Heart of My Monster (Monster Trilogy #3) by Rina Kent

“Just stay quiet.”

“Fuck you.” Her voice trembles before she catches herself. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be mad at you for all the shit you’ve pulled. I won’t allow you to make me feel guilty for some trivial matter.”

Trivial.

Did she just call that fucking shit trivial?

I tighten my hold on the wheel to stop myself from reaching out and choking the fuck out of her, which defies the whole purpose of not wanting to hurt her.

“If this is one of your manipulative, reverse psychology methods, then I’m sorry to inform you that it won’t work, you fucking bastard.”

“If you’re done, shut the fuck up. I mean it.”

She huffs, opens her mouth, probably to say something more infuriating, but she thankfully closes it again.

The town is the opposite of our mood. Considering today is Christmas Eve, everyone is doing last-minute shopping. Carols sound in the distance and kids sit on a bored Santa’s lap, reading their belated gift wish lists.

Colorful Christmas trees and decorations line the front of every shop and a general disgustingly joyful atmosphere lingers in the air.

I was never a fan of Christmas, or any holiday, for that matter. Those are for families, and I never really had one.

Roman was more interested in shaping me into his heir and thought the silly occasions would make me mellow. Yulia only celebrated holidays with Konstantin.

I used to wrap gifts for my siblings, but I soon quit that after my decision to put distance between us.

Now, it’s just an annoying time of the year where everything is colorful and disgustingly happy.

When we first came to this town in the lead-up to Christmas, Sasha said that she wanted to love it, but couldn’t.

Christmas reminds her of the day she witnessed her family die in front of her and, therefore, she prefers not to celebrate.

However, while I’ve turned into a grinch, she actually enjoys the town’s atmosphere. Even now, her eyes brighten whenever she hears the repetitive Christmas songs or sees a family going around the shops.

She sings along with the clownish lyrics, too, sometimes.

“Just because it was traumatizing for me, I guess I like to know it’s still a happy occasion for everyone else,” she told me the other day.

She’s always been compassionate with a pure heart—except when she holds grudges against me, of course.

And no, I won’t be shutting up about that anytime in the near future.

We buy a few groceries, and I glare at anyone who gets too close to her. She notices that, smiles, then shakes her head in resignation.

When we walk the length of the main street, she snaps pictures of the decorated shops. After some time of filming the mundane things that start to blur together, she faces me. “Would you hate it if we got a last-minute Christmas tree?”

“Yes.”

She purses her lips and releases a long, frustrated breath. “You’re a real joy to be around today.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. Is it so wrong to feel the spirit?”

“What spirit? Besides, we don’t celebrate Christmas tomorrow. It’s on January the seventh in Russia.”

“Even better. We can do it twice!”

“I would rather die.”

“Grinch.” She pushes past me and a little girl stumbles into her.

Sasha lowers herself to the girl’s height and ruffles her red beanie. “Are you okay?”

The girl smiles shyly and plays with the pompons dangling from her hat, then shouts, “Merry Christmas!” before running off to her awaiting mother and sibling.

“Merry Christmas!” Sasha shouts back and waves with more enthusiasm than needed.

I watch her bright expression and glittery eyes intently, picturing them with our own children one day.

She’d make a wonderful mother, and most importantly, she’d look fucking hot carrying my baby.

Impregnating her is the surest way to keep her around more than the three blasphemous months she’s adamant about.

The question is how.

There are no pills.

She’s religious about renewing the shot. If my calculations are correct, she should be renewing it soon. In a couple of weeks, probably.

How can I tamper with that process without making her hate me?

You can just ask her.

The stupidest part of my fucking brain that’s a disgrace to even exist whispers.

The answer will obviously be no. Would she agree to have damn children when she put a timeline on how long she’s staying with me?

There are only seventy-one days left, by the way. I know because I’m counting every fucking one of them.

I stop beside her and jut my chin in the retreating family’s direction. “One would think they’re a walking Christmas tree with all the red and green.”

“Stop being a grinch.” She hits my shoulder with hers. “I think they look so cute.”

“The children or the amateur Christmas fashion?”

She suppresses a smile. “Both. And seriously, stop it. Just because you disregard the holiday doesn’t mean everyone should.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You’re merely judging them?”

“And the eyesore color selection they willingly wear like a badge.”

“You’re just jealous you won’t look cool wearing a Christmas sweater and drinking some hot chocolate with marshmallows like normal people.”