Claimed on Christmas Eve

Yuri’s favorite red heels were killing her. Actually, that was wrong. Her boyfriend, Michael, was killing her. Her heels were just the accomplices, the silent co-conspirators in this festive murder of her dignity. Each click-clack on the icy sidewalk was a countdown to a funeral. The funeral of her faith in men, in holiday cheer, in the entire month of December. She tightened her grip on the ridiculously expensive bottle of aged whiskey she’d bought for Michael’s father—a man who, in retrospect, had always seemed a little too fond of her legs. The cold seeped through her thin wool coat, a miserable counterpoint to the heat of humiliation still burning her cheeks. The town square was a Disney-esque nightmare of twinkling lights and joyful families. The giant Christmas tree in the center of the square was a beacon for all things Yuri now despised: togetherness, warmth, and the bitter scent of roasted chestnuts that clung to the air. She wanted to go home, peel off these stupid heels, and drown her sorrows in cheap wine and even cheaper reality TV. Instead, she was on a forced march to the annual Christmas Eve party at the Larkspur household. The Larkspurs, with their perfect lawn and their perfect son, Michael, and their perfectly curated life. A life that, she’d discovered just an hour ago, now included a perfectly perky blonde named Tiffany from Michael’s office. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” The gruff shout startled her from her miserable reverie. Her heel skidded on a patch of black ice. She pinwheeled, arms flailing, the whiskey bottle describing a dangerous arc through the frosty air. A string of curses left her lips, a cocktail of panic and pure fury. Not only was she about to face-plant on the frozen pavement in front of the entire town, but she was also going to lose Michael’s precious gift in the process. Strong hands shot out, catching her by the upper arms. The world stopped spinning. The grip was firm, unyielding, and impossibly warm against the biting cold. A scent hit her then, something wild and primal, like pine needles after a thunderstorm mixed with the rich, dark aroma of damp earth. “Careful,” a low voice rumbled beside her ear. The vibrations of it traveled down her spine, a strange, comforting hum that had no business being this comforting. “The ice is treacherous.” Yuri’s breath hitched. She looked up, and up, and up, into a face carved from granite and shadows. The man was a mountain of a person, broad-shouldered and clad in a simple black leather jacket that did little to hide the powerful muscles beneath. His hair was dark dreads, thick ropes falling past his jawline, framing a face that was all hard angles and intense, watchful eyes. Those eyes were a startling shade of amber, glowing like embers in the festive lights. He steadied her on her feet, but he didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed against the fabric of her coat, a small, possessive gesture that sent an unexpected jolt through her. His gaze held hers, not with the usual casual appraisal she was used to, but with a deep, unnerving focus. He looked at her as if he was seeing not just the woman in the too-tight red dress and ridiculous heels, but something more. Something essential. She finally found her voice, though it came out as a squeak. “Th-thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I, uh, I didn’t see the ice.” “I saw you,” he said, and the way he said it, simple and direct, made her heart stutter. “You were distracted.” “I was,” she admitted, feeling an odd urge to confess her entire miserable evening to this stranger. “It’s been a… night.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. His amber eyes flickered past her, toward the glowing windows of the Larkspur mansion at the end of the street. His expression hardened, turning from watchful to something feral. Dangerous. The air around them seemed to thicken, to crackle with an energy she couldn't name. “The Larkspurs,” he growled, the name like a curse on his lips. “You’re with them?” “No. I was.” The word felt foreign on her tongue. Past tense. A clean break. “I’m leaving.” His gaze snapped back to her, the ferocity in them softening into something that looked suspiciously like relief. “Good.” Then, without another word, he started moving, steering her away from the square and down a darker, quieter side street. His hand slid from her arm to the small of her back, a proprietary weight that was both alarming and weirdly reassuring. Yuri stumbled along beside him, her mind a chaotic mess of questions. “Who are you?” she finally managed to ask, her breath pluming in the frigid air. “Where are you taking me?” He stopped in the mouth of an alleyway, shrouded in shadow but for the single, blinking light of a neon sign for a bar she’d never noticed before. He turned to face her fully, crowding her against the cold brick wall. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the individual fibers of his leather jacket. “My name is Kael,” he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate in her very bones. “And I’m taking you where you belong.” Before she could ask what that was supposed to mean, he tilted his head, a predator assessing its prey. His nostrils flared. “You’re bleeding,” he stated, a strange urgency in his tone. Yuri looked down at herself, confused. “No, I’m not.” He shook his head slowly, his amber eyes burning with an unnerving intensity. “Yes. You are.” He raised a hand, not to touch her, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. His knuckles grazed her skin, and she felt a phantom sting. “Right here.” His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a wild, insane second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, his expression shifted into one of profound, bone-deep recognition. As if he’d been searching for something his entire life and had just found it in a dingy alleyway on Christmas Eve. “Your soul is bleeding,” he whispered, the words settling over her like a vow. “And I am here to mend it.” He let out a shaky breath, a sound that was part relief, part disbelief. “I’ve finally found you.” The world tilted on its axis. The distant sound of carols, the scent of pine, the biting cold—it all faded into a dull roar, eclipsed by the man in front of her. By the impossible weight of his stare. The logical part of her brain, the part that paid taxes and remembered to floss, was screaming that this was crazy. That she should push him away and run back to the light, back to the miserable safety of her old life. But another part, a deeper, older part she never knew existed, rose up inside her. It recognized him. It knew the timber of his voice, the feel of his presence, the wild scent that clung to him like a second skin.