Page 80 of War on Christmas

Yet here I am.

Before I launch into the script I prepared, I give Jeremy a second to take me in. The faux leather breeches and knee-high boots molded to my legs. The dark-red tunic cinched around my waist with a thick belt. The prosthetic pointy ears. My subtle makeup, my lips a soft pink close to my natural color.

When his eyes start making their way back up my body, I try to begin. “Welcome, Ulri—”

“You led my on a merry chase, bard,” he interrupts, andgodsthe way his blue-green eyes burn into mine. The heat of his stare settles low and heavy in my belly, and I lick my lips, greedily taking in every perfect, windswept inch of him, from his long legs to his high cheekbones, flushed from the cold.

He stalks forward, shutting the door behind him, and for every step forward he takes, I take one back. His expression is downright hungry—predatoryeven—as he peels off his winter coat and tosses it to the ground. My heart rate quickens in response.

“A song,” I blurt out, scurrying toward my planned position in front of the fireplace. We always called Roxy’s stories “songs,” but they’re just spoken, not sung. I gesture toward the wingback chair in front of me and inject some authority into my tone. “Rest, weary traveler, and let me entertain you.”

For a long moment, I think he might chase after me, magical song be damned, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath and slumps into the chair, legs spread wide. If I didn’t know any better, I might mistake his fiery eyes and curt body language for anger or grumpiness, but I recognize it for what it is: impatience.

Impatience for me.

I hold back my smile as that knowledge warms me, my chest straining with the effort it takes to contain my happiness. Jeremy wants me. Not only that, he loves me. Even after all the walls he had to scale over the past two weeks, he still loves me. Honestly, I’d prefer to forget the song and fling myself into his lap, letting the C&C-style campaign around Northview speak for itself. But if anyone deserves to hear these words—proudly and unmistakably—it’s Jeremy. He deserves everything, and I’m going to give it to him.

It's time to pledge my love.

“In every great love story,” I begin, my voice soft but clear, “the stars align when a soul meets its match. Across the galaxies, the planets and moons and asteroids shift, and the stars—just flaming balls of light until that moment—flare with more than fire. For a single moment, they burn with magic. They blaze with the knowledge that out there, somewhere in the universe, one soul has met another, made just for them. Not identical, but alike in substance, values, and heart. So it was when Romeo met Juliet’s gaze across the Capulet’s party. When Heathcliff first saw Catherine across the Yorkshire moors. When Aragorn encountered Arwen in Rivendell.”

Jeremy’s mouth tips into the barest of smiles at theLord of the Ringsreference, and I fight to hold back my own grin. I know him so well.

“And so it was when Freya first saw Jeremy,” I continue. “They began as playmates and friends, but as adulthood neared, they felt a draw to become more than that, until one fateful evening in her fifteenth year, not long after Yuletide, they…” I pause for a dramatic beat. “Kissed.”

Right on cue, Jeremy utters a scandalized gasp, his eyes dancing in the firelight. He always did enjoy Roxy’s ballads.

“Now, one would think that a kiss—especially a kiss as sweet and perfect as the one shared by Jeremy and Freya—could only be a harbinger of happy things. It was, after all, exactly what the stars foreshadowed: a bond fated by the heavens themselves. Except,” I bow my head, “in the wake of the kiss, Freya was beset with a terrible fear. Jeremy was already Freya’s best friend. Her trusted advisor. Her keeper of secrets. If he became her sweetheart too…”

I let the sentence trail off, feeling an unexpected surge of compassion for my teenage self. I’d been paralyzed with fear, unsure how to venture into a romantic relationship with Jeremy while also protecting the friendship that meant so much to me. I would have done anything to keep him in my life, and then it was my own indecision that tore him away.

“If he was her sweetheart too…” Jeremy prompts quietly.

“He would have become her everything,” I answer. “And if the epic romance between them went down like a bad roll of the dice—as teenage romances are wont to do—she would also have everything to lose. Her fear drove a wedge between the would-be lovers, and the intimacy they’d once enjoyed descended into pettiness, rivalry, and jealousy, all ruthlessly spurred on by the popular girls of Northview High School, with whom Jeremy sought…” I tap my chin, pretending to consider my words carefully, “much comfort.”

He swipes a hand down his face, clearly exasperated, and I grin back at him.

“When Jeremy and Freya reached the age of majority and left their small hamlet to pursue bigger adventures, the two parted ways, and the stars that aligned so meticulously to prophesy their romance shone a little dimmer, until”—my lips curl into a smile—“one fateful Yule, many years later, when their paths crossed again.”

“Is that right?” Jeremy asks, and I nod, my gaze never wavering from his.

“It is,” I confirm. “Because Jeremy and Freya shared a bond so strong and true—a genuine meeting of hearts and minds and bodies—that the stars didn’t align for them once, buttwice.”

“Twice?” He lets out a slow whistle. “That sounds pretty serious.”

“Serious as an orc attack,” I respond, prompting Jeremy to emit a sigh that borders on a groan.

“Fuck, I love it when you speak nerd.”

Abi twisted my hair into Roxy’s signature braids, and I pat them now as I shrug a shoulder. “It’s one of my many talents. I’m also fluent in both Please-Forgive-Me-Because-I-Really-Fucked-Up and Groveling-by-Blow-Job.”

I’m not sure what springs him into motion, the mention of blow jobs or the extreme rarity of me admitting I’ve made a mistake, but the next thing I know, he’s out of the chair and pinning me to the wall. My hands are above my head, his fingers circling my wrists, and my eyes roll back as his hips press into me.

He’s already hard, and I go molten at the feel of him, heat rushing between my legs.

“I’m not done,” I whimper, giving an obligatory but weak tug at my wrists. He grips tighter and dips his head, running his nose along the sensitive skin of my neck, and I hate the way I shiver in response.

Except I actually totally love it.

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