Page 74 of Blood and Bells

Relief hits first. It breaks across her face so fast it almost looks like laughter.

Then it fractures.

Her hands are bound, her shoulders straining against the ropes, and her breath comes too shallow. There’s fear there—real, immediate, and not going anywhere—but it’s tangled up with something fierce and almost disbelieving, like she wasn’t entirely certain I would come and is now forced to revise her opinion on the spot.

It is, I realize bewilderingly, a devastating combination.

And entirely my undoing.

The woman dangling over a vat of molten sugar looks at me like I might actually pull this off, and that—more than anything—is a responsibility I am suddenly, acutely aware I cannot afford to fail.

Behind me, the elves break. Their confidence presumably evaporates as they scatter in all directions. Garlands drop in their wake—spruce, not pine, accuracy persists even in retreat—and the rest of my coven pours into the room, efficient and decisive.

It doesn’t take long.

It never does, when they’re like this.

It’s over. We won.

I bend slightly at the waist, more from the sudden drop in momentum than anything resembling exhaustion, while someone—Ronan, I think—takes charge of the ropes and starts lowering Holly down. What remains of my shirt is hanging on by optimism alone, so I finish the job and discard it. Tinsel clings everywhere. Shallow cuts mark the rest, already closing, already fading.

A quick glance confirms everyone’s accounted for. Glitter drifts lazily through the air like slow snow, and somewhere a bell jingles itself out of tune.

Holly hits the ground, and Ronan makes short work of the ropes. She doesn’t hesitate—racing until she’s in front of me. Close enough that I can see the flush still high in her cheeks. Close enough to catch the way her gaze flicks—briefly, and not entirely unintentionally—over the state of me.

I don’t lean in.

I want to. God, I want to.

But I have no idea if I’m allowed.

“Are you okay?” I ask, because it seems like the safest possible ground.

She nods, once. Her eyes are still wide, still bright, still carrying too much of everything at once.

Holly opens her mouth—whatever she’s about say, no longer matters.

She’s here. Alive, breathing, and standing in front of me. For now, that’s enough to make my doubts feel distant. Somewhere nearby, a carol stumbles through a verse and finds the chorus. With her, I do too.

Chapter Twenty-One

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words catch in my throat. There’s too much to say and no time to say it. Apologies, anger, and relief churn inside me, tangled and chaotic. Unhelpfully, he is very shirtless, and tinsel confetti dusts his shoulders like glitter someone forgot to sweep. He looks unfairly good for a man who just survived chaos.

None of it matters right now.

All I want is to feel Nick, solid and real, and remind myself that we both made it through this in one piece. Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my arms around him, burying my face against his chest. His skin is warm, and the smell of wood smoke and something distinctly Nick settles the panic thrumming in my chest. He stiffens for a fraction of a second, then his arms close around me, strong and sure.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s convincing himself as much as me.

I nod against him, my throat too tight to speak. I don’t care if he’s shirtless, battered, and probably freezing. I don’t care if I’m still mad at him, or at least I was. Annoyance can wait until later, preferably when he is wearing a sweater.

We stand like that for a moment, the chaos of the factory fading into the background. The muffled sound of Ronan’s grumbling and Crinkshaw’s bony footsteps feels miles away. The vat of caramel bubbles happily, and I try not to picture that snowman mascot melting into it in some horrifyingly sticky cautionary tale. I’ve acquired a new seasonal slogan: avoid a rolling boil—buy local, ethically stirred candy canes.

Finally, I pull back just enough to look up at him.

“We need to go,” I say softly, my voice steadier than I expect. “The snow globe—it’s the actual festival tree. The real one.”

His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “The tacky bauble in my living room?”