“I don’t know how to get in. I’m sorry.”
Krampus slams a fist against the desk. I jump back, startled by the noise and the violence of it. He’s never lost his temper like this before—always seemed cool and collected even when he was wringing the life out of Adrian—but now his ears are pinned back, his red eyes radiating fury.
“I was so close,” he says through gritted teeth. He slams his fist again, and a cup of pens topples off the edge and spills across the floor. I press my back against the wall, eyeing him warily. “Closer than I’d ever been. They were here. They wereright here. And I lost my opportunity, all because… all because of…”
Because of me?I wonder when he doesn’t finish. But no, that’s not right. I didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, it was because…
Because he wouldn’t let me help like I wanted to. If he had let me separate them before he stepped into the room, they wouldn’t have had a chance to do this. There’s no way in hell that I’m going to say that out loud, though, when he’s in this mood. But when I raise my gaze to his face and find him staring at me, I suspect he’s thinking the same thing already.
With a bellow that shakes the walls, Krampus swipes an arm across the desk and sends everything clattering to the floor. I flinch at the sound—shockingly loud, shockinglyanimalas it tears free from his throat. One hand covering my mouth, I watch in shock as he stomps around the room, flinging books and crushing broken glass beneath his hooves. He grabs the record player—still spewing Christmas music—and heaves it across the room, sending it crashing against the wall. “O Holy Night” dies off mid-song, and leaves behind a vast and echoing silence.
Krampus stops in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped and chest heaving. Frustration is written in every tense muscle.
I’ve never seen him like this. But I still don’t feel afraid of him. Instead, I feel sympathetic. I’m frustrated too. It must be a thousand times worse for him, after the years he’s waited for this, only to be foiled at the last moment. Every breath must bring with it the smell of sin, reminding him of how close he was.
Instead of an urge to run, I feel an urge to try to lift his burden. But how can I help? Unless…
I take a hesitant step toward him, and then another, slowly crossing the room to reach his side. He doesn’t move as I stand on my tiptoes and reach with trembling hands to clasp his face. Only then does he raise his head to look at me.
“You need to clear your head,” I say.
He huffs, as if to suggesteasier said than done.
“Take the edge off.”
His expression remains stony, but his ears perk.
“Use me,” I whisper. I lick my lips, still holding his gaze. “Punish me… please.”
His gaze. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. After what we did to Adrian…”
“I don’t mean the full punishment,” I say. My mouth is dry. “Just a little. To take the edge off, like I said.”
His eyes widen, pupils growing. He goes very still.
“Would that help?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He slowly removes my hand from his face. He doesn’t need to answer; I can see the need written plainly on his monstrous features.
There must be something seriously wrong with me, because part of me thrills at his response. I shouldn’t be excited at the thought that he wants to punish me. I certainly shouldn’t be turned on at the idea of being punished.
But as Krampus lifts his birch rod and slaps it against one of his palms, the shiver that goes through me is not entirely fear. I slowly sink to my knees and bow my head, surrendering myself to him. My breath quickens as he circles around behind me, even more so when the sound of his hooves stops. I brace with my hands on my knees, fingers digging into the fabric, and shut my eyes.
Crack.
The first strike of the rod across my shoulders brings more shock than pain. I gasp, eyes flying open again. Before I can fully process the feeling, the rod comes down again.
Crack.
This one hurts. Tears spring to my eyes, and I dig my teeth into my lower lip to keep quiet.
Crack.
A muffled groan comes from my lips as this blow lands on stinging, already-tender flesh. But there is another feeling beneath the pain, something surging and growing that I can’t name.
Crack.
I cry out as my sore flesh throbs. But there is an answering ache between my thighs. I spread them, sinking lower on the floorboards.
