Page 7 of Christmas with a Cursed Werewolf

Always waiting.

The air shifts as I step toward her and place the final decoration—a small, worn star atop the tree. It's battered now, the silver dull, but it’s been part of this damned tradition for as long as I can remember. Nolan claps, grinning like we just built the entire world out of something more than shadows and lies.

As for Briar... she's standing closer than I should allow. She tilts her head to look up at my work, her lips parting slightly in approval. Her breath curls out in soft clouds in the cold morning air, just inches from me, and for a split second, I’m not thinking about the curse, the danger, or the looming weight of my broken life. I’m thinking about the way her auburn hair frames her face, the way her green eyes catch the sunlight, the way her body hums a strange, magnetic energy that the castle pulses in time with.

“You’re not bad at this, Mr. Wolfe." Her voice is teasing, but there's warmth in it too, a softness that threatens to burrow under my cold skin.

I force down the pull from her, battling the instinct screaming for me to take another step closer. It’s the same part of me that wanted to claim her last night. The same part of me that’s fought every moment since she arrived.

“I doubt this spectacle will last," I respond with clipped tones, breaking through whatever spell she’s casting on me. “This place doesn’t allow for much…” I falter on the wordjoy. Joy is dead here, along with everything good.

She steps closer again, her shoulder brushing mine as she hangs another ornament. But there’s something else—above us, a shadow of green and silver catches my eye, hanging just overhead like a threat. No—not a threat.

I lift my hand—before I can stop them—and pluck the sprig of mistletoe from where it’s wound itself to the garland. Briar looks up, briefly confused, her breath hitching as I hold it just above us.

What the hell am I doing?

She glances at the doorway, where Nolan and Giselle have disappeared into the adjoining parlor—no witnesses. Her eyes return to mine, hesitant at first, then something shifts. Her lips part, and the way she’s looking at me—like I’m notalreadytoo far gone—is my undoing.

I lean in—just an inch. Then another. Enough for her breath to warm my lips.

I don’t kiss people under mistletoe. I don’t let anyone this close.

Yet here I am, pulling her in. And she—god, she moves with me, our lips fitting together with a deep wanting ache before I remember I’m about to end the world.

But for just a moment, it doesn’t matter.

Her lips are soft but firm, pressing back in the same way I push toward her—like everything we’ve left unsaid just got poured into the open.

I want her. In ways I shouldn’t even consider. I can feel it crackling beneath my skin, lightning grounding itself straight into her. My hands go taut against the back of her waist, notable to restrain the need to hold on to something solid. For once, something real.

It doesn’t last nearly long enough. I pull away, the echo of her taste still on my tongue, looking down to see her breathless and blinking in disbelief.

I don’t know whether what I’ve done is worse for her… or me.

I drag myself back into the cold faster than she can untangle from my shadow. Heat pools low in my gut, battling against my better judgment, threatening to spill over if I make one more slip.

I can’t let her in.

The Journal’s Secrets Briar

Irun my fingers along the polished silver candlestick, and a strange vibration pulses through my skin. The sensation reminds me of touching a tuning fork—a musical hum resonating deep in my bones. My hand trembles, nearly dropping the piece before I steady myself. In all my years handling antiques and artifacts, I've never felt anything quite like this—as if the object itself is alive with some hidden energy.

"Careful with that one, Miss Everly." Alistair's voice carries across the long dining table where we're arranging place settings for tonight's dinner. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows through the frost-covered windows, making the silverware gleam like captured starlight. "It's been in the family for generations."

"Sorry, I..." The words trail off as another wave of energy ripples through me. The candlestick warms under my touch, its ornate engravings catching the light. Each spiral and curve seems to move, shifting like liquid silver beneath my fingertips. The metal feels almost molten, though it maintains its solid form. My historian's mind catalogs the impossibility even as my heart races with the thrill of discovery.

My skin prickles with awareness as I study the markings more closely. They're not the decorative flourishes I first assumed—there's a pattern here, an intentional design that makes my vision blur if I look too long. The longer I stare, the more the symbols seem to pulse with their own inner light.

"These symbols. They're unusual."

The words feel inadequate to describe what I'm seeing. How do you explain watching static engravings dance and shift before your eyes? I've spent years studying ancient artifacts, but nothing in my experience has prepared me for this.

Alistair pauses in his methodical polishing of the silverware, his movements becoming more deliberate. The soft cloth in his hands stills as he watches me with those unnervingly pale eyes. "Many items in Frostspire Keep have... unique properties." His faded blue eyes fix on me with that unsettling intensity I'm starting to recognize. "Though most visitors don't notice."

There's something in his tone—a weight to his words that suggests layers of meaning I can't quite grasp. Most visitors don't notice. But I do. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the castle's perpetual chill.

I trace the spiral pattern etched into the silver base, following its endless loop. The metal grows warmer still, almost hot enough to burn, but I can't make myself let go. It's as if my fingers are locked in place, guided by some force I don't understand. "They're not just decoration, are they? These symbols mean something."

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