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Moments later, I’m down the chimney, trying to remember how this is done. I can do magic, as any elf can, but human mind manipulation is not one of my strong suits.
When I’m standing before this tiny human female who is curled up next to the presents under the tree, the realization hits me like a ten-ton sleigh on a winter jet stream: I have not prepared for anything like her.
This is not a child. This is an adult.
This is the nanny. The one who doesn’t have a stocking on the fireplace waiting to be loaded with gifts from Santa.
Long dark waves hang like a curtain over half of her sleeping face, and her skin glows in the firelight, more lovely than the aurora borealis. Her full lips part slightly, her even breathing telling me she is in a deep slumber. And the sweet scent of her breath is redolent with nutmeg and strong sugar. I believe the humans call it “rum,” a weaker version than the spirits the mountain trolls hand out as their “Secret Santa” gifts. Everyone knows to watch out for that stuff. What mountain troll whiskey would do to a human I shudder to think.
This particular human may be suffering from an intoxicating unconsciousness, a fact that gives me a queasy feeling about staring at her body.
Ivy. That’s her name.
A sense of injustice overwhelms me. How could anyone wish for a queen like this to be left out? I bet it’s nothing unusual for her to sleep on the floor.
I gaze upon her, where she lies on her side with one arm tucked under her head and a fuzzy blanket draped over her body. Her small feet are covered in cozy Christmas socks decorated with snowflakes. Despite the folds of the blanket hiding her figure, one hip juts out dramatically. I swallow the urge to peek under her covers and see all of her.
That would be wrong. From her tiny feet to her hips, her shape reminds me of a priceless vase lying on its side.
An unseemly thought occurs to me then. She is built for breeding. I feel it more than I think it.
It is frowned upon to be aroused by humans—low creatures who are not of our species—yet the sight of her makes my cock ache.
If she were an elf, I would claim her as mine—after a proper courtship, of course.
Humans are not subject to the same arcane rituals, so if I took her home with me, I could claim her immediately. After all, isn’t that how our new Santa took Mrs. Claus for himself? There was some mishap in the woods during his exile…an exile that he earned from his lifelong obsession with the human he guarded.
Under new regulations related to elf-human relations, it would be a grave offense if I took her without her consent.
My mind can hardly grasp that I’m mulling over the idea of doing this…but I cannot seem to shake the thought that she’s mine. She’s simply mine. I feel it as if it has already been foretold. I never understood the way Nicholas—formerly Eldrin—talks about his Clara, but now I’m starting to relate…
“Cyran? Report.”
I’ve neglected my duties. Santa’s still in the chimney, awaiting my reconnaissance.
The drive to keep her for myself is the topmost priority and I have to think fast.
I move aside the small porcelain plate covered in crumbs, smiling at my female’s healthy appetite for Santa’s cookies.
“I’m coming down now,” Santa gruffly says, followed by a loud grunt and the thud of his boots on the crackling embers below.
I use a combination of my weak magic and brute strength to bag her up in my depleted sack of toys, just in time to avoid Santa noticing what I’m doing.
“All clear?” Santa’s sooty face is peeved.
“Y-yes, sir.”
He gives me a harrumph, eyes me suspiciously, then sets about filling the stockings of the ungrateful Frost twins and their hideous parents. It’s homes like these that make me wish we could bring back lumps of coal and the naughty list.
“Has it been a long night for you?” Santa asks, a smile in his voice.
“No, sir. Just…thought I heard something, but it was traffic outside. Not a creature is stirring.”
Not even my voluptuous little mouse, who snores away sweetly inside my bag of toys.
* * *
What have I done?
