Page 47 of Mistletoe and Mayday

“Bailey—”

“Stop saying my name like that. Like you’re going to do something stupidly heroic.”

“Bailey, on my signal?—”

“No.”

“Three.”

“Sebastian—”

“Two.”

The alpha springs forward without warning. No growl, no tensed muscles—just sudden, lethal movement. My axe swings up, but the wolf’s weight slams into my chest. My back hits the snow. Teeth snap inches from my throat.

“Sebastian!” Bailey’s scream pierces the air, higher than I’ve ever heard her voice.

My arms strain against four hundred pounds of muscle and fur. The wolf’s breath steams my face, reeking of raw meat. The axe handle is the only barrier between my throat and its jaws.

“Let go of him!” Bailey’s scream tears through the clearing.

From the corner of my eye, I see her lunge forward, branch raised like a baseball bat. She swings with everything she has, connecting with the wolf’s hindquarters. The branch splinters on impact. The wolf doesn’t even flinch.

“Goddammit!” She’s screaming now, desperate, primal. “Get off him!”

My arm screams as canine teeth break skin. The pressure increases, the axe handle bending under the strain.

Bailey’s hands fumble with her jacket. “I said, get off him!”

Something sails through the air—a glint of glass and water catching sunlight.

Time slows. The globe arcs, tumbling end over end, water and glitter swirling inside like a tiny hurricane. I watch it fly, unable to process what I’m seeing.

The globe strikes the wolf’s temple with a sickening crack. Glass shatters. Water sprays across fur in a glittery explosion. Bailey—impossible, unpredictable Bailey—just weaponized her most treasured possession.

“That was my lucky snow globe, you bastards!”

The wolf yelps, stumbling sideways off my chest. Blood mats the fur above its eye where Bailey’s snowglobe shattered against its skull. Glitter sticks to the wound, a surreal combination of violence and kitsch.

I roll to my feet, axe already swinging. “Back!”

The wolves hesitate. The alpha shakes its head, disoriented, glass fragments glittering in its fur. My axe blade catches sunlight as I advance, channeling fury into each step.

“I said back!”

The pack retreats. One step. Two. The alpha’s ears flick backward, predatory focus dissolving into uncertainty.

Then, responding to some silent signal, they withdraw. Their retreat is fluid, almost elegant. Just...gone.

The punctures in my arm register as minor pinpricks, irrelevant compared to the realization that we survived.

Bailey’s hands materialize everywhere, checking me with frantic movements. Words cascade from her in a relieved torrent. “—could have died, you stupid, brave, idiotic?—”

Her face pales beneath smudges of dirt and snowmelt, lips quivering with the aftermath of fear. Her eyes, wild and glistening, scan every inch of me. “Where are you hurt? I saw blood. Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“You threw Vegas?” The snow globe she guards more than her life, that she wouldn’t relinquish even unconscious, just became improvised ammunition.

“Well, I wasn’t going to throw you!” Her voice cracks, raw emotion stripping away her usual sarcasm.