suppresses a smirk. “Oh, I think it does.” He stands up and offers me a hand.

  I let him pull me up and follow him out of my room, bracing myself for an entire night of having to stare at Tristan Montgomery’s smug face.

  7

  NINA

  As I stomp downstairs after my brother, rage against the unwanted houseguest resurfaces, bubbling inside me with every step. How dare he ruin the best time of the year? I usually love Charades night, but not when I have to share my family with him.

  At the bottom of the stairs, loud voices come from the kitchen. Uncle Milo and his family must’ve gone in for a taste of Mom’s famous pecan pie. Wanting an extra minute of quiet, I deviate to the living room.

  A poor choice. As I enter the room, I find Tristan alone in there, leaning against the fireplace, one arm braced over the mantel, staring into the crackling fire. With the flickering flames illuminating his beautiful features in a dance of light and shadows, his cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw even more defined, and his eyes an unsettled storm that threatens to knock the wind out of me. I shake off the unwanted admiration and march up to him.

  “You,” I snarl, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I know it was you.”

  He glances at me, eyes glinting with satisfaction. The smug curl of his lips makes it clear he’s been awaiting my reaction. “Know what was me?”

  “The raisin. In my water glass. You put it there somehow.”

  He arches a brow. “Oh, is that what all the fuss was about, a raisin? You scare easily, Thompson.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Montgomery.” I jab his chest with my finger—bad idea. I almost chip a fingernail on the solid wall of muscles. “I know your tricks. How did you do it? There’s no way it was in there when you poured in the water.”

  A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “In the water? No, you’re right.”

  He stares at me intensely. I might have melted under someone else’s gaze, but his unapologetic blue stare is as infuriating as it is captivating, and still allows my brain cogs to turn. “You mean it was in the ice? But…” I scowl at him as comprehension dawns, anger battling with reluctant admiration for the cunning simplicity of his prank. “You froze it in an ice cube, didn’t you? Like a slow time-release bomb. That’s why the ice was only half done.”

  He gives a noncommittal shrug, the picture of innocence.

  Am I imagining it, or is there a glint of something more than just amusement in his blue eyes?

  Before I can argue or speculate further, Mom comes into the living room, carrying the Charades box. She rattles it as a makeshift call to arms.

  Tristan pushes off the mantel, coming close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, a silent reminder he’s always there, watching and waiting to strike again.

  “This isn’t over,” I mutter under my breath.

  A soft chuckle in my ear sends a tingle zipping up my spine. “Where would the fun be otherwise?”

  Tristan goes to sit on the couch next to Dylan, but I stay close to the fireplace, needing the extra warmth after the chills the Prince of Darkness sent down my arms.

  The rest of the family slowly files into the living room. Uncle Milo, first, then Agatha with Teddy in her arms. Zoe barrels into me with the enthusiasm only a nine-year-old can muster, nearly knocking me over into the hearth. I catch myself and laugh, pulling her into a hug.

  I give Agatha a much more mature kiss on the cheeks as we squeeze a delighted Teddy between us. The toddler is still laughing as Eric comes closer to ruffle my hair in that brotherly way he picked up from Dylan when they became fast friends. The room fills with laughter and the warmth of family.

  “Alright, folks, time to pick teams!” Mom announces with her signature school teacher authority no one dares to challenge.

  Everyone settles somewhere on the floor or perched on furniture. Mom passes around the satchel for us to put our names in. The black velvet sack, soft and slightly worn at the seams, has been a silent witness to many holiday cheers and family squabbles. We each take a turn, scribbling our names on slips of paper, folding them into secretive little squares, and dropping them into the depths of the small bag. The anticipation is palpable, as alliances are about to be forged and rivalries momentarily set aside.

  The room hushes as Mom, with a dramatic flourish, begins to draw names. “Team One,” she announces, her voice echoing with the weight of ceremony. “Uncle Milo…” A cheer goes up from the corner where Uncle Milo sits, his wooly ugly sweater a riot of festive colors. “Agatha…” My cousin gives a little wave, her grin bright. “Nina…” I nod, keeping a pleasant smile on my face, hoping my competitive edge isn’t already showing, even as I inwardly cringe. Uncle Milo is the worst at party games, especially Charades. I really didn’t want him on my team.

  My stomach knots as Mom’s hand delves into the satchel again. We can’t have another poor player. I want Dylan. “Tristan,” she calls out instead.

  The name hangs in the air, a cruel fate I can’t escape. I turn to look at him, our eyes locking in a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected twist. His grin is infuriatingly confident. He’d better back up all that cockiness with a degree in miming. Already being on the same team with Tristan feels like being asked to dance with a cobra—dangerous and sleazy. I don’t need him to also be a lousy player.

  I suppress a curse. Now I can’t even hope to blow his team to smithereens with my superior Charades skills. Instead, I’m shackled to him, our victory dependent on mutual cooperation. The irony isn’t lost on me, nor is the fact that this might be Mom’s subtle way of forcing a holiday truce. I’ve suspected her of cheating at team-picking for years. Of course, I have no proof nor any idea how she could do it.

  “Play nice, you two,” Dylan warns, his protective big brother’s gaze flitting between us.

  I smile viciously brightly. “I’d worry more about not having my ass handed to me if I were you.” I mimic an L on my forehead.

  Before Dylan can reply, Dad claps his hands, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Excellent! The teams are set. Who wants to go first?”

  “We will pick by chance like we always do, Greg,” my mom scolds him. She drops the names back into the satchel and picking one out, announces, “Tristan, you mimic first.”

  I suppress an inner groan. Despite the swagger, he probably sucks, and we have zero chances of winning.

  The Prince of Darkness picks up his card and stands in the middle of the room. As soon as Mom turns the hourglass, he pretends to crank an old-fashioned movie camera.

  “Movie,” Agatha shouts.

  Tristan nods.

  Before even telling us how many words are in the title, Tristan starts punching the air.

  “Creed,” Agatha guesses.

  Tristan waves past his shoulder as if to say older.

  “Kung Fu Panda?” I ask.

  He vehemently shakes his head while still fighting an invisible opponent. Is he trying to actively sabotage us?

  “Well, don’t just stand there like that punching at nothing,” I snap. “Mimic something else.”

  Tristan gives me a scathing look but stops the kickboxing workout. He thinks for a second and then mimics pulling on a cord as if to sound a bell.

  We all watch him, perplexed.

  “Selling Sunset?” I venture. Those gals surely don’t pull punches and they ring lots of bells.

  Tristan scolds me as if meaning not even close. Yeah, that’s a TV show—my bad. He’s throwing me off my game. Agatha and I stare at each other, then at Uncle Milo, who only raises his hands, saying, “I’m a pacifist.”

  And then time runs out. We lost our first point.

  “It was Rocky,” Tristan declares.

  I’m not sure how I would’ve mimed that, but it surely would’ve been better. I draw in a long inhale, trying to keep my cool as we continue the game. The rounds pass in a blur of laughter and confusion. Each team takes its turn, the air thick with competitive tension and the occasional cheer when guesses hit the mark. I struggle to concentrate on the game as the awareness of Tristan’s proximity tugs at the edges of my focus, an unwelcome distraction.

  Our eyes meet for a brief moment, inciting a mix of frustration and attraction. He’s always been able to get under my skin.

  “Okay, it’s your turn, Nina!” Dylan announces, bringing me back to the present.

  I draw a card from the pile, The Sound of Music. Excitement rushes through me. This one should be easy enough to enact.

  I signal it’s a movie. Even Uncle Milo can guess this part by now. Then make a four with my fingers to signal the title is four words and a two to signify that I’m starting with the second word.