I inhaled deeply as I slipped my hand into Arlo’s outstretched one and allowed him to pull me out of the car. The door shut softly behind me, and instantly there was a man slipping behind the wheel and pulling the car away. I stared at the receding red taillights as the car disappeared.

“Come on, moy svet.” My light. His voice was deceptively soft and low, and I didn’t miss the ever-present danger that boiled just below the surface of my anti-hero. And as I looked up at Arlo, knowing he wasn’t the good guy in any story told, I also knew he was my hero in his own dark and twisted way.

We didn’t say anything as we headed up the opulent steps of the porch and into the extravagant interior of the mansion. A wide, elegant lobby greeted us, with people moving through the space. They came and went, some of them holding champagne glasses. Arlo led me to a wide hallway lined with trees, these ones with bare branches. Lights had been twisted artfully around the bark. Up ahead, warm light spilled from the ballroom.

“We found it,” said Arlo, and he escorted me in.

The conversation was low but constant, with waitstaff walking around with trays atop their hands, crystal flutes filled with sparkling champagne being distributed to the glamorously dressed guests. There was a chandelier as big as the room itself hanging high above and dripping with crystals and a warm yellow glow. A huge Christmas tree, strung with millions of lights and glinting with expensive decorations, lit up one side of the room.

I felt out of place, like one of those plastic rings with the faux gem amongst diamonds and sapphires.

These people smelled of wealth and power.

I was poverty and despair.

“Hey,” Arlo said softly, and I glanced up at him. Although his face was the hard, steely composure he wore so well—a second skin—I could see the softening in his eyes as he stared at my face. He placed a finger under my chin and tipped my head back even more as he leaned down so our lips were only a hairsbreadth away. “They mean nothing. They are nothing.” His words were so fierce that I gasped.

I nodded slowly, unable to speak, because I knew what he was saying. I knew what he was driving home.

“You’re mine, and that’s all that matters, yeah.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was deep, that subtle accent I only heard when he was showing me—only me—that elusive emotion he kept under lock and key. I nodded again, and he kissed me fiercely and possessively. “Moy svet. My light,” he groaned before pulling away.