Page 16 of Milk
The moment the last syllable leaves my lips, the magic unfurls. Gold and silver light emanates from our hands, twisting up our arms like vines. Holly gasps as the threads weavebetween us, the ancient, spiritual bond sealing with a sound like distant sleigh bells. The runes on the altar flare blue-white, and the aurora above us glows brighter, sending a cascade of stardust raining down on us.
It lands on her lashes. Her lips. The swell of her breasts where the milk already glistens, ready for me.
The moment this part of the bond snaps into place, the world tilts—not the forest, not the North Pole, but the very fabric of who and what I am. Holly’s gasp echoes in my skull as her mind crashes into mine.
Memories, shared through the soul-bond we now have.
Hers come first, sharp and sweet and aching. I see her at eight, pressing her small hands to the bakery’s frosted window, whispering to the snowflakes like they might answer. Her aunt’s voice, singing lullabies, reading stories. Then the funeral, the empty bakery, the way she clutched a sugar cookie in her fist like it could fill the hollow in her chest. The bakery and the way she’d press her forehead to the oven door at 3 AM, whispering, “I don’t know if I can do this alone.”
And then my memories flood the bond.
She sucks in a breath as my past unfurls behind her eyes. The first Christmas Eve flight, my father’s gloved hand steady on my shoulder as the reindeer lifted us into a sky so vast it stole my breath. Centuries of silent nights, the weight of a crown carried alone. The way I’d press my palm to the frost-kissed glass of my throne room window, watching the mortal world spin below, wondering if I’d ever find the one who’d make me whole and restore my fading magic. The moment Theodore showed me her—Holly in her apron, flour-dusted and glowing, leaving that mug of cocoa out like an offering on a sacred altar.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “You saw me before I saw you.”
I can’t speak. My throat’s too thick with the memory of every lonely winter I ever endured, and the gratitude that I’ll never be alone again.
She’s crying. I’m crying. The tears cut paths through the stardust on her cheeks, and I reach up, wiping one away.
“Nick,” she whispers, and it doesn’t feel like my name. Not when she says it like that. It feels like a prayer, like a promise. It’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever heard in my long life.
The bond hums between us, a living thing, stitching her grief to my solitude, her warmth to my frost. The aurora above us glows and undulates, and the snowflakes falling around us aren’t white anymore, but gold.
Holly’s milk drips, making the fabric of her gown completely transparent, and my cock jerks so hard it hurts.
A low, feral sound rips from my chest before I can stop it, hunger for my woman clawing at my insides like a wild thing. Holly sighs, her nipples tightening further under that sheer bodice, and another thick bead of milk wells up, glistening. It rolls down the curve of her breast, making my mouth water and my balls ache. The scent of it—warm vanilla and frost-kissed cream—hits me like a fist to the gut.
The need inside me is so intense that I can’t breathe.
Before I can move, the great bronze bells of the North Pole, the ones that only ring for coronations, births, and solstices, ring out across the land. Their peals shake the ice from the trees, and the reindeer lift their heads.
The officiant’s staff slams into the ground, the crack of it echoing through the glade. “The Winter Queen has arisen!”
The Fae elders drop to one knee, their heads bowing in unison. The creatures of the forest—foxes and owls and great silver stags—follow, their breath puffing white in the frigid air. The aurora above us expands, and the snowflakes swirl faster, gold and white, catching in Holly’s lashes.
Then the chant begins. It starts low, a murmur from the elders, but it swells fast, voices layering, magic humming beneath the words.
“Long live the King.”
My chest tightens.
“Long live the Queen.”
Holly’s milk drips again. The runes carved into the altar flare blue-white, and the scent of it fills my lungs until I’m dizzy with it. I scoop Holly into my arms, cradling her against my chest like the precious thing she is. She cuddles against me, soft and sweet.
The moment her fingers brush my bare chest, tracing the ridges of muscle beneath my coat, I nearly stumble. The feeling of her fingers on my bare skin is exquisite.
“Santa must work out,” she teases, voice breathy, her nails scraping lightly over my skin. The sound that rips from my throat is half-laugh, half-growl. I’m barely hanging on to my control now. My arms tighten around her, holding her closer, her weight nothing against my strength. She’s soft where I’m hard, and the contrast makes my cock throb painfully against my trousers.
The elders part before us, their celebratory words barely registering. My focus narrows to the woman in my arms. This treasure. This gift. My lips find the shell of her ear, my voice a rough whisper. “Now that you’re mine, I’m going to gorge myself on your milk as I fuck you, little one.”
A whimper escapes her, her back arching just enough that her breasts press against my chest, the dampness of her leaking milk seeping through the fabric between us. The scent of it makes my cock ache and throb for her. I need to be inside her more than I need my next breath.
Holly squirms, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Nick,” she breathes. Her voice is pleading, needy, and the sound of it nearly undoes me. The elders are still bowing as we pass, but Idon’t give a damn. All I can think about is the way her body is responding to mine, the way her milk is dripping for me, the way she’s going to scream my name when I finally bury myself inside her.
I carry her through the village center, where cheers erupt around us, but all I can focus on is Holly. On getting her to the Winter Palace. To my bed.
As we enter the palace, the bells peal again, loud and clear, and more cheers fill the air. My boots click over the stone floors as I stride through the palace, feeling like a starving man on his way to a banquet.
