Page 101 of Blood and Bells

Tonight is the Christmas gala, and after everything this town has been through, it’s going to be perfect.

Or at least aggressively competent with moments of sparkle.

I yank the sequined dress off the hanger and hold it up to the mirror.

“Too much?” I ask no one in particular, tilting my head.

It would be helpful if Marcy were here. She’d have an opinion. Several, probably. All laminated.

The sequins glare back like they’re trying to flag down passing reindeer. I’m not dressing for aerial navigation.

Back on the hanger it goes.

I reach for something more practical. A cozy patterned sweater with just the right amount of sparkle—the kind that says I can run a gala and a snow-shovel brigade—paired with thick black leggings and my favorite knee-high boots. Functional. Festive. Unlikely to cause any more incidents.

I’m halfway through pulling my hair into a loose braid, still brushing rogue elf glitter off my arms, when there’s a knock.

My heart stutters and I somehow make it to the front of the house. I take a breath and open the door.

And—

Right.

That’s unfair.

He’s standing there in dark jeans that fit like they were tailored by someone with a vendetta against breathable fabrics, a black coat that manages to be both elegant and dangerous, and a gray scarf looped loosely enough to suggest this was accidental and not, in fact, extremely deliberate. His hair is slightly wind-tossed, his silver eyes catching the porch light⁠—

—and apparently I’ve forgotten how to form sentences.

In his hands, he’s holding a bouquet of holly and roses, the red blooms bright enough to look almost theatrical against the snow.

“For you,” he says, softer than I’ve ever heard him.

I blink, caught off guard. “Holly and roses? That’s aggressively on-brand botanical punning, Draven.”

His smile widens. “Perk of dating someone several centuries old. Our commitment to wordplay is absolute.”

I take the bouquet, my fingers brushing his, and the contact sends a warm jolt through me. “Thanks,” I say, failing to be casual by a noticeable margin. “They’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs—and then, as if realizing he’s said that out loud, he clears his throat and offers me his arm like some kind of dangerously well-dressed holiday problem. “Shall we?”

I hesitate for half a second, caught between swooning and pointing out how absurd this all is. But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m not just part of the evening but the reason for it—makes the decision for me.

“Let’s,” I say, slipping my arm through his.

The cold bites at my cheeks as we step out into the night, but with Nick beside me, it barely registers. The air carries a mix of cocoa, woodsmoke, and whatever questionable decision someone’s made with peppermint schnapps, and somewhere a voice calls for more string lights like it’s a matter of national security. Ahead, the glow of the town square spills into the street like a promise that’s already been kept.

Windows shine up and down the street; silhouettes move behind glass, adjusting lanterns and straightening wreaths. A hand-painted sign in candy-cane script offers directions: Cocoa right, Choir left, and perhaps a bit optimistically, General Merriment lies ahead.

The town isn’t just decorated. It’s decided.

“Are you ready for this?” Nick asks, his tone light on the surface, but not quite casual underneath.

“I have no choice,” I reply, smiling. “The gala’s happening, chaos or not. Willow Creek deserves it.”

Nick stops mid-step, drawing me to a halt. His hand settles at the small of my back as he turns me toward him, his eyes glittering like frost-kissed silver under the streetlights.

“I wasn’t talking about the gala,” he says softly, his voice threaded with something protective and also teasing. “I meant you. Everyone’s going to be looking at you tonight. And for the record, I don’t think I’m going to be particularly gracious about it.”