Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Samantha
The apartment shrinks the second he steps inside.
It’s not that Nick is especially huge, though he is. Broad shoulders, tall, the sort of man who makes a room feel crowded just by existing. The real problem is me. Every cell in my body wants to cross the space between us, curl up in his lap, and let him tell me everything’s going to be fine.
I stomp that feeling down hard and focus on getting my keys onto the hook by the door without dropping them.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch like he owns the place. "Please."
"It's my apartment."
"I know." His voice carries that gentle insistence that makes my knees weak. "But you've been on your feet, and I'd feel better if you sat down."
The baby does a slow somersault. Maybe sitting isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had. Lowering myself onto the couch takes more effort than I’d care to admit. Nick watches me like I might shatter if I sneeze. I bite back the urge to remind him I’ve been doing this solo for months.
He disappears into my kitchen, and I hear the tap running. A moment later, he's back with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table within easy reach.
"Do you need anything else?" he asks. "Are you comfortable? I can get you a pillow, or—"
"Nick," I interject before he can finish fussing. "What I need is for you to do what you said you were going to do. Tell me everything."
He nods and takes the chair across from me, close, but not close enough to spook me. Like he thinks I’ll bolt if he gets any nearer.
Smart move on his part.
"Where do I start?" He rakes a hand through his silver hair, and the gesture is so familiar it hurts.
"The beginning works." I take a sip of water because my throat feels tight. "Though right now, I'll settle for anything that makes sense."
"Right." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Samantha, I'm not... what I appear to be."
"Oh, that’s helpful. Real specific." The sarcasm slips out sharper than I mean. But I’m tired. Not just regular tired. Eight months tired. Tired of being scared, tired of being alone, tired of whatever cosmic joke landed me here in the first place.
A tear escapes before I can stop it, all that frustration and exhaustion boiling over at once. I swipe it away, annoyed at how fast my composure crumples.
Nick moves faster than should be possible, kneeling in front of me. His thumb catches the tear before I can, brushing it away with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
"Don't," I whisper, but I don't pull away.
"I'm sorry." His hand drops, but his eyes stay on mine. "I'm going to explain. I promise. But you have to understand, this is going to sound impossible."
"Try me. I've had a pretty impossible eight months."
He takes a breath, and I watch something shift in his expression. Decision, maybe. Or resignation.
"I'm the physical embodiment of the spirit of Christmas," he says slowly. "What some would call Santa Claus."
The silence is so thick I can hear the fridge humming in the kitchen.
I laugh. It bursts out, sharp and a little too close to hysterical. My brain scrambles to keep up with fear and disbelief. "You’re joking," I manage.
"I'm not."
"Nick, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but—"
The temperature in the room drops. Not gradually, but all at once, like someone opened a door to winter itself. My breath fogs in front of my face, and I watch in stunned silence as snowflakes begin to fall from my ceiling.
Actual snowflakes.
Falling. Inside my apartment.
They drift down, lazy and perfect, catching the lamplight. One lands on my hand, cold, wet, and absolutely, impossibly real.
"What..." I whisper, unable to finish the sentence.
Nick holds out his hand, palm up, and a candy cane appears. Just materializes out of thin air, red and white stripes gleaming. He offers it to me, and I take it on autopilot. The plastic crinkles under my fingers, solid and real.
"That’s not..." I start, but something in the corner of the living room catches my eye.
Where there was nothing a moment ago, there's now a Christmas tree. A real one, full and green and perfect, decorated with lights and ornaments that shimmer in colors I don't have names for. Presents sit beneath it, wrapped in paper that seems to glow.
The baby goes wild, tumbling and kicking like she’s got front row seats to the show.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My thoughts ping-pong between awe and terror. All I can do is stare at the tree that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago.
Nick watches me, patient and careful, like he's waiting for me to either accept this or lose my mind completely.
"This is..." I shake my head, trying to make my brain work. "This isn't possible."
"It is." His voice is quiet. "I'm sorry it took me this long to show you."
Something drags me to my feet, and I shuffle over to the tree on legs that don’t feel like mine. The presents glint up at me, and one jumps out, purple paper, silver stars, a bow the exact shade my mom always used.
I kneel, awkward and heavy, and pull it toward me. My hands shake as I tear the paper.
Inside is a dollhouse. Not just any dollhouse. The dollhouse. The one I circled in the catalog when I was seven, the one I left notes about, the one I asked for every single Christmas until I was old enough to realize my mom couldn't afford it and stopped asking.
My throat closes up.
"I don't..." I say, looking up at Nick, who's moved closer. "I don't know if I should run screaming or demand an explanation for why this particular gift is twenty years late."
A smile tugs at his mouth, sad and soft. "There were... complications. Magic doesn't always work the way it should when it comes to specific requests. By the time the logistics were sorted, you'd stopped believing."
"I..." I touch the tiny shutters on the dollhouse windows, perfect and detailed and exactly like I remembered wanting. "This is real. This is actually real."
"Yes."
The snow’s stopped, but the flakes that landed haven’t melted. My apartment looks like a snow globe. Beautiful, surreal, and flat-out impossible.
"Can you stand?" Nick asks. "There's more I can show you, if you're willing."
I should say no. I should probably be processing the fact that Santa Claus is apparently real, standing in my living room, and is also the father of my unborn child. But the practical part of my brain has checked out, leaving only the bit that’s desperate for answers.
"I think so."
He helps me up, and I’m grateful, even if I tell myself I’d be fine solo. Who am I kidding? The baby’s doing somersaults, and my sense of balance left the building about the same time the Christmas tree showed up.
Nick guides me to the mirror hanging by my bedroom door. It's nothing special, just a basic full-length mirror I got at a discount store. But when he places his hand on the frame and says something I can't quite hear, the glass ripples like water.
The reflection disappears, replaced by something else entirely.
A village sprawls out in front of me, like something out of a Christmas card.
The aurora shimmies overhead, painting everything in green, purple, and blue.
An impossible town square is bustling with activity, and I spot people.
No, not people. Elves. Actual elves. How I instinctively know that is beyond me because they don't look like Will Ferrell or any elf I've seen on a Christmas card.
They look more like ethereal beings, beautiful and impossible.
The baby inside me kicks, and I understand exactly why I know what these beings are.
The scene is beautiful. The kind of stunning that makes my chest tight and my eyes sting. Like a dream, only sharper. More real than any dream has a right to be.
"That's home," Nick says quietly. "The North Pole."
The world tilts. Vertigo shoves logic out of the way while I try to process wonder and disbelief.
I grab for the mirror frame, but my legs have decided they're done cooperating. Nick catches me before I can fall, scooping me up like I weigh nothing despite the eight months of baby weight I've been hauling around.
"Easy. I've got you." He carries me back to the couch, setting me down with care that makes my eyes sting again.
The mirror’s back to normal. Just my reflection. Pale, wide-eyed, and looking about as overwhelmed as I feel.
Nick presses the water glass into my hand. "Drink."
I do, because arguing is way too much work right now. The water helps, cool and grounding against the mess in my head.
"Breathe," he coaches, his hand moving in slow circles on my back. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just like that. You're doing great."
It’s the same trick Ella’s used on me through every panic attack for months. But there’s something different about Nick doing it. Something that actually makes my breathing even out, loosens the tight band around my chest.
Like maybe I’ve been waiting for him to be the one all along.
The baby settles as my breathing slows, her wild movements calming to gentle presses against my ribs.
"Better?" Nick asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
He stays close, hand steady on my back, solid, warm, real. The snow in my living room catches the light, the Christmas tree glows in the corner, and I’m smack in the middle of an impossibility I can’t ignore anymore.
"Is this why all the weirdos have been showing up?" My voice comes out rough. "The ones Ella’s been intercepting? The ones who leave notes?"
"Yes." The word is heavy with regret.
I close my eyes. "Tell me."
"Your pregnancy..." He pauses, choosing words carefully. "Our child is special, Samantha. The first child born of an immortal and a mortal in millennia. Maybe longer. No one's entirely sure."
"Special how?"
"She'll be born with power. The ability to bring joy or despair on a massive scale. To tip the balance of the world in one direction or another, depending on how she's raised. What she's taught. Who gets to her first."
His words settle over me like ice water. I press both hands to my belly, protective, terrified. "Who wants to get to her?"
Nick's jaw tightens. "There's a demon faction. They want to turn her into an anti-Santa. Someone who spreads misery and suffering instead of joy. They think they can corrupt her, shape her into something dark."
"And?" Because there's definitely an 'and' in his voice.
"A rogue sect of angels. They want to weaponize her power. Control it. Use her as a tool for their own agenda."
My hands clamp down on my stomach. The baby shifts, pressing against my palm like she can feel every bit of my fear.
"Hey." Nick moves, one hand covering mine on my belly, the other tipping my chin up until I have to look at him.
His eyes are fierce, burning with something that makes my breath catch.
"Listen to me. No one touches you. No one even looks at you or our child the wrong way.
I don't care who they are or what they think they want.
If anyone tries, if anyone so much as thinks about hurting you, I will destroy them. "
A shiver runs through me. His words should terrify me. Maybe they do, a little. But there’s something else under the fear, something hot and bright in my chest. Because I know he means it. I can see it in his eyes. It's the kind of fury that would burn the world down before letting anyone touch us.
"Nick..."
"I mean it." His voice drops lower, deadly serious. "I will tear apart anyone who threatens you. I don't care if it's demons, angels, or something in between. I will end them."
The baby does another slow roll, like she's listening. Like she understands.
Before I can answer, before I can even process how his words make me feel safe and terrified and something else I can’t name, Nick moves.
He shifts me, careful as anything, gathering me into his lap like I’m breakable.
His arms come around me, solid and warm.
I know I should protest. Should hang onto some dignity, some distance.
But I’m just so tired.
And for the first time in months, I actually feel safe.
"I'm not leaving again," he whispers against my hair. "I'm going to take care of you. Both of you. Always. Do you hear me?"
I nod, because words are beyond me right now.
"If anyone tries to take you from me, I'll destroy both heaven and hell to get you back." His hand strokes my hair, gentle and soothing. "You're mine to protect now. You and our baby. Nothing is ever going to change that."
The baby settles, all her wild movement gone. Just a gentle, steady pressure against my ribs.
My eyes get heavy. The exhaustion I’ve been fighting for months crashes over me, and Nick’s heartbeat under my ear is steady and sure.
"Sleep," he says softly. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
I want to stay awake. Want to ask more questions, demand answers, figure out what happens next. But my body has other plans, and the safety of his arms is stronger than any willpower I’ve got left.
The last thing I feel before sleep drags me under is the baby shifting one more time, settling in like she’s finally found what she’s been looking for.
And maybe she has.
Maybe we both have.