Chapter 14 Krampus #2
Her eyes widened, surprise flickering across her face before she leaned forward and accepted the offering.
The intimacy of the gesture, feeding her from my spoon, watching her lips close around it, the small sound of pleasure she couldn't quite suppress, sent heat coursing through me.
I had fed lovers before, of course, but this felt different.
Less about sensuality and more about care.
About proving she was worthy of attention.
"You don't have to feed me," she murmured after swallowing. "I'm perfectly capable—"
"I know what you're capable of," I interrupted, dipping the spoon again.
She accepted the second bite with less hesitation, though her fingers remained in constant motion, tracing the rim of her mug, adjusting her napkin, small nervous gestures that betrayed her discomfort with being the recipient of attention rather than its provider.
We continued this way for several minutes, me offering bites of the stew, her accepting them with gradually decreasing resistance.
The snow fell thicker around our sheltered patio, muffling the sounds of the magical district beyond.
In the stillness, I could hear her heartbeat, the slight catch in her breath when my claws accidentally brushed against her fingers, the soft sounds of appreciation she made at particularly flavorful bites.
"Why am I on the naughty list?" The question burst from her without warning, as if she'd been holding it back since we'd met.
I set down the spoon, studying her face. Her eyes met mine directly for the first time since we'd sat down.
"Because you neglect yourself," I answered, my voice low but firm. No point in softening truth she needed to hear. "You smile through pain and refuse to ask for help. Because you act like being joyful takes away the emptiness."
She flinched slightly, her gaze dropping to the mug clutched between her hands. The steam rising from the spiced cider cast ghostly patterns across her face, highlighting the subtle shift in her expression, shock, followed by recognition, followed by something more complex and wounded.
"That's not being naughty," she finally whispered. "That's just... surviving."
"Survival and self-destruction aren't the same thing," I countered.
"You give and give until there's nothing left, then push yourself to give more.
You treat yourself with less care than you show the rudest customer.
You've built an entire identity around being needed because you're afraid of what's left when you're alone. "
She went utterly still, her fingers frozen mid-fidget on the handle of her mug. For a moment, I wondered if I'd pushed too far, if my assessment, accurate as it was, had shattered something fragile within her. Then a single tear escaped, tracking down her cheek before she quickly brushed it away.
"Does grief put you on the naughty list, too?" The question emerged so softly I might have missed it if not for my supernatural hearing.
"Yes," I answered honestly. "When you let it rot inside you. When you let it become who you are."
She didn't elaborate further on what loss had hollowed her out. She didn't need to. I recognized the weight of it in her eyes, in the careful way she held herself, as if afraid that relaxing even slightly might cause her to collapse completely.
Simone nodded once, a small, tight movement.
Her eyes had grown glassy, but no more tears fell.
Instead, she lifted her mug and took a long sip of cider, using the motion to compose herself.
Snow continued to fall beyond our sheltered space, the world beyond growing quieter as evening approached.
Through the frosted windows, I could see the bistro patrons shifting, conversations continuing, lives unfolding in parallel to our moment of suspended time.
I picked up the spoon again, gathering another bite of the still-steaming stew.
When I extended it toward her, her eyes met mine with new awareness, as if seeing me clearly for the first time.
She accepted the offering without hesitation now, something having shifted between us with the exchange of hard truths.
"How do you fix it?" she asked after swallowing. "The rotting grief?"
"You don't fix grief," I told her. "You acknowledge it. Give it space to breathe instead of burying it beneath false cheer. You let yourself be broken sometimes, and trust that you won't shatter completely."
Her eyes didn't leave mine as she absorbed my words. The lights overhead seemed to dim slightly, responding to the intensity of our exchange, casting us in an intimate shadow that felt appropriate for such naked honesty.
"And who do you trust to see you broken?" she asked, the question revealing more about her isolation than any confession could have.
I didn't answer immediately, letting the question hang between us. Then, slowly, I reached for her hand across the table.
"Someone who sees your value beyond what you can give them," I said finally. "Someone who wants you whole, not just useful."
Her fingers trembled slightly within my grasp, but she didn't pull away.
I signaled the waiter without looking away from Simone's face, where the remnants of our conversation about grief still lingered in her eyes.
The creature appeared at my elbow with silent, awaiting instruction.
"The molten chocolate with spiced berries," I said, not bothering to consult the menu.
Her brows furrowed slightly at being excluded from the decision, that instinctive need to control small choices flaring briefly before resignation settled across her features.
Good. Learning to receive rather than always give would be a hard lesson for her, but necessary.
The waiter vanished with a slight shimmer of displacement magic, leaving us alone again in our snow-globe sanctuary.
The heat lamps pulsed warmer as the temperature outside dropped further, their enchantment responding to the needs of patrons without requiring adjustment.
Simone had withdrawn her hand from mine, returning it to her lap where I could see her fingers worrying at the velvet of her new dress, creasing and smoothing the fabric in a nervous rhythm.
The dessert arrived quickly, materializing in the center of our table with a puff of cinnamon-scented steam.
The presentation was artful, a small volcano of dark chocolate cake, its center liquid and molten, surrounded by a moat of crimson berries that gleamed like jewels in the magical lighting.
The scent alone was intoxicating, bitter chocolate, sweet fruit, warming spices that hinted at cinnamon, cardamom, and something more exotic that probably didn't exist in the human realm.
Simone's eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in appreciation. I could see the desire plain on her face, the childlike want of something decadent and beautiful. Yet she made no move to take the spoon that had appeared alongside the dessert.
"You're not allergic," I said, making it a statement rather than a question. "I checked your employee records."
She shook her head. "No, it's not that. It looks amazing. It's just..." She trailed off, one hand rising to tuck a curl behind her ear.
"Just what?" I prompted, already knowing the answer but wanting her to articulate it.
"I don't need it," she said finally. "It's probably expensive, and I'm already full from the stew, and—"
"And you don't believe you deserve indulgence," I finished for her, watching the truth of my words register in her expression. "You've convinced yourself that pleasure is only acceptable when earned through sufficient suffering or service."
She flinched slightly, confirming my assessment. "That's not—"
"It is," I interrupted, reaching for the spoon. "And it stops now."
I cut through the cake's exterior, revealing the molten center that flowed like dark silk onto the plate. I gathered a perfect bite, cake, liquid center, a single glistening berry, and extended it across the table toward her.
"Eat," I commanded.
The spoon hovered between us, steam curling from the chocolate in lazy spirals. Her eyes darted from the dessert to my face, gauging my seriousness.
"Why does this matter to you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whether I eat cake or not?"
"Because pleasure is not a luxury, Simone. It's a necessity." I kept the spoon steady between us. "And you've been starving yourself of it for too long."
Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward and parted her lips.
I slipped the spoon into her mouth, watching as her eyes instinctively closed at the first taste.
The transformation was immediate and profound.
Her face softened completely. The lines of tension around her mouth eased, her forehead smoothed, and something like wonder replaced the perpetual caution in her expression.
When her eyes opened again, they shone with simple, uncomplicated pleasure.
And then it happened, her lips curved upward in a smile so authentic that it felt like witnessing a rare natural phenomenon.
This was pure, unfiltered Simone, appreciative and present and unashamedly enjoying something offered freely.
I went completely still.
I'd witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, observed countless human expressions of joy and sorrow, been present for the most significant moments in history and the most mundane daily rituals.
None of it had prepared me for the impact of this woman's genuine smile.
It struck forgotten within me, a place that remembered what it was to experience wonder, to see beauty unfolding. She was radiant.
"That's..." She searched for words, licking a trace of chocolate from her lower lip. "That might be the most delicious thing I've ever tasted."
I realized I was still holding the spoon suspended between us. I gathered another bite of the dessert, focusing on the motion to steady myself against the unexpected impact of her smile.
"More?" I offered.
She nodded without hesitation this time, leaning forward to accept the offering. Again, her eyes closed in appreciation, though the smile remained, softer now, but no less genuine. The lights overhead seemed to brighten in response
"I haven't had real dessert in..." She paused, considering. "I can't even remember. Not like this."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.
She shrugged, the movement more fluid than her usual tense gestures. "It seemed... unnecessary. Indulgent."
"And now?"
Her eyes met mine, still holding that unguarded warmth. "Now it seems like something I've been missing."
I gathered another spoonful of cake and berries, extending it toward her with a different kind of hunger growing inside me, not just the desire to possess her body, which remained potent as ever, but a newer, stranger desire to witness more moments of her unguarded joy. To be the cause of them.