"Holy shit," Silas breathed beside me, for once without a snarky follow-up. "That's him. That's actually him."
Behind me, I heard Bramble's sharp intake of breath. "He's real. I thought he was a myth."
"Who summoned him?" Silas hissed. "Was it your pink sweater? Is cheerfulness a demonic bat signal now?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words with my suddenly dry mouth. All I could do was watch him approach, step by deliberate step, each click of hoof against wood echoing in the silence.
The mug I'd been filling skittered suddenly to the left, pushed by my shaking hands. I grabbed for it, missed, and watched in slow-motion horror as it tottered on the edge of the counter.
Krampus's hand shot out, impossibly fast for someone his size, and caught the mug before it could shatter. His fingers wrapped completely around it, dwarfing the ceramic. When he placed it back on the counter, I saw tiny indentations where his claws had pressed into the glaze.
I swallowed hard. Heat radiated from him in waves, contrasting with the winter chill he'd brought in. Up close, I could see patterns etched into his horns, ancient symbols that seemed to shift when I tried to focus on them. His scent hit me, woodsmoke, cinnamon, and something darker, like the moment before lightning strikes.
My body reacted in ways I wasn't prepared for. My thighs clenched involuntarily. My breath came quicker. Something dangerous uncurled in my belly, a sensation I barely recognized as desire. The shock of it made me step back, bumping into the espresso machine, which hissed in protest.
"S-sir," I managed, my voice embarrassingly high. "Welcome to The Hearth."
Behind me, Silas made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so terrified.
Krampus towered over the counter. The space I'd come to think of as mine, my café, my domain, suddenly felt foreign again. His presence reclaimed it, reminding me that I was merely a caretaker of someone else's territory. The realization should have frightened me, or at least annoyed me.
Instead, it made my pulse race faster.
The customers watched in fascinated horror. Some slipped out the door, while others pressed deeper into their seats, trying to become invisible. No one dared speak. Even the usually cacophonous group of pixies in the corner had gone still, their luminous wings dimmed to a nervous flicker. When he finally spoke, his voice was exactly what I'd imagined in my nightmares and nothing I'd dared to hope for in other, more secret dreams, deep as an underground river, rough like stones dragging across velvet, with a resonance that vibrated in my chest as if he'd touched me there.
"Who," he rumbled, "is in charge here?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy as a guillotine blade. Who is in charge here? The obvious answer stuck in my throat. Me. I've been in charge since Marcel died. I've been holding this place together with pink nail polish and sheer force of will for three months while you were gods-know-where. The words pressed against my teeth, desperate to escape, but something in those golden eyes warned me to choose my response carefully.
"I—" I started, then cleared my throat when my voice came out as a squeak. "I've been managing things since Marcel's... departure."
Departure. Such a nice, clean word for "found exsanguinated with occult symbols carved into his flesh."
Krampus tilted his head slightly, the movement oddly birdlike for such a massive being. His horns caught the light, sending dappled shadows dancing across my face. He was so close that I could feel the heat radiating from him. Each breath he took seemed to pull oxygen directly from my lungs.
"Managing," he repeated, the word rolling from his mouth like thunder. "Not the same as owning. Not the same as controlling."
I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself. He was overwhelming, not just physically, though gods, he wasenormous, but in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness. I'd never been so conscious of my own body. Of my pulse hammering at my wrists. The weight of my breasts beneath my dress. Of the sudden, inconvenient heat pooling low in my belly.
What the hell was wrong with me?
"I'm here," he announced, his voice pitched to carry throughout the silent café, "to choose a new manager."
The words landed like a slap. Three months of doubling as baker when Silas was sick, of calming territorial disputes between supernatural regulars, of balancing books and ordering supplies and remembering every customer's name and story, and he was just now showing up to "choose" someone?
My smile faltered, the carefully constructed mask slipping for the first time that day. Behind him, I could see customers exchanging glances. Some looked worried, the regulars who'd come to rely on me. Others seemed curious, leaning forward to better hear our exchange. Silas made a small hissing sound beside me, his tail lashing against the pastry case. Bramble had gone completely still, only her wings betraying her anxiety with their rapid flutter.
I straightened my shoulders, summoning every ounce of courage I could. "With all due respect, sir, I've been running the café in your absence. Successfully, I might add."
His eyes narrowed, molten gold darkening to bronze. For a moment, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. Then, surprisingly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, revealing a hint of fang.
"Bold," he murmured, the word almost a purr. "I didn't expect that."
He leaned in across the counter, his massive forearms taking up space that was rightfully mine, forcing me to step back. His claws clicked lightly against the wood, leaving tiny indentations.
"You've been a good girl, keeping my café afloat," he said, his voice dropping to a rumble that seemed to vibrate directly against my core.
Good girl. The words should have insulted me and earned him a lecture on condescension in the workplace. Instead, they sent a shiver racing down my spine, settling low and hot between my legs. My cheeks flamed, betraying me completely.
