Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

11. Clara

Chapter eleven

Clara

B ack at the cabin, I wander the halls, my notebook clutched to my chest. The revelations from Winterhaven swirl in my mind like snowflakes caught in a winter gust. A door creaks open to my left—one I swear wasn’t there before.

Warm light spills from inside, revealing a library with a cozy alcove with a curved window seat overlooking the snowy forest. Plush cushions in deep burgundy invite me to sink into them. A small writing desk, complete with an antique brass lamp, stands ready with fresh paper and— is that my favorite fountain pen?

Magnus wants me to write. The thought comes naturally now, as if conversing with a sentient house is perfectly normal. The room responds with a gentle warmth, like a cat purring its approval.

I settle into the window seat, spreading my materials around me. The blank page beckons, and my pen hovers over it. Usually, I write sweet holiday romances full of cocoa and mistletoe kisses. But tonight...

What if I wrote something different? Something darker?

My pen touches paper, and the words flow like mulled wine, rich and intoxicating.

His touch blazed across her skin like frost-fire, dangerous and addictive. She knew she should pull away, but the darkness in his eyes promised pleasures worth burning for.

The ink shimmers, taking on an otherworldly gleam. I blink, but the glow remains, pulsing softly with each word I add.

Magic coursed between them, ancient and wild. His growl resonated through her bones as he claimed her mouth, tasting of winter nights and forbidden desires.

More words appear, each one glowing brighter than the last. The air grows thick with possibility, and my skin tingles with awareness. Is this how spells feel?

The room shifts subtly, dimming the lights and drawing the curtains, creating a cocoon of privacy around me. Even the desk lamp adjusts, focusing perfectly on my page while keeping me hidden in shadow.

She surrendered to the darkness within herself, letting it twine with his until their powers danced together in an eternal winter’s waltz.

The words shimmer like starlight on snow, and somewhere in the house, I hear a deep rumble of thunder. Or was that a growl?

I snap the notebook shut, my heart racing. These aren’t just stories anymore. The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel a thrill of excitement. The glowing words fade, but their power lingers in the air like the last notes of a symphony.

The cabin creaks softly, and a shelf materializes beside me, filled with leather-bound books I’ve never seen before. Their spines bear titles in languages I can’t read, but somehow understand: Grimoire of Winter’s Heart, Songs of the Dark Season, Tales of Ancient Power.

Are these spell books disguised as stories, or stories that became spells?

My fingers trace the spine of one book, and it warms beneath my touch. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I pull the book from the shelf, its leather binding supple beneath my fingers. The cover bears no title, just an intricate pattern that seems to shift when I’m not looking directly at it.

What am I doing? My fingers tremble as I open to the first page. The scent of ancient paper and something wild—pine needles and winter wind—fills my nose.

The text flows across the page in elegant script, but not in any language I recognize. Yet as I trace the letters with my fingertip, their meaning seeps into my mind like ink bleeding through paper.

In the depths of winter nights, when magic runs strongest...

A shadow falls across the page, and my heart stutters. I look up to find Krampus standing in the doorway, his massive frame nearly filling it. His eyes lock onto the book in my hands.

“I see Magnus has shown you the library.” His voice rumbles through the room like distant thunder.

I clutch the book closer. “These aren’t normal books, are they?”

“No more than you’re a normal writer.” He steps into the room, and the air grows thick with that familiar tension—part fear, part something else I’m not ready to name.

“I don’t know what you mean.” But even as I say it, I remember the way my manuscript glowed, how my words seemed to pulse with power before I burned them.

“You do.” He moves closer, each step deliberate. “Your stories have power, little mate. They always have.”

My fingers press into the book’s leather binding. “That’s ridiculous. I write fluffy holiday romances about—”

“About what you think you should write.” His eyes gleam in the dim light. “But what flows from your pen when you stop pretending?”

Heat floods my cheeks as I remember the words I wrote earlier. Dark, passionate scenes that felt more real than anything I’ve published.

“They’re just stories,” I whisper, but the book in my hands pulses warmly, as if disagreeing.

My words fail me as he advances, and I stand up so I won’t be trapped in my chair. He gets so close I can feel his breath on my skin. The air shimmers with an oppressive heat. With a whispered curse, I raise my hands to push him away, but the contact sends a shock through me, jumping from my fingertips to my core.

I jerk back, stunned. What was that?

“You sense it too.” He doesn’t touch me now, but the awareness of him is overwhelming. “It’s our connection. It’s always been there but it’s getting stronger.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Our bond is ancient. Yuletide magic.” He watches me intently, his red eyes flicking over my face as if searching for something. “Even if you don’t believe it yet, your magic does. Your words are a call to me.”

The room feels suddenly airless, the weight of his words suffocating. “I—I need some space.”

“Space is the last thing you need.” His voice drops, sending a vibration through me and straight to my clit. “Your magic demands more.”

No . I shake my head, backing further away, desperate to escape the smoldering intensity in his gaze. “I—can’t.”

“You can, and you will.” He looms over me, a force of nature. “Deny it all you like, but fate has brought us together.”

“Fate?” I choke out a bitter laugh. “Is that what you call it?”

“It is our destiny.”

“Destiny.” I repeat the word, tasting it like ash on my tongue. “Because burning manuscript pages and a ridiculous threat are so romantic.”

“You think this is a game?” His voice rumbles, deep and dangerous. “I’m offering you a chance to embrace your true self. To set your magic free.”

I swallow, my mouth dry. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you deny us both.”

“I’m not some prize to be claimed!”

“Nor am I.” His eyes flash, and the temperature drops. “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine.”

Anger flares within me, a welcome distraction from the yearning building inside. “You think you can just intimidate me into submission? That’s not how this works!”

“I’m not trying to intimidate you.” He steps closer again, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m trying to show you what we could be.”

“And what’s that?”

“Something powerful.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Something passionate.”

The word passionate hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. My pulse quickens, my skin tingling with awareness. No . I won’t give in to this. Not to him.

He senses my resistance and takes a step back, letting the moment stretch. “You want to be craved, Clara. Truly, deeply desired.”

My breath catches as his words sink into me, stoking a hunger I’ve kept carefully buried. It’s just words . I try to convince myself, but it’s a lie.

“Say it. Tell me what you want.” His eyes hold mine, intense and unrelenting.

I part my lips to deny it, but the truth burns on my tongue. With a frustrated growl, I turn away, stalking toward the window.

“Get out.”

He doesn’t move. “You can’t run from this forever.”

My hands ball into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. The sting grounds me, clearing my head.

“Get. Out.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, then finally, he sighs.

“Until next time.”

I stand rigid, listening to his footsteps move away, the cabin creaking in his wake. Only when I sense he’s truly gone do I sink into the nearby chair, my heart pounding.

What am I doing? I press my hands to my burning cheeks. Is this how I treat the hero of my fantasies? With disdain and defiance? But he’s not just a fantasy anymore. He’s here. Flesh and blood and... whatever else he is.

A shiver runs through me at the thought. I can deny it all I want, but there’s no ignoring the pull between us. What if...

No.

With a firm shake of my head, I banish the treacherous thought. But even as I do, the scent of him lingers, taunting me with possibilities.