Page 90 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Last year,” he said, his back still to me, “I thought Christmas Day would be the end of everything.”
My heart squeezed. “Bastian?—”
“I’d never considered staying. Never imagined I could stay.” He turned, and the vulnerability in his expression stole my breath. “Centuries of the same cycle. Appear. Judge. Punish. Disappear. I’d forgotten what it meant to be anything but a monster serving a purpose.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“I am.” He crossed back to me, cupping my face with one massive, careful hand. “But you taught me that monsters can choose differently. That judgment can be tempered with mercy. That even creatures like me can find…”
“Love?”
“Home.” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. “You gave me a home, Noelle Green. You and our amazing daughter and this absurd little shop full of too many ornaments and catastrophic amounts of tinsel.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my decorating choices.”
“Your decorating choices are a crime against aesthetics.”
“And yet you love them.”
“And yet I love them.” He leaned down, his horns brushing through my hair exactly like that first Christmas Day when everything changed. “I love you. Impossibly. Completely. With every part of me.”
“I love you too.” I pulled him down for a kiss, tasting cinnamon and promises. “Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you judge my cookie ratios. Even when you pretend you don’t enjoy caroling.”
“I do not enjoy caroling.”
“You were humming ‘Good King Wenceslas’ while you did the dishes last week.”
“A momentary lapse.”
“You did the descant.”
“I was not—” He stopped, caught. “You’re infuriating.”
“You love it.”
“Against all wisdom and reason,” he repeated. Then, softer, “Yes.”
He kissed me again, and this time there was no gentleness in it. Just hunger and possession and the bone-deep certainty that this was exactly where we both belonged.
His hands found the hem of my sweater, pulling it up and off in one smooth motion. Cool air kissed my skin for a heartbeat before his warmth replaced it. Fur and leather and solid muscle pressed against me as he urged me back onto the bed.
“My turn,” he said, settling over me with predatory grace. “You’ve been very, very naughty this year, Miss Green.”
“Mrs. Krampus, actually.”
His eyes flared. He still reacted to that. The title. The claiming. The irrefutable proof that I’d chosen him, horns and claws and ancient otherworldly nature included.
“Mrs. Krampus,” he corrected, voice dropping to that register that made my toes curl. “Who has been making eyes at me all evening while I was trying to maintain proper decorative decorum.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.” His hands mapped my sides, relearning familiar territory. “Every look. Every smile. Every time you bit your lip while watching me lift heavy boxes. You’ve been planning this since this morning, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” He nipped at my collarbone, a careful scrape of teeth that promised more. “You wore this skirt specifically because you know what it does to me.”
“It’s just a skirt.”
