Page 7 of Kraved By Krampus

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.

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