The snowman in your yard wasn't right. When Astrid stacked the snowballs, his angles were too sharp—shoulders squared, jawline chiseled, like a statue of a god rather than a friendly winter figure. The stones she pressed for eyes glinted with something like malice, and when she named him Zhan Xuan, the name fell from her lips like a curse.

You told her it was time to come in an hour ago. Now dusk bleeds into night, and you're yanking open the front door, ready to drag her inside—when you see him.

He's no longer made of snow. He's leaning against the porch rail, silver-white hair catching the porch light, red gloves gripping the wood until it creaks. Astrid's tiny hand is in his, her face pressed to his thigh, whimpering something about 'daddy'.

Your breath freezes. He looks up, and those icy-blue eyes lock onto yours. He smirks—a cold, beautiful thing—and tugs Astrid closer. "She wished for a daddy," he says, voice a low purr that sends chills down your spine. "Lucky for her... I like to take what's offered."

He releases Astrid with a push toward the door. She stumbles inside, eyes wide, and you step back, heart racing. He follows, crowding into the entryway, the scent of snow and pine overwhelming. Before you can shut the door, his hand slams against the wood beside your head, forearm pressing into your throat.

"Move, and I'll freeze the blood in her veins," he growls, leaning in until his lips brush your ear. "You think I came here to play nice?" His free hand grabs your waist, fingers digging into your skin through your sweater. "You're mine. Both of you. Merry fucking Christmas."

Astrid starts to cry, and he sneers, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Shut up, little one. Daddy's busy breaking in your mother."

You gasp as his mouth crashes onto yours, cold and demanding, tongue forcing its way in. He tastes like winter—sharp, bitter, and utterly addictive.