Page 40 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)
CHAPTER ONE
You’ve been reading too much monster smut, Twyla.
TWYLA
I am so making the naughty list for this.
This is confirmed the moment the security guard stamps my forged VIP pass with the Krampus-themed seal and welcomes me inside the gates of Krampus World.
He licks his lips, revealing rows of sharp, pointed teeth—along with faux blood and brown stains mirroring the makeup upon his wrinkly facial prosthetics.
His lascivious eyes roam down my figure, and I almost regret not wearing something more revealing.
Angels are not uncommon at these celebrations.
Not that I’m here for the celebration.
Unfortunately.
As I follow the long line of partygoers and tourists through the gates, I tap the “ex phone on my left wrist, cueing up the holo-feed, which is linked with my contacts.
Anyone else will see the Krampus Cat game that’s trending for the holidays.
But for me, it’s the schematics of the Krampus World Penthouse—or more specifically, the VIP floor right below it.
I’ll have only a couple of minutes to get in, get what I need, and get out.
And the world will !nally know if the urban legend is true or false.
Is Krampus real?
Once I get beyond the gates, I soon realize the typical angels here range from mass-market angels with their store-bought wire- mesh wings, which will likely be thrown away and never used again,—or a wide variety of Victoria’s Secret angels.
Nothing wrong with either, especially when I’m a blend between them.
But I guess I’ll get docked points for creativity.
While every other costume and pair of wings are pure and white as the fallen snow, mine are tattered and gray like the color of slush following the tread of heavy winter boots.
Too many eyes follow me, most curious, others admiring, and some confused.
Not that I blame them.
It’s probably uncommon for a fallen angel to show up at Krampus World.
Or for anyone to spend weeks handcrafting and hand-stitching her one-of-a-kind costume.
The tattered wings of isolon and feathers—no two alike—are my favorite.
The lace-up corset bodice and sweet‐heart neckline show just enough cleavage so I can fly under the radar.
I spent two weeks alone sewing the skirt out of the same isolon to make ragged swaths—all different lengths. None fall below my knee.
I stop in my tracks as a group of gangly children scampers past me, growling and roaring beneath their Krampus masks.
Their dad, I assume, chases after them with a larger mask while the mom shakes her head and takes a holo-snap with her “ex phone—all the rage now.
The scent of cinnamon sticks, cloves, and gingerbread fills the air.
Off to my left is a bakery: Krampus Kookies and Kakes.
My mouth waters at the intricate Krampus-themed cakes and pastries on multi-tiered stands decorate the front windows.
If I weren’t here for official business, I’d stop in for one of those cupcakes with molded chocolate horns.
Damn you, Colton! I curse my editor’s name.
This was supposed to be my holiday.
Indignation rises inside me as I pick up my pace.
My curls are as wild as my fuming temper when I think of my boss cornering me in the copy room two nights ago, the same copy room where I’d accidentally walked in on him with his secretary.
At first, he’d denied it, claiming I was making up a wild story to get attention.
Right, just my imagination that the copy machine still had blurry black-and-white images of Celia’s tits barely covered by the $500 bra he’d bought her.
Then, he claimed it was a “mistake”. I’m still not sure how it’s a mistake for his pants and her skirt to be shoved down to the ankles and his dick to magically pop into her pussy from behind.
And now, I am here…working during my holiday.
All because Colton Dixon can’t fuck his secretary in his own office like normal CEOs of Fortune 500 broadcasting companies.
And because I’m an intern.
And because he has a reputation with his secretaries and interns, specifically a reputation for firing ones who don’t do what he wants.
Since I prefer to do the basics like eating half-decent food, pissing in a toilet—even when it’s cracked and yellow—, and living in a crappy studio apartment vs.
the street, I’ll do what I must.
After passing a few Krampus-themed gift shops selling ornaments, trinkets, toys, and masks, the crowds thicken.
Normally, I love crowds.
The hustle and bustle of this season—if I didn’t have to hustle my bustle, of course.
After all, I’m a single girl living on her own, dining on pizza rolls and TV dinners every night and drinking with friends at the pub down the street.
Absorbing the joy and wonder of the season reflected in the children’s eyes around me is always special.
Sacred in a way, I consider as some kids point up at the stage where a theater troupe performs a skit about Santa and Krampus.
Laughter erupts when Santa bops Krampus on the head right before Krampus bops Santa.
I can’t help but smile.
Krampus World is more like the Christmas version of Halloween.
Later, after the head-dancing sugar plum children are all tucked in their beds, the wild events will happen.
And I’m going to miss everything!
A cold ache gnaws on my insides, not the festive warmth I’d A cold ache gnaws on my insides, not the festive warmth I’d wanted from this Christmas “break”.
“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement,”
Colton had cooed with suggestive brows bouncing while hemming me in at the copier.
“You’re a pretty girl, after all, Twyla,”
Girl. Yes, I guess to a 55-year-old geezer, a fresh and hungry young woman of 26, I am just a girl. I still have some self-respect.
Not much, but I’d rather risk a B&E on my record than let Colton Dixon’s wrinkly dick get anywhere near my orifices.
When the theater troupe calls for all the children to gather on the stage, an invisible !st punches through my chest. My breath withers in my lungs.
Remembering what my pro-bono therapist taught me, I imagine my present self hugging my little past six-year-old self on Christmas Eve. A Christmas Eve like all the others that would define her. Dark and cold with no warmth, no light, no joy.
After mentally hugging that little girl, who stayed up all night waiting for a Santa who never came, I make my way past Krampus-themed art exhibitions with kids designing projects in the shops, Krampus-themed restaurants, the Krampus haunted house and escape room next to it, and the Night Market.
My chest squeezes because I’d rather head down the cobblestone road to that German-inspired vintage market with its eerie crafts and gifts of dark folklore.
If I get wrinkly-dick Dixon’s “story of the century”
or at least the “man behind the curtain”, I’m demanding a raise and a big fat stocking stuffer of a Christmas bonus. If I don’t get caught and make it out of here, I’m coming back and buying a two-for-one package with Christmas World—complete with the Christma Eve Silver Bells Ball.
I cross the Devil’s Keep Main Street, where the candlelit parade will be tonight. More of an opportunity for people to get drunk and get the stuffing scared right out of them when the Krampus-masked players roam freely in the streets. It will be a night of drunkenness, debauchery, and walloping birch whips.
There go my evening plans. Livid heat ignites my blood when I fantasize about how I would +lure one of the Krampus-masked men toward an obliging alley. He wouldn’t need to take off his mask. Just as long as he had the muscles to rut me against the wall.
The Krampus Ball would be the big bow on the night. Maybe a smooth-talking stranger would offer to take me back to his place.
He could be a handsome and rich tourist and take me back to his VIP-level suite in the Krampus Palace—what they call the Krampus’s hotel home. He would give me a drink before showing me his birch whip.
I shake my head from the heady thoughts, chalking it up to how long it’s been since I’ve had a good whipping. Nothing’s in store for me tonight except the scoop my editor wants. With my luck, Mr. Krampus won’t even be there. With my luck, he’ll probably be a withered old man in his sixties because sexy, reclusive billionaires don’t exist in real life.
This isn’t Fifty Shades, Twyla, I roll my eyes as I hurry toward the Palace. Not that there were any decent whipping scenes in that saga.
A fleeting thought races through my brain. But I’m as cuckoo as Colton for even entertaining the thought that the urban legend could be true. Christian Grey is far more likely than some hot-as-hell monster demon with horns and huge muscles—with one particular bulbous muscle I should not be daydreaming about.
You’ve been reading way too much monster smut, Twyla.