Chapter 8 Simone #2
Something cracked inside me. I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, but the denial sounded weak even to my ears.
"Another lie." He didn't move closer, didn't touch me, or raise his voice. Just stood there watching me. "Why is it so hard for you to admit that you're struggling?"
"Because admitting it makes it real!" The words burst from me unexpectedly. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Because if I say it out loud, then I have to feel it. And if I start feeling it, I might not stop, and then what use am I to anyone?"
The dam cracked further, emotions seeping through. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the café's warmth.
"Everyone comes here for comfort," I continued, quieter now.
"For a moment of peace in their day. They don't come for my problems. They come for the Simone who remembers their orders and their kids' names and asks about their day.
They need that person. Not..." I gestured vaguely at myself, ". ..whatever bad feelings I have."
"And what do you need?" he asked, the question so simple yet so devastating.
Something inside me broke completely, the careful walls I'd constructed tumbling down like they were made of nothing more substantial than powdered sugar.
"I need this place," I admitted, my voice cracking.
"I have no family, Krampus. No home outside of these walls.
When the previous manager died, this café became the only constant in my life.
The customers, the staff, they're the closest thing to family I've ever had.
" I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears.
"Losing this job doesn't just mean unemployment. It means losing everything. Again."
The "again" slipped out before I could catch it, a glimpse of old wounds I never discussed, old losses I'd carefully packed away beneath layers of relentless cheer.
Krampus remained perfectly still, his eyes never leaving my face. He didn't interrupt or offer empty platitudes. He just...listened. As if my words mattered. As if I mattered.
The silence between us stretched, not uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken things. Finally, he spoke.
"You can be joyful and still let go," he said. "You don't have to hold everything together every second." His words were soft despite the pain they caused me. "You're allowed to break, Simone."
The gentleness in his voice nearly undid me completely. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, eyes stinging with unshed tears I refused to let fall. This vulnerability was already too much, any more and I might shatter completely.
I turned away, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, shoulders hunched protectively. "I should go. It's late."
I'd taken three steps toward the door when his voice cut through the silence.
"You can go..." The words hung in the air between us, a permission that felt like anything but.
My feet stilled against the wooden floor, my back still turned to him as he continued, ".
..but not until you receive your punishment.
" The last word sent a shiver cascading down my spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the attraction I had for him.
"For what?" I asked. I still couldn't bring myself to turn around, as if not seeing him might somehow protect me from the intensity of whatever was building between us.
"For hiding your desires." He said. "For not fighting for yourself."
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I don't know what you—"
"Another lie," he interrupted, no anger in his tone, just certainty. "Turn around, Simone."
Slowly, reluctantly, I obeyed, pivoting to face what I'd been avoiding. The sight stole what little breath I had left.
Krampus had moved to the massive leather armchair in the corner of the café, an oversized piece of furniture that had always seemed ridiculous until this moment.
Now, with his imposing form settled into it, the chair transformed into something like a throne.
He sat with casual authority, one arm draped along the leather, legs spread slightly, hooved feet planted firmly on the floor.
His suit jacket was gone, the shirt beneath rolled at the sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and traced with silver veins that caught what little light remained in the room.
The café lights had dimmed further, whether by his magic or my perception, I couldn't tell.
Colored shadows stretched across the floor between us, the distance suddenly feeling like a chasm I wasn't sure I had the courage to cross.
His eyes gleamed in the dim light, the only part of him that seemed fully illuminated.
Predator's eyes, watching my every movement as I tried to process what was happening.
"Come here," he commanded, voice soft but allowing no room for refusal.
My feet moved before my mind had decided to comply, carrying me across the space between us until I stood before him.
This close, the size difference between us was staggering, even seated, he nearly matched my standing height.
Heat radiated from him in waves, warming my skin despite the distance I still maintained.
From beside him, he lifted something I hadn't noticed before.
A collar. Pink leather, supple and gleaming in the dim light, with a delicate silver chain that caught the colored shadows and reflected them back like tiny prisms. He held it suspended between his claws, letting it dangle where I could see it clearly.
"Put it on," he said, the command simple and devastating.
The collar hung between us, more than just leather and metal, a symbol, a question, a line I hadn't known I wanted to cross.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I stood frozen, transfixed by the collar and what it represented.
Surrender. Not of power, exactly, but of pretense.
Of the exhausting performance I maintained every day.
"I don't understand," I whispered, though part of me understood perfectly.
"You do," he countered, his gaze never leaving my face.
"You've spent your life giving everyone what they need.
Anticipating their desires. Meeting their expectations.
" The collar swayed slightly between his claws.
"This is about what you need. What you desire.
What you expect from yourself but are afraid to claim. "
My mouth went dry. "And you think you know what that is?"
The curve of his mouth wasn't quite a smile, more like the expression of a predator who has cornered something fascinating.
"I know you crave structure. Control. But not your own, you're exhausted from controlling everything around you.
You want someone else to take that burden, if only for a little while.
" His voice dropped lower. "You want permission to let go. "
The accuracy of his observation felt like fingers pressing directly on a bruise, painful but somehow satisfying, a hurt that acknowledged something real. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.
"The collar is a symbol," he continued, "of agreement. Of surrender, yes, but a chosen one. Deliberate. Powerful in its own way." He extended it toward me slightly. "Take it. Put it on. Or walk away. Your choice."