Page 22 of Never Kiss a Krampus

“The bond doesn’t care about species, little human. It cares about truth. And the truth is, you called me because some part of you wanted this. You wanted to stop pretending. You wanted to be seen by something that cannot be fooled by your cheerful masks.”

“That’s not?—”

“Admit it.”

“No.”

“Admit it, and I’ll step away.”

“Fine!” The word exploded out of me. “Fine, yes, okay? You’re attractive in a terrifying monster sort of way, and yes, somedeeply questionable part of my brain finds that appealing, and yes, the bond makes me too aware of you, and I don’t like it!”

He stared down at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips. Not a gentle smile, a predatory one.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Honesty suits you better than denial.” He finally stepped back, giving me space, and I immediately felt cold. “We are bound, little human. Fighting the bond only makes it worse. Accept it, and it becomes bearable. Now about your dinner…”

CHAPTER 9

Dinner. Right.I tried to focus on food and not the awareness humming through my body. Opening up the refrigerator, I stared at the contents.

“So. Options are eggs, or… eggs.”

“There is cheese in that drawer.”

“A near-expired block of cheddar that I’m hoping will last until Friday.”

“Potatoes.”

“One.” I held it up. “A single, slightly sprouted potato. We could call it rustic.”

He looked from me to the potato, then sighed.

“I will cook.”

“You? You can cook?”

“I have existed for centuries. I have learned many skills. Move.”

I moved, perching myself on one of the barstools next to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

He took the sad potato, the lone onion I hadn’t seen in the back of the crisper drawer, the eggs, and the block of cheese. Using a knife I didn’t even know I had, those huge clawed hands diced and sliced with mesmerizing speed. He found spices I’d forgotten I owned—paprika, a tiny jar of dried thyme—and soon the aroma of something savory and wonderful was filling my small apartment, chasing away the lingering scent of dust and desperation.

I watched him, my mind a whirlwind of contradictions. This creature of judgment and fear was making me dinner from the dregs of my refrigerator. He was the answer to my prayers and the source of my panic. He was terrifying and strangely comforting, all at once.

“There is more to cooking than combining ingredients,” he said, without turning around. “It is about transformation. Taking what is humble and making it nourishing. Taking what is broken and making it whole.”

“Is that what you do with people?” I asked, my voice quiet. “Transform them?”

He paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “That is not my purpose. I ensure that deeds are met with consequences, that joy and sorrow are weighed equally. It is not transformation. It is… justice.”

“Or punishment.”

“The two are often the same thing.”

He worked in silence for a few more minutes, the rhythmic sound of the knife a strange counterpoint to the soft jingle of his chains. When he was done, he produced a pan I also hadn’t known I owned and began sautéing the potatoes and onions. The smell was intoxicating.