Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

2. Noelle

Chapter two

Noelle

I glare at the empty page before me, my mind as blank as the page itself. Not a single idea worth putting down comes to my head.

My latest manuscript—“Mistletoe Miracles and Manhattan”—is due in three weeks, and I’ve got nothing. Nothing except the same tired tropes my readers expect: plucky small-town girl, big city Christmas party, conveniently handsome CEO.

“God, I can’t write this drivel anymore.” I slam the notebook shut and rub my ink-stained fingers over my face, forgetting about my reading glasses until they smudge. Perfect.

The cabin’s kitchen beckons. Midnight stress-baking has become my new normal, though my agent would have a fit if she knew I wasn’t writing. My “Queen of Christmas Cheer” brand doesn’t allow for 2 AM cookie binges.

I pull out mixing bowls, flour flying as I attack the ingredients. “Sweet, wholesome, uplifting,” I mutter, cracking eggs with more force than necessary. “That’s what they want. That’s what sells. That’s what pays the bills.”

My mother’s old recipe book falls open to devil’s food cake. I almost laugh at the irony—even my subconscious is rebelling against all this sugary sweetness.

The beautiful kitchen seems to expand around me as I work, counter space appearing just where I need it. I’m too frustrated to question the convenient layout. My brain flickers momentarily to the incredible bargain I lucked into for this stunning last-minute rental, but my thoughts snap right back to my troubles.

My latest hero and heroine dance through my mind—both so perfectly bland I can barely tell them apart.

“Would it kill my readers if someone got pushed into the snow instead of falling gracefully?” I ask the mixing bowl. “Or if the Christmas party ended in delicious scandal instead of a chaste kiss under the mistletoe?”

“What is wrong with me?” I mutter, cracking eggs with more force than necessary. The shells splinter in my hands. “Just write the damn book. Girl meets boy, they fall in love, Christmas magic happens. How hard can it be?”

But it feels hollow. Empty. Like I’m just going through the motions.

The mixing bowl scrapes against the counter with a harsh ceramic sound as I cream butter and sugar together, watching the ingredients transform into a pale, fluffy mass. My hands work on autopilot as I start to add the flour, sending little puffs of white dust into the air with each measured cup I pour in.

My editor’s voice echoes in my head. “Your readers expect heartwarming holiday romance, Noelle. That’s your brand.”

I fold in chocolate chips with sharp, angry movements. The dough feels too stiff under my hands, but I keep working it. Just like I keep forcing myself to write stories that feel increasingly false.

“Come on, Noelle,” I whisper to myself. “You’re supposed to be the Queen of Christmas Cheer.” But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Am I really cut out for this? My public image as a sweet romance author feels like a straitjacket sometimes, constraining me from exploring darker, more passionate stories.

The oven preheats faster than I expected. I’ve got chocolate under my fingernails and flour in my hair, but at least baking makes sense. Unlike my career, where I’m trapped in a prison of my own making—each bestseller adding another bar to my cage of wholesome expectations.

“Mother would know what to say,” I whisper to the empty kitchen. My fingers trace the ink stains on my hands—evidence of all the failed attempts at writing today. The first batch of cookies goes in, and the kitchen fills with the scent of vanilla and chocolate.

But even stress-baking isn’t helping tonight. The words still won’t come, and the darkness I want to explore in my writing keeps pushing against the boundaries of what’s expected from me.

I lean against the counter, watching the cookies bake through the oven window, and wonder how much longer I can keep pretending to be someone I’m not.

A gust of wind rattles the kitchen windows, and I swear the temperature drops. My tea, sitting forgotten on the counter, still steaming despite being hours old.

My phone vibrates against the counter, Victoria’s name lighting up the screen. Great. Just what I need right now, another pressure check-in from my publisher.

“Noelle, darling.” Victoria’s voice drips honey, but I catch the frost underneath. “Tell me you have good news about our Christmas miracle.”

I stare at my chocolate-smeared hands. “I’m... working on it.”

“Working on it?” The temperature seems to drop through the phone. “Darling, we need more than ‘working on it.’ The holiday season waits for no one. We need to get them ready to go now.”

“I know, I just—”

“Your readers are counting on you. You’re their beacon of Christmas joy, their guarantee of happily ever after.” Victoria’s voice shifts, somehow both stern and sympathetic. “Remember what happened with Holly Winter’s latest book? She tried to ‘experiment’ with darker themes. Her sales tanked.”

My stomach knots. “That’s not—”

“The market knows what it wants, especially during the holidays. Light. Sweet. Wholesome.” Each word falls like an icicle. “You do want to keep your contract, don’t you?”

I grip the phone tighter. The manuscript hidden in my bag seems to pulse with dark energy, calling to me. “Of course.”

“Wonderful. Then I expect fifty pages of pure Christmas magic by Monday. No surprises, no darkness, just the Noelle Goodheart special that made you famous.” Victoria pauses. “And darling? Maybe lay off the midnight baking. You sound tired.”

The line goes dead. I set the phone down with shaking hands, wondering how she knew about the baking. The kitchen feels colder now, and my tea has finally stopped steaming.

The cookies in the oven have burned.

I flop down on the couch in the living room and open up my laptop. The flashing line taunts me. Write something sweet, something wholesome. A meet-cute at a Christmas tree farm. A snowball fight that ends in kisses.

My fountain pen rolls across the coffee table—though I swear I didn’t touch it. When I grab it, the ink catches the lamplight, sparkling like fresh snow. Must be the new brand I’m trying. I grab my notebook, and my ink-stained fingers are a familiar comfort as I begin to jot down ideas. But the words refuse to flow. Every sentence feels forced, every scene overly sweet.

“Focus,” I mutter, but my eyes drift to the bag where my other manuscript hides. The real story. Dark and wild, full of ancient winter magic and a feared deity who—

No. I force my attention back to the blank page. Write something. Anything.

Jenny’s heart soared as she hung the last ornament on the tree. This Christmas would be perfect, especially with—

Papers flutter across the table, scattering my notes even though the window is sealed tight. The lamp flickers, and shadows dance across the walls like restless spirits seeking escape.

My secret manuscript seems to pulse from across the room, calling to me with an intensity that makes my fingers itch and my heart race. Each beat matches the steady thrum of dark possibilities hidden within those pages.

I cross the room and yank my bag open, pulling out the handwritten pages. The ink shimmers darker than I remember, the words more alive. Stories of Krampus, the winter demon who punishes the wicked. Not the sanitized version—the real legends. The ones that make your blood run cold and your heart race.

Victoria’s words echo in my head like a mantra I can’t escape. Light. Sweet. Wholesome. Everything I’m supposed to be, everything my readers expect from the Queen of Christmas Cheer.

This manuscript will ruin me. My career, my reputation, everything I’ve carefully built over the years. All those book signings, interviews, Instagram posts portraying the perfect holiday author, gone in an instant if anyone sees these words.

The fireplace crackles, flames dancing with an almost hypnotic rhythm. It would be so easy to feed the pages to the fire, watch my darkness turn to ash. Return to safe, sweet stories that sell, the kind Victoria loves to publish. The kind that keep me comfortable and secure.

My hands shake as I approach the fireplace, the manuscript clutched to my chest like a guilty secret. The pages feel hot against my skin, burning with words I never meant to write. One motion, that’s all it would take. Just open my fingers and let gravity do the rest.

I extend my arms, holding the pages over the flames. The fire leaps higher, as if reaching for them, hungry for the forbidden stories I’ve poured onto these pages. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.

The heat caresses my palms, a lover’s touch urging me to give in, to let these dangerous words dissolve into nothing but smoke and ash. Every muscle in my body trembles with indecision.

A cold wind howls outside the cabin, and the lights go out.