Chapter 6

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.