Chapter 7
Piper
Morning filters through my curtains in a soft wash of winter light, warm enough to tease but too faint to soothe. I wake with a start—not dramatically, just a sharp inhale that hits the back of my throat and reminds me of everything I’m trying very hard not to remember.
Slade’s hand on my throat. His breath against my skin. His mouth brushing my temple. The way my body answered him—quick and helpless—as if it had been waiting for that moment longer than I’ve been alive.
Absolutely not.
I shove off the blankets and roll out of bed, willing my legs not to wobble. They do anyway. I pretend they don’t. What can I say? A girl deserves her delusions.
The scent reaches me before I turn the corner—something warm and savory, threaded with the faintest curl of smoke.
He’s in my kitchen. Of course he is.
I pause at the threshold, silently pleading for a moment of grace, but the universe refuses.
Slade stands at the stove, bare from the waist up, cooking like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Strong shoulders taper into a broad back, smooth and powerful, every line of muscle shifting with infuriating ease.
He glances back, sensing me. “Good morning,” he says, as if we didn’t practically melt into each other’s magic last night. “You slept well.”
My voice catches. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
He returns to the pan, unfazed. There is a confidence in him so complete it almost feels like serenity—if serenity were carved into muscle and smirked like a sinner.
Before I can formulate a coherent thought, my phone rings on the counter. Rhea’s name flashes across the screen like a warning label. I grab it before Slade can decide he has opinions about my family. My phone rings again before I’m even halfway across the kitchen.
Of course it’s Rhea. I answer out of reflex, bracing myself. She doesn’t even greet me.
“Piper Leigh Bellamy,” she snaps, “I checked your house wards this morning and they’re humming like they’ve been having a night of their own. What the hell happened last night, and why am I the LAST to know?”
I drag a hand over my face. “Rhea, it’s too early—”
“Oh gods, your voice.” She gasps dramatically. “You sound wrecked. Did you—did he—Piper, if you got ravished by something infernal and didn’t FaceTime me to give me the—”
“RHEA.”
Slade turns, amused, stirring the pan like he’s been waiting for this exact circus to occur.
Rhea continues, completely relentless. “Is he still there? Wait—don’t answer. I can feel trouble through the phone. I KNOW you’re not alone. Are you clothed? Is he? Are you clothed… but barely? Do I need to stage an intervention or a celebration—because I can go either way—”
“I’m going to hang up,” I warn.
“You will NOT—PIPER—DO NOT—”
I hang up.
Slade chuckles low, plating breakfast. “Your cousin is… passionate.”
“That’s one thing she is, yes.”
“She’s also observant.”
I stiffen. “About what?”
He looks at me over his shoulder, voice smooth. “Your attraction. You’re trying so hard not to show it.”
Heat prickles across my skin. “You’re delusional.”
“No,” he says simply. “Just paying attention.”
I fold my arms, grounding myself in irritation because anything else feels too dangerous. “Just give me food. Maybe chewing will stop me from hexing you.”
Slade sets a plate in front of me with slow, deliberate care. “Unfortunately, breakfast won’t solve your problem.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And you,” he says softly, “are blushing.”
“I am NOT—”
“You’ve been flushed since you woke up.”
I stab my fork into my eggs with unnecessary force and shove a bite into my mouth to avoid acknowledging him. Then it happens. A faint creak above the refrigerator. I look up, stomach sinking.
A sprig of mistletoe dangles precariously above me, shifting as if caught on a breeze that… doesn’t exist. “Oh, for the love of—no. No, we are NOT doing this.”
It wiggles. Slade doesn’t turn around. “Mm.”
“Slade,” I warn, backing away as the mistletoe dips closer.
He finally glances over his shoulder, obviously amused. “It’s reacting to your magic again...”
“It’s hunting me.”
“It’s enchanted to encourage intimacy,” he counters, clearly amused at my panic.
“I didn’t enchant it!” I screech at him.
“And I didn’t either.”
“Then WHY is it—oh gods—”
The mistletoe swoops. I yelp and duck as it dives dangerously close to my face.
Slade catches it in one smooth, effortless motion, holding it up between us.
He studies it like it’s mildly amusing instead of a predatory plant with romance-based murder in its heart.
“Harmless,” he says, mouth curling up in amusement.
“It’s plotting,” I argue. “Put it outside.”
“It will return.”
“It can find… NEW FRIENDS.”
He tosses it into the sink. It hops out again, cheery and malevolent. Slade smiles. “Persistent. Just like the bond.”
“Stop. Saying. Bond,” I grit out, grabbing a wooden spoon like I’m about to declare war.
He watches me with a slow, warm amusement that makes my blood hum. “If you hex me every time I’m right, you’ll wear yourself out.” His tone changes—low, dangerous, enticing. “Careful, Piper.”
My pulse jumps. I hate that he sees it. I straighten, dragging air into my lungs. “Rhea said something about old spellwork. You said the Bellamy line kept records. If you know something, you’re going to start talking.”
“I will.”
“When?” I ask, obviously wanting a clear answer so he can’t back out of it later.
“After breakfast.”
“Slade.”
He steps close—too close—and slips a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up with disarming gentleness. “We’ll look today,” he says. “I’ll take you to what remains of your family’s archives. Some were lost. Some were hidden. Some only demons know the location of.”
A cold shiver crawls down my spine. “And you know this how?”
“I’ve lived long enough to see where witches hide their secrets. Your bloodline is predictable in that way.”
“That’s not an answer,” I argue.
“It’s the one you have.”
Heat slides up my neck. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, letting his thumb brush the edge of my jaw, “are learning to lean into what you pretend you don’t feel.”
I forget how to breathe. He leans in—not kissing me, but letting the warmth of him settle over my skin in a way that dissolves thought.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
The curse responds instantly. Lights flicker. Warm air ripples through the kitchen. The mistletoe shivers like it’s preparing a second assault. I step back, cheeks burning, trying to hold myself together. “We need to go,” I say, voice strained. “Before this gets worse.”
Slade watches me like a man enjoying a secret only he knows. “It will,” he murmurs. “Just not in the way you fear.”
I don’t say anything to that, turning away instead, still pretending he doesn’t affect me at all.
But I know… he doesn’t believe me in the slightest. And I’m starting to wonder… do I even really believe myself?
***
Slade doesn’t push me the moment I step back from him, though the look in his eyes suggests he wants to. The curse hums in the air like static before a storm, subtle but restless, and the mistletoe in the sink gives one last irritated tremor.
I decide I need shoes, coffee, twelve layers of emotional camouflage, and—to my misfortune—Slade.
He watches me while I throw myself together in the living room, coat half-zipped, curls barely tamed, to-go mug clutched like a lifeline.
His expression is unreadable in a way that makes my skin tingle.
“You ready?” I ask, trying to sound neutral and definitely not flushed from that earlier good girl comment.
His smile is a slow, dangerous thing. “I’ve been ready since you woke up.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”
Slade steps outside like the cold doesn’t exist. I, on the other hand, immediately regret being human. Snowglobe Hollow’s winter air cuts through me, crisp and clean and laced with the faint scent of pine.
We walk in silence for a few blocks, my boots crunching in the snow, Slade’s footsteps soundless as shadows. “You never answered my question,” I say finally, adjusting my scarf. “Where exactly are we going?”
“A place that specializes in information.”
“That is incredibly vague,” I say with a frown.
“Intentionally.”
“And you thought taking me was smart?”
“I didn’t say it was smart,” he replies. “But it’s necessary.”
“How reassuring.”
The next city over isn’t far—just fifteen minutes by car—but every one of those minutes feels heavy.
Slade’s presence fills the vehicle, warm and consuming, like the cabin itself is too small to contain him.
He watches the passing trees with mild disinterest, but occasionally, when he thinks I’m not watching, his gaze flickers to me.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Frostharrow, dusk has already crept across the sky. The neon sign flickering outside the dive bar reads THE HOLLOW TANKARD, though half the bulbs are dead and the rest are trying their best. It looks like a place where hope comes to die. “Charming,” I mutter.
“It’s a front,” Slade says simply. “Humans see a rundown bar. Magic sees doors.”
I eye him warily. “Have you… been here before?”
“Yes.”
I blink. “Do you come here often?”
His smile sharpens. “Sweetheart,” he says, leaning close enough that his breath warms the air near my cheek, “my reputation keeps me from needing to ‘come often’ to any establishment. When I walk in, people talk.”
I hate that my stomach flips.
Inside, the Hollow Tankard smells like old whiskey, pine sap, and something metallic that makes the back of my throat prickle. The lights are low, more shadow than illumination, and the patrons are a collection of misfits—witches, fae, shifters, things I can’t immediately categorize.
Every head turns when Slade enters. Not in fear. Not exactly… But in acknowledgment. He moves like a storm given legs—dangerous, hungry, familiar to every dark corner of this place.