Page 87 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“I don’t judge.” His mouth twitched. “I observe.”
“Semantics.”
“Accuracy.”
Our daughter yawned, a tiny sound that somehow contained all the exhaustion I felt magnified tenfold. Her eyelids drooped, fluttered, drooped again. The battle against sleep was valiant but ultimately futile.
“Come on, little love.” I reached for her, and Bastian transferred her carefully to my arms. “Let’s get you to bed before you decide 3 AM is party time again.”
The nursery glowed with soft nightlights shaped like stars. I’d painted them myself—slightly lopsided, cheerfully bright constellations that bore no resemblance to actual astronomy. Bastian had tried to correct them exactly once before I’d threatened him with the paint roller. We’d added an extension with more room for stock downstairs and the nursery upstairs—it seemed only fitting that both our family and our shop were expanding.
I laid her in the crib, adjusting the blanket around her. She made a small sound of protest, fist flailing up to catch at nothing. Then she found her thumb, and peace descended. Her breathing evened out almost immediately.
“Watch over her, Jingle.”
From his perch on the nearby shelf, Jingle Bells cracked one eye open, gave me a look that clearly communicated his offense at being asked to do something he was already doing, and settled back into his fluffy white loaf formation. His tail twitched once. Translation: Obviously, human. I’ve been watching her all evening while you gallivanted about below.
Judgmental cat. He fit right in with this family.
I stood there a moment longer, watching her sleep. The rise and fall of her tiny chest. The way her lips pursed around her thumb. The absolute trust that radiated from every relaxed line of her body.
This is real. This is mine. This is ours.
Some mornings I still woke up convinced I’d dreamed the whole thing. That I’d never found that ritual, never summoned a Krampus into my failing shop, never fallen completely and ridiculously in love with a creature of shadow and judgment and terrible, wonderful loyalty. But then I’d roll over and find him there—sometimes human, sometimes not—and the dream solidified into the best reality I could have imagined.
Strong arms circled my waist from behind. Bastian rested his chin on top of my head, and we stood together watching our daughter sleep.
“She has your stubbornness,” he murmured.
“She has your glare.”
“Impossible. She’s an infant.”
“Tell that to the pediatrician. He’s still traumatized from her three-month checkup.”
His chest rumbled with silent laughter against my back. “She was expressing her displeasure at the indignity of being weighed like a common ham.”
“She’s three months old, Bastian.”
“Your point?”
I turned in his arms, craning my neck to look up at him. Even in human form, he towered over me. “My point is that normal babies don’t express complex emotional nuances through strategic glaring.”
“Then it’s fortunate we didn’t produce a normal baby.” He brushed a strand of hair—complete with mystery frosting—away from my face. “Though she does have your unfortunate tendency towards chaos.”
“That’s rich coming from the being who accidentally turned the entire town square into an ice rink last January.”
“That was a controlled meteorological adjustment.”
“Three people ended up in the fountain.”
“They were fine.”
“Mrs. Allen broke her wrist.”
“I healed it.” His expression turned smug. “She said it felt better than it had in twenty years.”
I wanted to argue. I really did. But he was right—Mrs. Allen had sent us a fruit basket and gushed about her miraculously cured arthritis. Sometimes cosmic justice had unexpected benefits.
