Chapter 15
Piper
The air thickens around us before Slade even opens the portal—warm, shimmering, charged like before a storm. He stands beside me in his formal demon attire.
Black coat that clings to his shoulders. High collar embroidered with shifting sigils. A blade sheathed at his hip. His hair darker, his aura sharper, his presence… enormous.
He’s not Slade-from-my-kitchen anymore. He’s him. Lord Slade Athalar of the Ninth.
He lifts one hand. Reality parts. The portal blooms open like a tear in velvet—gold, crimson, black—revealing a realm that shouldn’t exist.
A sky of shimmering aurora, streaked with silver and pale gold.
Pathways of obsidian shot through with molten gold veins.
Gardens made of crystalline trees that glow with warm light.
Fountains of starlit water that float upward instead of down.
Towers carved from midnight marble, spiraling elegantly toward the sky.
Air that tastes like sweet smoke and winter spice.
It’s… breathtaking. Wait… This is Hell? I’m so busy admiring the view that when I turn, I notice Slade’s gaze isn’t on the scenery. It’s on me.
“Ready?” he asks, voice low and threaded with something protective.
“No,” I whisper.
He offers his arm to me anyway. The moment my hand touches him, the curse stirs—warm, insistent, almost relieved. I give him one last lingering look, and then…
We step through.
***
The realm folds around us like warm silk, the portal sealing behind with a soft rush of air. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
Snow—soft as ash and faintly luminous—drifts from a sky swept in swirling ribbons of gold and amethyst. Lanterns float above the pathways like drifting constellations, casting long amber shadows across gardens carved from crystal and volcanic glass.
Everything hums with a gentle, resonant magic…
a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to this world or mine.
Demons—elegant, dangerous, impossibly poised—move along the obsidian path toward the palace in their formal finery. Not monstrous. Not twisted. Just… breathtaking. Otherworldly. A blur of shimmering fabrics, dark eyes, and ancient power.
Every head turns as we step forward. Not with hostility. More… curiosity, mixed with something deeper. Like the air shifted the moment I arrived and they all felt it.
Slade’s arm tightens beneath my grip, the slightest tension rippling through him.
“Is something wrong?” I whisper.
“They sense the curse,” he murmurs. “And they… smell you.”
OH. GREAT.
“And what exactly do I smell like?” I ask, voice tight.
He bends just enough that his lips brush the shell of my ear. The breath that accompanies his words sends heat spiraling straight down my spine.
“Something forbidden,” he says softly. “Rare. Precious. And waiting to be claimed. I thought my scent would hide yours. Obviously… I was wrong.”
My pulse jumps. I swear the lanterns brighten, as if agreeing. Slade straightens, jaw locked, posture turning sharp and regal as he guides me toward the palace.
And though the crowd doesn’t speak aloud, the atmosphere shifts around us—an awareness, electric and unmistakable, following every step we take.
The weight of a hundred eyes settles over me. Some assessing, while some are startled. Other’s are intrigued. Nothing overtly hostile… yet everything too focused for comfort.
“Do not let go of my arm,” Slade says quietly.
I tighten my grip. He covers my hand with his, heat seeping through fabric and skin like a silent vow.
We walk on and let the realm watch.
The palace gates rise before us like carved constellations, sigils flowing across the obsidian surface in liquid gold. They recognize Slade first — bowing open in a slow, sweeping arc, as though the realm itself is greeting him.
Beyond them, the ballroom unfolds like a myth brought to life.
A cathedral of midnight glass stretches upward into a sky that doesn’t exist in this world.
Chandeliers made from living constellations drift lazily above the crowd, dripping starfire.
Music winds through the air — low, ancient, vibrating through my bones like a ritual drum.
Demons of every noble house swirl through the room in gowns and coats that shimmer like molten metal or shadow-woven silk. Some glance our way briefly. Others pause entirely, their attention drawn not with malice but with interest… something rising, shifting in the current of magic around us.
And then the room stills. Not loudly, or theatrically. Just subtly — like a ripple passing through a lake.
I follow the shift upward, and almost fall on my face as Lucifer descends the grand staircase.
He is impossible in the way of old things — ageless, calm, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with vanity. His hair is silver, tied back with a black ribbon. His eyes glow faint gold, brightening as he approaches. His suit changes with every movement — shadow, starlight, shadow again.
But what strikes me most is not his appearance. It’s the way every demon in the room subtly inclines their head as he passes. A king without a crown. His gaze reaches Slade’s and warms, amusement curling through it.
“Lord Athalar.” His voice is velvet and fire. “You return to us at last.”
Slade’s posture changes — straightening, shoulders settling into the quiet authority of someone who was born to command. He inclines his head, the faintest acknowledgment. “Your Grace.”
Lucifer’s attention shifts to me. And the air seems to inhale. Not a curse spike — not fear — just an awareness, electric and sharp, threading through the space between us.
“So, this is the witch.” A faint smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “The Bellamy spark. I wondered when she’d appear.”
Slade moves instantly, stepping half a pace in front of me — not blocking my view, but placing himself firmly between us. His hand finds the small of my back with a possessiveness so quiet it’s almost tender.
“She stands with me,” Slade says.
Lucifer’s smile deepens. “That much is obvious. The realm noticed the moment you arrived.”
A murmur moves through the gathered nobles — soft, restrained, dangerous. The sound of minds recalculating. Of old families adjusting their expectations.
No shrieking whispers, but a court registering a shift in power. The curse reacts to the attention — a low heat blooming beneath my skin, magic bending subtly toward Slade like a compass finding north.
Lanterns flicker in a soft ripple. Shadows lengthen and draw inward. A crystalline pillar near the wall cracks with a delicate chiming sound.
Lucifer’s eyes glow brighter. “Ah. There it is.”
Slade’s jaw tenses. “Stay back.”
“I’m not touching her,” Lucifer replies, unoffended. “But your realm reacts to balance — or imbalance. And she carries both.”
Another figure steps forward from the crowd — tall, elegant, wearing deep cerulean robes threaded with silver. His gaze lingers too long on me. Slade doesn’t even look at him. “That’s close enough.”
The noble ignores him, moving closer. Lucifer’s hand flashes out with the ease of centuries of rule, fingers closing around the man’s wrist before he can take another step. “Careful,” Lucifer murmurs. “Lord Athalar is in a generous mood tonight. Do not test the limits of his restraint.”
The noble pales and withdraws immediately. Slade’s aura flares — not a scream of violence, but a quiet, lethal promise. I lean closer to him, my voice soft. “Is this… normal?”
“No.” His hand tightens at my waist. “This is what happens when a curse, a mate bond, and a noble house collide under one roof.”
My stomach flips. “So… Special then?”
His eyes burn into mine. “Cataclysmic.”
Lucifer observes us both with a thoughtful expression, then says lightly, “Do try to enjoy yourselves. Dinner will begin shortly. And, Lady Bellamy…” His gaze warms with something almost fond. “…do stay close to him. There are those here who would value you far more than they should.”
Slade growls, low and lethal. Lucifer just laughs, elegant and unbothered, turning back toward the staircase as the music swells again. But the room doesn’t resume its easy flow.
Every head tracks us. Every aura shifts as if reacting to our presence. The air feels poised on a knife’s edge.
Slade leans down, lips brushing my ear. “Do not leave my side.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I whisper.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because if you stray too far…” His fingers brush my hip in a slow, burning drag. “…I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Heat coils in my stomach.
And all around us, the Ninth Realm watches — not hungry, not desperate — but with the sharp, predatory curiosity of creatures sensing the beginning of something they have no precedent for.
Something ancient… dangerous… something destined.