Page 19 of Kraved By Krampus

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 thecontact 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.”

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