Chapter 43 Christmas Eve
The cabin's modern elegance felt like a double-edged sword on Christmas Eve morning, beautiful, but confining, the glass walls reflecting our every move like silent witnesses. I woke to the sharp scent of pine resin seeping through the vents, mingled with the faint, metallic chill of snow outside. Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, golden bars across the king bed's white linens, but it did little to warm the knot of unease in my stomach. The lake beyond glittered under a thin layer of frost, the woods a dense, shadowy barrier that seemed to press closer with each passing hour.
Alexander was already up, his side of the bed cool and rumpled. I could hear him downstairs, the low rumble of his voice on a call, the clink of coffee mugs against the black granite counter. Ben's door was still closed when I padded down the hall in my slippers, the soft carpet muffling my steps. The air carried the rich, buttery aroma of pancakes frying, Alexander's doing, no doubt. He’d mentioned last night he wanted to "keep things normal," but nothing felt normal with the three of us crammed into this sleek, isolated space.
I paused at the top of the stairs, overhearing Ben's door creak open behind me. He emerged, hair tousled but eyes sharp, already scanning the hallway like he was mapping escape routes, or spying spots. His thoughts were easy to guess from the way his jaw tightened: Small house, fewer hiding places. One slip, and I have them. He caught my eye and flashed that polished smile. "Morning, darling. Sleep well?"
"Fine," I said, forcing a neutral tone. "You?"
"Like a baby." He stretched, casual, but his gaze flicked to Alexander's empty room. Where is he? Planning something? I could almost see the calculation in his narrowed eyes.
Downstairs, the open-plan living area was bathed in light, the massive stone fireplace crackling with fresh logs, their smoky warmth battling the chill seeping through the glass. Alexander stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with a spatula, his back to us in a fitted black sweater that hugged his shoulders. The sizzle of batter hitting the hot pan filled the air, along with the sweet scent of maple syrup warming on the side.
"Morning," he said without turning, voice steady but edged with that alpha awareness. His thoughts were harder to read, but the bond pulsed with vigilance: Ben's back for a reason. Watching. Probing. Keep him close, but careful.
Ben sauntered to the island, pouring coffee from the pot. The dark roast's bitter steam rose between us. "Smells good. You cook often up here?"
"When I need to," Alexander replied, plating pancakes. His eyes met mine briefly, warm, reassuring, before flicking to Ben. He's fishing. Don't give him anything.
We ate at the glass dining table overlooking the lake, the clink of forks against plates echoing in the tense quiet. Snow dusted the deck outside, and a lone bird skimmed the frozen water's surface, its wings slicing the air with a soft whoosh. Ben broke the silence first, syrup dripping from his fork. "So, Christmas Eve. Any traditions, Alexander? Or is this more of a... spontaneous getaway?"
Alexander's knife scraped his plate. "Quiet ones. Fire, good food. You?"
Ben leaned back, and smiled sharply. "Family gatherings, usually. But this is cozier." His eyes lingered on me a beat too long. “She's avoiding his gaze. Something's off. Push a little he thinks”
I felt the undercurrent, the way Ben's casual words probed like fingers in a wound. "We could decorate," I suggested, hoping to deflect. "There's a tree in the corner, Clara must have sent ornaments."
Ben's eyes lit up, too eagerly. "Great idea. Let's make it festive."
Alexander nodded, but the bond tightened: He's agreeing too fast.
We spent the morning unpacking a box of decorations Clara had snuck into the SUV, shimmering silver baubles, strings of white lights that twinkled like stars, red ribbons smelling faintly of cinnamon from storage. The air filled with the crisp snap of plastic wrap and the soft jingle of ornaments. Alexander strung the lights, his hands steady, the cord's faint electrical hum buzzing as he plugged them in. Ben handed me baubles, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. "Here, darling. Hang this one high."
I took it without comment, but Alexander's jaw ticked, barely noticeable, but the bond flared with restrained jealousy: Touch her again, and I'll snap your hand.
The tree transformed slowly, pine needles releasing their sharp, resinous scent as we brushed them. Ben chatted nonstop: "Remember that Christmas in Aspen, Alexander? Mom loved the slopes." His tone was nostalgic, but his eyes watched for reactions. Stir the pot. See if he cracks.
Alexander's response was cool. "She did." Don't bite. He's baiting.
By noon, the tree glowed, lights reflecting off the lake through the glass. Tension simmered beneath the surface, Maddie's smiles forced, Alexander's posture too rigid, Ben's questions too pointed. Lunch was simple, sandwiches on the deck despite the chill, the air biting with frost and the distant crack of ice on the lake. Ben steered conversation to the company: "Board meeting soon. Exciting times." Alexander deflected; Maddie changed the subject.
Afternoon brought a walk along the frozen shore. Snow crunched under boots, the wind whipping off the lake with a sharp, icy sting that pinked cheeks. Trees loomed around us, branches creaking like old bones. Ben walked beside me, arm brushing mine. "Beautiful spot. Peaceful." Too peaceful. Need to isolate them, catch a slip.
Alexander trailed slightly, eyes on the woods. He's too close to her. Watching for threats, and him.
Conversation turned personal. Ben asked about my "honeymoon plans," voice teasing. I laughed it off, but Alexander's hand found mine, possessive, warm against the cold. Ben noticed, eyes narrowing. There. Too intimate. Evidence building.
Dusk fell early, the sky bruising purple, the lake's surface turning to mirrored ink. Back inside, the fire's crackle filled the room, shadows dancing across black furniture. Ben suggested a game, cards around the glass table. Poker. Stakes low, but tension high.
Cards slapped softly on the surface, chips clicking as bets were placed. Ben bluffed boldly, eyes flicking between us. See how they play together. Signals? Touches under the table?
Alexander folded often, expression unreadable. He's probing. Let him think he's winning.
I won a hand; Alexander's knee brushed mine under the table, accidental? Ben's smile tightened. Got you.
Dinner was roast chicken from the oven, the savory herb scent filling the cabin, steam rising from golden skin. Wine flowed, Ben's Bordeaux, rich and oaky on the tongue. Conversation loosened slightly, but edges sharpened. Ben toasted "family," glass clinking with a clear ring. Alexander's reply was curt; Maddie felt the undercurrent, the way Ben's questions circled closer to the estate "incident," to our "city trip."
By evening's end, as embers glowed in the fireplace, the air crackled with unspoken accusations. Ben retired first, door clicking shut with finality. Tomorrow. Push harder. Force the fight.
Alexander lingered by the fire, staring into the flames. He's planning something. I'll be ready. For her.
Maddie slipped into bed, the sheets cool against her skin, the distant hoot of an owl piercing the night. Christmas Eve, supposed to be peaceful. But the cabin felt like a pressure cooker, ready to explode.