All Is Bright: (A Paranormal Holiday Novella)

by P. Jameson

  That’s right. She is ours. To love and cherish. Like our brother, Gash, with his mate. We only have to let our heart open to her, and we’ll be healed.

  A mate. Where he came from, they didn’t have mates. Mates were dangerous, could be used against you.

  And females were never, never cherished. Money was cherished. Power was cherished. Never a woman.

  You’re different now.

  It was true. He thought of Francesca, and knew he could cherish her. Bow to her. Worship her. He’d give up every chance at power to make her his.

  Mine. Francesca is mine.

  And this time, it wasn’t the voice of his inner beast speaking. It was his.

  A low purr rumbled his chest, and he felt content.

  Even though the snow was falling heavy around him and the wind continued to whip his hair into a frenzy.

  He looked up at the storefront that was Brightwoods. The sun was almost set, and everything was closed down. Even the diner on the corner had boarded up early because of the storm. People were scurrying home to tuck in for the night, and he should be at the shelter helping Philly sort her daily finds.

  But he hadn’t left Francesca early enough. By the time he reached the shelter, they’d given his bed away. It happened occasionally when he got carried away and lost track of time. But today, it was because he’d been so reluctant to leave her. She’d closed the shop late, and he stayed until the last possible second. Even hanging around a few extra minutes to watch her drive away in her black Toyota.

  It was just as well. A night like this, someone else needed that bed worse than him.

  Now he was back in front of her store and had been standing there for thirty minutes, trying to decide what to do. But the answer was simple really.

  Malcom eyed the bench he’d slept on too many times, but never in the snow.

  He didn’t mind the bench. Or… he’d never minded it before. But now it looked lonely and desolate. His time with Francesca had been too bright. It made his reality look even dimmer.

  With a heavy sigh, he crossed the street, his boots crunching in the white powder that was already an inch or two thick. Shrugging his pack off, he sat on the bench and let the wind batter him.

  It wasn’t so bad. It really wasn’t. He just had to remember why he lived like this in the first place. Staying off the radar meant Felix and his crew couldn’t find him. If they couldn’t find him, they couldn’t kill him.

  Or hurt the things he loved. Liked they’d tried to do to Gash.

  This kept him safe…

  And it also kept Francesca safe. And Philly. And anyone else he took a liking to.

  Using his pack for a pillow, he tucked himself onto the too-small bench and huddled against the frozen wind, keeping his eye on Brightwoods.

  Eight months had passed since Malcom left his family. There wasn’t a day in that time that he’d regretted the decision. He didn’t miss the warehouse with its cold, barebones décor and fuck-me ambiance. He had a room and a bed there, sure. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find someone occupying it with their grunts and moans at any given time. Or that he wouldn’t wander downstairs for a beer and discover someone getting beat to bloody hell by Felix’s fist. Or that he wouldn’t find himself on the other end of that fist for shitty, ridiculous reasons.

  Malcom trembled violently, and it was only half because of the gust of snow blowing in his face. It was so thick now, he could hardly see the glow of the Christmas lights in the window of Brightwoods, but he kept his eyes there anyway.

  He groaned at his very human reaction to the frigid weather, even knowing the broken beast inside would keep him from succumbing to the elements. He ran hotter than a normal human, and wouldn’t feel the cold at all if he was whole.

  But he wasn’t whole. And hadn’t been for eight long months. The battle with Gash’s new family had left Malcom’s crew wounded in the worst way. Cursed. Broken on the inside, unable to connect with a crucial part of themselves.

  Their animals. Their shapeshifter counterparts.

  A witch from Gash’s new family cast a spell that locked their animals into their human bodies indefinitely. Now one half of him lay in a fragmented heap inside his body, unable to respond in any way. His beast had only begun talking to him when it led him to Francesca’s store. Now, little by little, he seemed to be healing.

  But until then, he was more human than shifter. And so changed on the inside, he barely recognized his animal.

  Maybe that was the point. What he was before was no good. It had to be torn down, so he could build it back up, better and stronger. Something new altogether.

  Malcom froze as a set of headlights eased to a stop in front of Brightwoods. Thick snow piled up on them, dulling the glow of the light, but in the rays, he could see a bundled figure run toward the front door.

  Francesca?

  Right height. Too bundled to tell.

  He squinted to get a better look at the car. It was a sedan, but he couldn’t tell what color or make.

  The figure fumbled with the lock and swung the door open, darting inside, returning after a heartbeat or two. This time, Malcom could see a spill of ruby hair peeking out from the hood of her parka.

  It was his Bright Spot.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  If she twisted just a fraction, she’d see him here. Lying on the bench like a bum. He knew she’d caught him before, but only once. And he’d made sure never to be here again when she was around. He didn’t want her thinking of him like this. Low. He wanted to be the man she’d found attractive in the storeroom. The one that made her breath come fast and her words lose sense.

  Malcom held still, willing her to run to the car and leave.

  But it was as if his wishing had drawn her gaze instead. She turned to look his direction and her eyes landed on the bench, her mouth dropping into a perfect O.

  “Malcom?” he saw her mouth, though he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the wind.

  Go. Just go. Don’t come over here. Walk away. Pretend you don’t see me.

  Again, all his wishing seemed to have the opposite effect.

  She dropped whatever she was holding—keys, it looked like—and ran across the road.

  Fuck.

  He sat up, adjusting his shirt and easing his pack behind him. Francesca was kneeling in front of him before he had a chance to do anything else.

  “Oh my god, Malcom.” Her face pinched up.

  Gently, she brushed at his hair, dusting the snow from it, and then from his beard. Her fingers inadvertently brushed his frozen lips and they felt like an iron branding him. Worry formed a small crease above her red-from-the-cold nose. It seemed to highlight her freckles, and he wanted to kiss them. Just gently. Just a little.

  “What are you doing out here?” she huffed, her eyes creased with concern as they swept over him, taking stock of his condition.

  “Sleeping. What are you doing back at the shop?”

  Her eyes met his, no less concerned than they were seconds ago. “Getting my phone. I forgot it here. And you know, can’t live without this thing.”

  True. She needed it on her. In case of an emergency. This storm was brutal. What if her electric went out. Or her furnace. Or… he knew nothing of where she lived. If she had adequate heating. Water. Food.

  Oh, shit.

  Something reared up in him at the idea that his female might not be taken care of in this weather.

  Francesca shook her head, ducking a gust of wind to hunker down in her coat. “Why are you sleeping out here, in this storm?”

  Malcom shrugged, trying to get the point across that this wasn’t a big deal. Need to get her home, his beast growled. Need to get her warm.

  “I got to the shelter too late. They gave my bed away.”

  “They what?”

  “Gotta check in by five.”

  Her face went dark as she realized why he wasn’t there. She hadn’t locked up until five-thirty.

  He shook his head.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Really. I’m used to this. You go on home and get out of the cold.”

  Her jaw set as she scanned him over again.

  “Damn it, Malcom.” He loved the exasperated way she said his name. It made him want to get close like he had earlier, and make her stutter and stumble for her words. “You don’t even have a coat.”

  Moisture pooled in her eyes and she looked away. He couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or because of him.

  “I told you, I’m fine. You aren’t, however. You need to get home, Francesca. Before the snow gets too deep for your car.”

  She shook her head hard. Her fingers had gripped the front of his shirt and she used it to shake him. “You can’t stay here. Are you crazy? These are blizzard conditions. You’ll freeze.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will!” she screeched in panic. “I’ll come back to find you a goddamn block of ice, and that would make me sad. Do you hear me, Malcom Whatever-your-last-name-is? Very sad. So damn sad.”

  “Frazier. My last name is Frazier.”

  “I know. You told me earlier. But in my frantic state, I forgot. Do you blame a girl?”

  He glanced to her car. Snow was piling around the tires. This wasn’t good. He wanted Francesca safe, in her warm house, doors locked, while the storm made the city its bitch.

  “Please, Malcom. Come with me. It’s my fault you’re here in the first place. I can’t leave you. It will kill me.”

  The sincerity in her voice brought his gaze jerking back to her. Her eyes pleaded with him. And the only way to make sure she was truly safe in the storm was to see for himself.

  “Very sad?” he asked.

  She nodded, her mouth forming a relieved smile as the breath whooshed from her lips in a white puff of frozen air. “The saddest.”

  His hand found her face, his thumb brushing so faintly at the corner of her smile. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  “It’s my Z-choice.” She stood, pulling on his hand. “Come on.”

  Helpless to resist, Malcom followed her to the car.

  Chapter Eight

  Francesca stood in the huge living room she’d grown up in. Her childhood home wasn’t mansion-sized or anything, but it wasn’t small. It was a four bedroom colonial her parents had worked their asses off to pay down. She’d finished the mortgage on her own, working their business.

  It wasn’t the way she thought her life would go. She’d wanted to become a teacher. She’d taken to art, and had been in line for a kickass scholarship when the bottom fell out of her world. But it wasn’t bad, where she’d ended up. She still did art. She just used flowers instead of a canvas. And now, her house was paid off, she had a little nest egg in her savings account, and nothing much happening in the way of life drama.

  She was safe.

  She was boring.

  She was longing.

  Or she had been until she met Malcom. Now life seemed interesting again. She had no idea where she was going with him, but she’d amble down this path and see.

  She watched him take in her home, more nervous than she’d ever been in her life. It must look excessive to him. A four bedroom with an extra living area for a single lady.

  He turned in a circle, not saying a word. In fact, he hadn’t said a word since they left the bench. The twenty-minute drive out of the city had been silent except for the Christmas music she had playing on the car radio.

  Taking in the unlit fireplace, he frowned. “Your furnace could use some help. You have wood?”

  Francesca nodded. “Out back.”

  He didn’t wait for her to show him. He went through the kitchen toward the back of the house, and she followed. Finding the back door, he first checked the locks, engaging and freeing them several times before jiggling the handle and giving a satisfied nod.

  What was he doing?

  Flinging open the door, he stepped out onto the porch, stopping so suddenly, she almost ran into his back. He tested a loose wooden slat and it sunk under his weight, but didn’t break. She’d been meaning to get that fixed, but it wasn’t high on her list of priorities.

  Malcom grunted and stepped over it to get to the small stack of chopped wood she kept for the coldest of nights. The fierce wind had blown snow up onto the covered area, but the wood was mostly dry. Swiftly, he pulled several pieces, piling them into his arms before urging her back inside.

  With his free hand, he locked the back door and strolled past her, returning to the living room.

  Francesca stared after him, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She’d never had anyone to take care of these things. She did everything herself. Malcom had no idea what his thoughtfulness meant.

  She wandered back to the living room in time to see him strike a match on the rock of the fireplace. He tossed it in, and waited, crouched low until it caught a good blaze. Then he stood without a word, and began checking all the windows, making sure they were locked.

  They were. She lived alone. She didn’t take chances. Unless you counted letting a man she only knew a couple days stay in her home to ride out a storm.

  But Malcom didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Maybe he never had. All those times she watched him out her shop window, she’d known they would share a connection. She could feel it deep in her soul. And she hadn’t been wrong.

  She followed him back to the kitchen where he checked to make sure her faucets worked properly before opening her fridge and taking inventory of it and her cabinets.

  Maybe he was hungry?

  “You’re all stocked up,” he murmured low. “Good girl.”

  Wait, he was checking on her? Making sure she had enough food?

  But she didn’t get the chance to ask.

  He brushed past her to the hallway, taking the stairs two by two. By the time she’d caught up to him at her bedroom door, she was huffing like a marathoner.

  “Wait! You can’t go in there—”

  But she was too late to stop him.

  He pushed her door open, and stepped just inside, leisurely taking the room in. Somehow, she squeezed past him, praying he wasn’t some kind of neat freak on the inside. Because her bedroom looked like Tornado Franny whipped through it. She’d left it a mess this morning after making herself late by obsessing over what she was going to wear.

  But she wanted to look okay in case Malcom showed up at the shop. And seeing as how he did, she couldn’t regret the five different bras that littered her floor after she’d fretted over which one made her boobs look best. Or the matching underwear she’d had to switch out each time she changed her mind. Or the ten shirts and two pairs of jeans. Her butt looked pretty damn decent in the final pair.

  But still, her room was a mess. She hadn’t even made her bed. Oh, who was she kidding. She only ever made it when she changed the sheets.

  “Um…” What could she say?

  He seemed to stall as he looked around the room. He’d been on a mission until now. Apparently, checking out her house became less of a priority after reaching tornado room. She was safe in here. An intruder would trip over all her crap before he ever made to the bed to do any damage.

  He eased forward, his perusing gaze landing on certain pieces of the mess before moving on.

  This jerked Francesca into action. She rushed forward, hurriedly gathering up her unmentionables and shoving them in any nook or cranny she could find.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m not usually this messy. I wasn’t expecting a visitor. It’s just… this morning, I was trying on… I was… well, I couldn’t decide what to wear. This isn’t like me, I swear. Usually just throw on jeans and a shirt and get to the shop. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.” She laughed nervously, trying to make her mouth shut up.

  He raised one eyebrow. “But today you were?”

  Her mouth fished open for an answer, but nothing came. Aw, shit. He had her number. Had it on speed dial. Was she really that transparent, or was he just very intuitive?
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br />   Francesca straightened her shoulders. There was no shame in what she did. No shame in wanting to look her best.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Today I was.”

  Let him come to his own conclusions as to why. Though it seemed he already had.

  “For me?” he whispered, looking pleased. “You made this mess because you thought I might show up at the shop. Didn’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her face was flaming with a blush and her throat felt like it was made of cotton. Instead, she busied herself picking up.

  “Mmm. I like this one.” Malcom’s rumbling brought her gaze around. She found him eyeing a bra and panty set she’d left on her bed. He touched the red lacy cup tenderly, like he’d learned to with the flowers. “And these.”

  She watched in mortification as he hooked the skimpy panties by the crotch with one finger and lifted them for her to see. He eyed them, licking his lips like he was hungry, and then looked past them to find her.

  “Did you try these on this morning?”

  Francesca nodded, chewing her lip to keep from nervous-babbling.

  “These were on your body?”

  Another nod, because she couldn’t do anything else.

  “Rubbing against your sweet—”

  She rushed forward, pressing her fingers against his lips to shut him up. He couldn’t finish that sentence without her spontaneously combusting.

  They both froze at the contact, and somehow, she realized this was even more dangerous than what Malcom was going to say. But it was too late. She was already inches from his face, already feeling his soft lips, already halfway to orgasm and he hadn’t even touched her.

  Holding her gaze, he opened his mouth and gently bit down on the pad of her finger. It was the only point of contact, but his teeth on her skin lit her up inside. Bringing a roaring fire to life where nothing had been for so long.

  He tightened his bite, and she let off a moan because it felt so good.

  Oh, damn. What had she gotten herself into?

  He could destroy her. Her heart. With his smoldering looks and blunt desire. She could fall for him. Hard. She could fall in love.