Christmas with the Beast: A Steamy Paranormal Romance Spin on Beauty and the Beast

By Rebecca Hamilton and Conner Kressley

Santa has a third list: the death list. And Char’s name just landed on it.
Everyone tried to warm them. Don’t go to Hope’s Bluff at Christmastime. Come back in the spring. Just get out of here while you still can. Run before your name ends up on the list.

But by the time Char and Abram know the whole of what’s going on, it’s too late. Now they’re gonna need a Christmas miracle to stop Santa from destroying the small town of Hope’s Bluff.

Christmas with the Beast is a standalone novella from the Conduit Series, taking place outside of the Conduit Series timeline. It does not line up to follow or precede any of the existing titles and can be enjoyed separately by series fans and newcomers alike.

The Conduit Series is complete! Binge Read the Series Today!
Taken by the Beast
Sleeping with the Beast
Charmed by the Beast
Granted by the Beast
Wonderland with the Beast

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evershade Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949112276

Rebecca Hamilton

New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Hamilton writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance for Harlequin, Baste Lübbe, and Evershade. A book addict, registered bone marrow donor, and indian food enthusiast, she often takes to fictional worlds to see what perilous situations her characters will find themselves in next. Represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA, Rebecca has been published internationally, in three languages: English, German, and Hungarian.  You can follow her on twitter @InkMuse

Book preview

Chapter 1

If only our experience while visiting Hope’s Bluff would have been as beautiful as the view on the way in. Instead, we were driving head-first into our very own holiday horror show, completely unaware of the mischief and danger that lay ahead.

* * *

When the mountains came into view, I could hardly believe my eyes. There had always been a kind of beauty I never thought existed in real life—one I assumed was reserved for postcards and Travel Channel documentaries. Things didn’t look like this in reality. Snow-covered mountains didn’t reach up into the clouds like earth’s fingers stretching to heaven. Spruce trees weren’t this green. Skies weren’t this pure and blue. Life wasn’t this good.

Except it was, or so it had seemed at the time.

I leaned forward in the seat like a newbie model who had just walked in to her very first catwalk event. My God, look at this place.

Abram smiled. It’s really something, isn’t it?

Looking over at him, I realized I was experiencing all of this because of him. And none of it could hold a candle to the man sitting next to me.

Like the skies, and the trees, and the mountains, Abram was an unrealistic beauty. I wasn’t supposed to be this fortunate. I was no one. Charisse Bellamy: a washed up plus-sized model who ran away from New York with her tail between her legs to mourn the death of her mother and fade off into a life she never wanted.

And I probably would have stayed that person, too, if not for Abram.

It should be a sin to keep places like this a secret, I said, eyeing the snow-coated roadsides that presented like a Winter Wonderland. When was the last time you came here?

Abram took a left at a sign that read Welcome to Hope’s Bluff, where every day is a miracle.

1962, I think. Maybe ‘63.

I grinned at him and shook my head. 1963 was over fifty years ago, and Abram would have been well over seventy-five even then. But with jet-black hair; dark, mysterious eyes; and a body that made me sweat every time it crossed my mind, he didn’t look a day over twenty-five. I guess that was one of the perks of being an immortal beast.

It was hands down the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen, he said, staring out the window with the sort of longing I imagined fifty years away from something would give you. His hand found mine. Or it used to be anyway.

I squeezed his hand. I hope you know that flattery will get you everywhere.

"Is that so, Ms. Bellamy?" he said, his voice dropping to a huskier tone.

I knew that tone, and I knew when he called me Ms. Bellamy instead of Char, it meant he was having dirty thoughts about me. About us. Thoughts I could not wait to see realized. I never let on to that, though.

So what is there to do in this fabled town of yours? I asked, resting my head against his sculpted shoulder.

You’ll see soon enough. He tipped his chin toward the windshield. Now, keep your eyes peeled. It’s just around the bend.

Keep my eyes peeled? Just around the bend? I chuckled. You sound like an old man.

What can I say? he said, rounding the corner. I’m vintage.

I gave him one last smile as the town came into view. I braced myself, readying my eyes to behold the most exquisite sight this side of Milan fashion week. But as we neared Main Street, Abram’s red Mercedes slowing to a near crawl, I began to think maybe Abram’s recollection might be a little off.

Instead of glowing Christmas lights, tinsel-lined street lamps, and a glorious tree in the center the likes of which apparently would put New York City to shame, Abram and I came to a stop in the middle of nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

There were no decorations. No lights. Even the scant few people milling the street looked sad and disheveled. The paint on the buildings that surrounded the small town’s heart was chipped and faded. Trash overflowed from their bins, and litter scattered the streets.

Across the street, on the siding of a closed-down general store with a darkened porch light, red spray paint scrawled the words, He sees you when you’re sleeping.

Does that count as holiday spirit? I muttered, motioning to the vandalism.

The sky seemed darker over this town—only this town. It had only been seconds, and already I disliked this Hope’s Bluff. This place was giving me the creeps.

Abram threw the car in park and stepped out into the middle of the street. I followed him, shielding myself from what was the coldest blast of air I had felt since leaving Connecticut.

Abram spun in a slow circle, running his fingers through his hair as his brow pulled lower over his eyes. This isn’t right.

It’s been fifty years, Abram. Maybe it was naïve of us to think things hadn’t changed.

I guess… he said, his gaze shifting around the wreckage of a place he once loved. You’re probably right.

But I knew that look. Abram thought there was something else going on here. Something deeper. Something darker.

If only that had been enough for us to turn around and leave.

Look, I said, biting my tongue and deciding to make the best of things. We’re already here, and it’s Christmas Eve. This place might not be ideal…or particularly sanitary, I added, glancing at the trash pile beside us. But I’m with you, and it’s Christmas. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

I might have to hold you to that, he said, pulling me so close that our bodies pressed together.

You can hold me to whatever you’d like, sir. I grinned but, catching sight of a sour faced woman who was looking at us as if we were stripping on the street, I amended. You were saying something about a hotel?

* * *

Since everything in town was pretty much within walking distance (something Abram described as ‘quaint charm’), Abram pulled the car into a space on the side of the road and we strolled the five-minutes to the hotel.

The Northern Star Inn was a cozy-looking place, Abram had that much right. Brown-boarded with a rustic red roof, it stood out like a literal log cabin nestled into the side of a mountain.

It took my breath away as we neared it, though I couldn’t help but notice that the lodge, like the rest of the town, was completely devoid of holiday decorations.

What about this place? I asked as we moved toward the front door. Has it changed much since the ‘60s?

Abram grabbed the handle. It didn’t budge at first but, pushing it hard, he was able to wrench it open. Doesn’t look like it. Door still sticks.

We moved into the lobby—a dark, dank space lit only by a hanging lantern and whatever ambient light came in through the windows.

This is…something, I said, trying hard not to let my disappointment shine through.

Hell, at least something would be shining in this damn place.

Hello? A voice asked from somewhere unseen. Are you… How did you get in here?

We walked, I answered flatly.

The door was locked. A tall, thin man with an angular face and coke-bottle spectacles popped up from behind the front desk at the far end of the room.

Not very well, apparently, Abram answered, shooting me a look. Did he know it had been locked? Did he use his beast strength to jar it open? Is that what he meant by ‘sticking’? We have a reservation.

You most certainly do not! The man narrowed his eyes. We’re not—we’re not open today. Not today.

The reservation is under Bellamy, I said. I called about it myself. Gave the girl my credit card info and everything.

Girl? he asked, shaking his head. Stupid Rachel. His fingers flew across the keyboard and, sighing, he looked up at us. Yeah. There it is. Listen, the girl’s new. She should have known better than to rent you a room tonight.

The man moved from behind the desk. He was even more ridiculous-looking without the mahogany barrier cutting half of him from view. He towered nearly a head taller than Abram—which seemed nearly impossible—but was about half Abram’s girth.

I’ll have the money returned to your card as promptly as your bank will allow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s much to do and—as you can see—I’m only one man. He motioned toward the door. You can exit the way you came in.

Abram folded his arms over his chest. We’ll do no such thing.

Excuse me? the man said, stumbling back a few steps.

"It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve driven a very long way to be here. A very long way. Now you will give us a room."

The man had been twisting his fingers together in some kind of nervous tick, but now he stood straighter, held his hands stiller. Absolutely not!

You will. You’ll do it with a smile on your face because, if you don’t, I’ll stop asking so nicely. He glared at the man. You saw what I did to the door.

The man looked at him, then at me, then back at Abram. Would it do any good to tell you we’re all booked up?

Not with an empty parking lot, it wouldn’t. Now get my key.

I took Abram’s arm and pulled him back toward the door. What are you doing? That guy could call the police.

And tell them what? Abram asked, dark eyes driving into me. We have a reservation.

We could go anywhere. It’s not worth the hassle.

Except we can’t. It’s almost dark out, on the night of a full moon. We’re at least an hour away from anything else. I’m not sure I can hold the beast in that long. He took my hand. Besides, something is going on here. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it.

I bit my lip. Ever since I found out about my otherworldly abilities, things like this had sort of just kept happening to us. Everywhere we went, every place we stepped