Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

5. Clara

Chapter five

Clara

I need to get away from him before I combust.

The kitchen seems like the safest retreat—at least until I remember this is his domain too. Krampus leans against the counter, watching as I fumble through cabinets for tea supplies.

“The kettle’s on your left.” His deep voice sends vibrations through my chest. “Unless you’re seeking something stronger?”

“Tea is fine.” I stretch up on tiptoe, refusing to ask for help to reach the cups. A warm presence crowds behind me anyway, and his arm extends past mine, easily plucking two cups from the shelf.

His chest brushes against my back as he sets the cups down, and I catch a whiff of pine and wood smoke. The warmth of him seeps through my sweater, making it hard to focus on measuring the tea leaves.

“You’re trembling.” His breath fans across my neck.

“It’s cold.” Liar . Even I don’t believe that excuse.

“We both know that’s not true.” He reaches around me for the honey, his arm caging me against the counter. “Magnus keeps every room perfectly temperate. When I allow it.”

I spin to face him, immediately regretting the move when I find myself trapped between his body and the counter. “Wait. Who’s Magnus ? And don’t you have something better to do than just hover over me?”

“Better than watch you fight your attraction?” His lips quirk. “Not particularly.”

“I’m not—” The kettle whistles, saving me from finishing that lie. I duck under his arm, but the kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the island shifting just enough to force me to brush against him as I pass. What the heck? Is “Magnus” the cabin?

Traitor . I glare at the ceiling.

“The cabin merely wants what we both want.” Krampus leans against the counter, watching as I pour water with shaking hands. Steam rises between us, and for a moment I swear I see shapes in it—two figures intertwined.

“What I want is to write my book.” My manuscript pages flutter on the nearby table despite the lack of breeze. The words seem to shimmer, and I catch a glimpse of what I’d written earlier:

His touch sparked electricity, literal sparks dancing between their skin...

Krampus’s fingers brush mine as he takes his cup, and static electricity crackles between us. I jerk back, splashing tea on my sleeve.

“Careful, little mate.” He steps closer, dabbing at my wrist with a towel. “Although your words do have a way of manifesting, don’t they?”

“That’s ridiculous.” But even as I say it, the lights flicker overhead. His thumb traces circles on my pulse point, and snowflakes suddenly swirl past the window.

“Is it?” His other hand cups my cheek, tilting my face up. “Your power calls to mine. Fighting it only makes it stronger.”

His lips hover inches from mine. The air feels charged, heavy with possibility. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. Just as he begins to close the distance, I duck away.

“I need to work.” I grab my tea and manuscript, retreating to what I hope is a safe distance. But Magnus has other ideas. The kitchen doorway has narrowed, forcing another brush against him as I flee. The living room beyond has rearranged itself—only one chair remains, sized perfectly for two.

I can do this. Just focus on cooking, not the way his presence fills the entire cabin. He’s occupied my thoughts for hours.

I pull ingredients from the cabinets, determined to bake something—anything—to distract myself. The familiar motions of measuring flour should calm my nerves, but my hands shake, spilling white powder across the counter.

“Your measurements are off.” Krampus steps behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His large hands cover mine, steadying them as I hold the measuring cup. “Like this.”

Heat radiates where he touches me, and the sugar in the bowl begins to sparkle. I try to focus on the recipe, but his proximity makes it impossible to think straight.

“I know how to bake.” But I don’t pull away.

“Do you?” His thumb strokes my wrist. “Then why are your cookies starting to float?”

I glance at the plate on the counter where my earlier stress-baking efforts hover an inch above the surface. “That’s not... I mean, I didn’t...”

“The magic responds to your emotions.” His lips brush my ear. “Just like the way your heart is racing right now.”

“I don’t have magic.” But even as I protest, the measuring spoons dance across the counter, clinking a melody that sounds suspiciously like a love song.

Krampus turns me to face him, keeping me caged between his body and the counter. Flour dust swirls around us, catching the light like diamond motes. “No? Then explain this.”

His finger traces my cheek, leaving a trail of sparks that has nothing to do with static electricity. The kitchen grows warmer, and I swear the walls pulse with a gentle golden glow.

“I can’t. It’s you. Your magic is in the cabin. Or I have finally gone crazy…” My words fade as he leans closer. His eyes burn like embers, and I’m drawn to their heat.

“Stop fighting it.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing flour from my lip. “Stop fighting us.”

When his mouth meets mine, it’s like touching a live wire. Magic surges between us—actual visible sparks that dance through the air. The cookie dough starts mixing itself, ingredients swirling in a miniature cyclone. Something inside me uncoils, reaching for him with an energy I never knew I possessed.

His kiss deepens, and I melt into him, my fingers clutching his shirt. The temperature spikes. The mixing bowl spins faster.

Suddenly, the magic explodes outward. Flour and sugar rain down around us as every cabinet bursts open. The cookie dough splatters across the ceiling, and the cooling rack crashes back to the counter.

We break apart, both breathing hard. Krampus looks as stunned as I feel, his usual composure cracks.

“That was...” I touch my tingling lips.

“Your power recognizing mine.” His voice comes out rough. “Though perhaps we should work on your control.”

This isn’t happening. None of this is real. I stumble backward, my hands trembling as I wipe flour from my face. The evidence of the magical chaos surrounds us—cookie dough drops from the ceiling, cabinet doors hang open, and sparks still dance in the air.

“Stay back.” I hold up my hands as Krampus takes a step toward me. The air still crackles between us, and the remaining flour swirls in response to my panic.

“Clara—”

“Don’t call me that.” I bump into the counter, knocking over a measuring cup. “I’m Noelle Goodheart. I write sweet holiday romances about cookie swaps and small-town festivals. I don’t have magic, and I definitely don’t kiss ancient winter deities in enchanted cabins.”

His eyes flare red. “You can deny your name, but you cannot deny what just happened.”

The memory of his kiss burns on my lips, and the mixing bowl starts to rattle. No. Control yourself.

“What happened was a mistake.” I edge toward the kitchen doorway. “My readers expect wholesome stories about Christmas miracles, not... whatever this is.”

“Your readers expect the mask you wear.” Another step closer. “But I see the real you—the one who writes about darkness and passion in secret.”

The lights flicker as my control slips. I need to get out of here, away from him, away from these feelings that threaten everything I’ve built.

I bolt for the front door. My footsteps echo on the hardwood as I run through the living room. The door handle is ice cold under my palm.

“The storm still rages.” Krampus’s voice carries from behind me. “You’ll freeze before reaching the road.”

I yank the door open anyway. A blast of arctic wind whips my hair back, and snow stings my face. The world beyond the porch is a white void of swirling snow.

I don’t care. I can’t stay here.

My foot crosses the threshold, but invisible hands grab my waist and pull me back. The door slams shut. My heart pounds against my ribs as Krampus steps closer, his presence making the air thick with power.

I struggle against the unseen force. “Let me go!”

“The cabin protects its own.” His warmth radiates against my back. “And like it or not, you belong here.”

“I don’t belong anywhere near you.” But even as I say it, the lingering taste of his kiss makes my blood stir, and it is reaching for him like a flower turning toward the sun.

“Magnus, release her.” Krampus commands, but the cabin’s magic only tightens its hold.

“Magnus, this isn’t helping.” Krampus’s voice rumbles through my bones. The invisible bonds loosen just enough for me to turn and face him.

Bad idea. His eyes glow like embers, and shadows dance across his sharp features. The memory of his lips on mine flashes through my mind, and the nearest window frosts over in response.

I press my back against the door. “If you want to prove you’re not the monster everyone thinks you are, forcing me to stay isn’t the way.”

“Force?” His laugh is dark honey. “I’m trying to protect you. Your magic is awakening, untamed. Without guidance, it could tear you apart.”

“I don’t have…” The words die as sparks of silver light dance between my fingers. No, no, no. “This isn’t happening. You’re tricking me.”

“Your denial only makes it more dangerous.” He reaches for my hand, but I jerk away.

Magnus let’s go at that moment and I stumble sideways, catching myself on the coat rack. “Stay back. I need to think.”

“Think about what? How to keep pretending? How to keep writing stories that cage your true self?”

“You don’t know anything about my true self.” But the manuscripts I burned tell a different story. Stories of darkness and passion that felt more real than anything I’ve published.

My chest tightens. Everything I’ve built could crumble. “My readers—”

“To hell with your readers.” The temperature drops as his patience frays. “What about what you need?”

The question hits like a physical blow. What do I need? The answer terrifies me more than this demon ever could.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the emotions that threaten to spill out. “I need you to let me go.”

“Even if that means watching you destroy yourself?” He gestures to the silver light now crackling around me. “Your power is part of you, Clara. You can’t burn it away like those manuscripts.”

The truth in his words makes my knees weak. Magnus’s magic surges up to steady me, and this time, I don’t fight it.

“Magnus, enough games.” Krampus’s voice rumbles through the fog in my head. The floorboards creak in what sounds suspiciously like laughter.

I test the invisible restraints. “Your house is as stubborn as you are.”

“He means well.” His breath fans across my neck. “Though his methods are... unconventional.”

The cabin’s magic shifts, pushing me forward against Krampus’s chest. Heat blazes wherever we touch, and my treacherous shadows leap to meet his. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

“Let me go, and we can pretend none of this happened.”

His deep voice vibrates through my chest. “You know I can’t do that.”

But the pressure holding me eases, and Magnus’s magic retreats like a sulking child. I don’t waste the opportunity. Lunging for the coat rack, I grab the first thing my fingers touch—a thick wool peacoat I don’t remember bringing.

“Clara.” The warning in his voice makes the shadows dance.

I jam my feet into my boots, not bothering with the laces. “Don’t follow me.”

“At least take proper winter gear. The storm—”

“Is probably your doing, anyway.” I yank the door open, and the arctic wind whips my hair across my face.

I’d rather freeze than stay here another minute with him. With these feelings. With him talking about magic I never asked for.

The porch boards creak beneath my feet as I stumble into the storm. Snow stings my cheeks, and the wind steals my breath. Behind me, Krampus’s voice carries impossibly through the howling gale.

“Clara, stop!”

I plunge into the white void. The snow is already past my ankles, but I push forward. Each step takes me further from the warmth of the cabin, from his overwhelming presence, from the words I’m not ready to face.

The wind tears at my inadequate coat. My fingers go numb. But I keep moving, even as the cold seeps into my bones. Even as magic pulses beneath my skin, trying to warm me.

I won’t use it. I won’t accept this.

The trees are dark shadows in the white chaos. Which way leads to the road? Everything looks different in the storm. I take another step, and my boot breaks through a hidden drift.

Ice-cold snow pours over the top of my boot. I stumble, catching myself against a tree trunk. The rough bark scrapes my palms.

I can’t see the cabin’s lights anymore.

The wind howls louder, and something else howls with it. Something ancient. Something hungry.

This isn’t a natural storm.

And I’m not alone in it.