Page 1 of Kraved By Krampus

Chapter one

Waiting

Iwatch through the cabin’s frosted windows as headlights cut through the falling snow, illuminating the winding mountain path. The old Victorian hunting lodge creaks and settles around me, adjusting to my presence as I make my preparations.

“Just a bit more.” My breath clouds in the cold air as I trace protective runes along the doorframe. Ancient symbols flare briefly before fading into the dark wood grain.

The kettle in the kitchen whistles—perfect timing. I’ve prepared her favorite blend, though she doesn’t know it yet. Cinnamon and cardamom steam rises from the spout, carrying memories of holidays past.

Her car struggles on the last steep incline, tires spinning against fresh powder. The cabin responds to my mood, shadowsdeepening in corners as concern floods through me. But she manages to right herself, determination evident in how she navigates the treacherous path.

I adjust the fire in the great stone hearth with a wave of my hand, flames shifting from their natural orange to a deeper crimson. The leather armchair nearest the warmth enlarges slightly, knowing its future occupant will need the comfort.

My rings catch the firelight as I straighten manuscript pages on the writing desk—carefully disordered to appear untouched. The window seat pillows fluff themselves, and books on nearby shelves subtly rearrange, placing her preferred titles within easy reach.

The car’s engine cuts off. Through the swirling snow, I see her silhouette emerge, head tilted back to take in the cabin’s imposing facade. She hugs herself against the cold, boots crunching in virgin snow.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimes midnight, though it’s barely past sunset. Daylight moves differently here, especially near the winter solstice. I fade into the shadows, letting them wrap around me like a familiar cloak. She must discover some things on her own.

Her footsteps approach the front door. The cabin holds its breath with me, waiting.

Chapter two

Noelle

Iglare 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 sheknew 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.

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