Page 62 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“You,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “are a terrible student.”
“You’re a terrible teacher,” I retorted, my pulse fluttering in my throat. “You punish me for wrong answers and then get upset when I touch things I’m not supposed to touch.”
“There is a difference between accidental contact and deliberate provocation.”
“Is there?” I took a step closer, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. “It feels like you’re looking for an excuse, Bastian. An excuse to touch me. An excuse to discipline me. An excuse to stop pretending this is just about a binding contract.”
His jaw clenched. “This is not pretending.”
“Isn’t it?” I reached up, my fingers hovering just below the base of his horn. Not touching. Just a breath away. “You talk about consequences and discipline, but you never follow through.”
“Do not tempt me, Noelle.”
“Too late.” I let my fingers brush against the sensitive spot, a feather-light caress.
A shudder wracked his body. A low growl rumbled in his chest, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, one of his hands shot out, wrapping around my wrist, stilling my fingers against his horn.
“I warned you.” His voice was raw, strained, as if the words were being torn from him.
“I know.”
He stared at me, a war of emotions waging in his eyes. Want and fear. Hunger and restraint. He was fighting a battle with himself, and I had the sinking, thrilling feeling that I was about to win.
Then he let go of my wrist and stepped back, creating a chasm of cold air between us.
“This conversation is over,” he said, his voice clipped and formal. “We have work to do.”
“Bastian—”
“The shop requires your attention. I require your attention.” He gestured around us, at the half-unpacked ornaments and the disorganized displays. “This is why I am here. To assist with this. Not to engage in… this.”
He said “this” like it was a dirty word.
“This is what you’re afraid of,” I said softly.
“I am not afraid. I am… focused.” He picked up a strand of tinsel, examining it with an intensity that suggested it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “These garlands are inadequately secured. They will fall.”
“They’ve been fine for weeks.”
“They will fall,” he repeated, and started securing them with the grim determination of a man defusing a bomb.
Fine. If that’s the way he wanted it.
I spent the next hour unpacking ornaments and arranging them on the display tree with meticulous precision. He reorganized my wrapping station with surgical efficiency, creating a color-coded system for paper, bows, and ribbon that was so beautiful I almost cried.
He was avoiding me.
Every movement was deliberate, every action focused. When our paths crossed in the small space, he would make a subtle shift, creating distance. His tail, which had begun to relax and swishcasually around me, now remained tucked close to his body. A clear, defensive posture.
I hated it. This forced distance was worse than the charged tension. At least the tension was alive. This was… dead. Cold. Like the shop before he’d arrived.
“There,” he said, stepping back from a display of vintage nutcrackers he’d arranged in ascending order of height. “Acceptable.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, my voice flat. “You’ve successfully sanitized my chaotic shop into a model of bland perfection.”
He turned to me, one eyebrow raised. “You believe my efforts are bland?”
“No. I believe your attempts to avoid me are bland.”
