Page 44 of Never Kiss a Krampus
This is fine. Everything is fine. You’ve survived a winter night without power before.But never with a seven-foot-tall Krampus watching my every move.
“We should return to your living quarters,” he said. “This building will become inhospitable quickly.”
He picked up the box and led the way upstairs, the flame still flickering in his palm.
My apartment was no longer warm and cozy. Everything was dark and cold, the heating just as dead as downstairs. I distributed candles around the room, lighting them one by one. The flames cast warm, flickering light, pushing back the darkness into corners and shadows. The light helped, but thetemperature was still dropping. My breath puffed out in visible plumes.
“I have blankets,” I said, already shivering. “Lots of blankets.”
I went to the linen closet and grabbed every blanket I could find—a thick down comforter, several wool throws, and the pile of fuzzy fleece blankets I usually kept for movie nights. I piled them on the couch.
“That should be sufficient for the night,” he observed, picking up the down comforter and inspecting it.
“The night? Bastian, this blizzard could last for days.”
He paused, the comforter still in his hands, and looked at me. “I am aware.”
The implications of that statement settled over me. Alone. Trapped. For days. With a creature I was deeply, dangerously attracted to.
This is not fine.
“We need to stay warm,” I said, focusing on the practical. “I should get dressed. Properly dressed.”
I fled to my bedroom, changed out of my jeans and sweater into a pair of thick flannel pajama pants, a thermal shirt, a wool sweater, and a pair of ridiculously fluffy socks. I even considered putting on my hat, but decided that might be overkill. Jingle opened an eye as I rushed around, but remained buried under the pillows. I decided to leave him there. He’d join us if he wanted to.
When I came out, Bastian had arranged the blankets on the couch, creating a surprisingly inviting-looking nest. He’d also lita few more candles, their combined light making the living room feel almost cozy. Almost.
The fire in the fake fireplace was, of course, useless.
“We need real heat,” I said.
“The candles provide some.”
“Not enough.” I went to the kitchen, returning with the largest pot I owned. “I can boil water. The steam will help warm up the room.”
“That is… surprisingly resourceful.”
“I watch a lot of survival shows.” I filled the pot at the sink. “We can also make hot cider.”
“Another one of your sentimental culinary rituals?”
“Hot cider is not sentimental. It’s a necessity for survival in extreme situations.”
“If you say so.”
I set the pot on the stove, which thankfully was a gas range, not electric. A small mercy. The burner whooshed to life with a familiar, comforting blue flame.
“There,” I said. “Progress.”
“Minimal, but progress nonetheless.”
We stood there for a moment, watching the pot start to steam. The awkwardness from the previous night was back, tenfold now that we were trapped. We hadn’t really talked after we returned from the meeting. I’d made canned soup for dinner—he clearly hadn’t approved but he’d let it go—and then retreated to bedwith a book I couldn’t concentrate on. The memory of our kiss had continued to haunt me.
I suspected it haunted him as well. He’d been more than usually silent in the shop, although it had been another successfully busy day until the storm began. He’d helped me restock and rearranged things according to his perfectionist standards, but he’d been careful not to touch me. It didn’t make me any less conscious of his presence and every time I looked up, he was watching me.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “Seven more days.”
“Approximately, depending on how the blizzard affects your temporal perception.”
