Chapter 23
Piper
I’ve been pretending the world didn’t tilt under my feet the moment I opened Veda’s grimoire.
It’s been two days since I learned the curse wasn’t some Bellamy mishap—it was heartbreak weaponized.
Since Lucifer looked at me like history had found its favorite puppet again.
And two days since I let Slade hold me while I shook apart.
I’ve avoided him since. Not because I’m angry—because I’m terrified of how safe I felt in his arms.
The apartment hasn’t forgiven me for the avoidance. The lights flicker with attitude. Newt keeps knocking shit off counters like I personally hurt his feelings. And I swear the Christmas garland sighed dramatically this morning.
Slade has kept his distance, like he thinks he’s done something wrong, which somehow makes everything worse. His silence presses against the room like a missing heartbeat.
I’m pacing the living room, hair flowing down my back, dressed in a purple sweater, a black corduroy skirt, dagger earrings brushing my neck, and my familiar amethyst pendant warm against my skin, trying to calm down after closing shop for the day. Nothing is working.
I’ve already put on my favorite Christmas slippers—Jack and Sally will always be superior—thinking the familiar soft and plush goodness would be the ticket.
I’m on my third turn about the room, when the air shifts—warm, shadow-sweet, unmistakably Slade—and I freeze.
He stands in the doorway, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I know.” I fold my arms. “I’m just… not ready.”
“Then we talk when you are.” He turns slightly, giving me the option to step away.
Something in my chest twists. This—this gentle consideration—is exactly why I’ve been avoiding him.
Before I can reply, magic ripples across the room like someone dragging a hand through water.
Draven steps through the veil. Of course he does.
He doesn’t knock—doesn’t greet. He gives me a long once-over and clicks his tongue. “Bellamy, you look like you’re deciding whether to adopt a puppy or commit a homicide. Honestly? Either works.”
I blink, then scowl. “Why are you here?”
“To check your pulse,” he says. “Slade’s been sulking so hard the Ninth Realm developed a weather pattern.”
Slade growls. “Draven…”
“What? I’m helping,” he says with a fake pout.
He’s not helping.
Before I can answer, the apartment door opens and Rhea breezes in wearing designer jeans, a cashmere sweater and a winter coat that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She holds two bottles of wine and something that smells like cinnamon and mischief.
She sees Draven, he sees her, then they stare. The air between them all but crackles with mutual disdain.
“Oh,” Rhea says flatly. “The problem child.”
Draven smirks. “Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop glowing when you’re angry.”
“I don’t glow.”
“You’re glowing now.”
And I know—with a certainty that terrifies me more than the curse—they’re next. Not now. Not today. But eventually? Absolutely.
Rhea marches past him, setting the wine on my counter. “We’re doing dinner. A distraction. You need one. He—” she flicks her chin at Slade “—needs one. And this one—” she glares at Draven “—needs supervision.”
Slade’s shoulders relax, only a fraction, but enough to cut through my guilt. He wants to stay.
He’s giving me space only because he thinks it’s what I need. My chest tightens. “Fine,” I whisper. “Dinner.”
His eyes soften in a way that makes my knees warm.
***
Slade cooks, and I swear it’s because he’s secretly a top chef.
The man who can tear open portals with a flick of his hand now stands barefoot in my kitchen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sautéing garlic and basil for spaghetti like sin has its own culinary school.
The scent is intoxicating—warm, rich, threaded with heat and something darker underneath that is unmistakably him. If desire had a kitchen, this would be it.
Rhea has already made herself at home, leaning one hip against the counter as she uncorks the second bottle of wine with a flourish that suggests she’s uncorked far more dangerous things in her life.
“You realize,” she says, eyeing the pot Slade is stirring, “that you’re setting unrealistic expectations for mortal men everywhere. ”
Slade doesn’t look up. “I’m not mortal.”
Draven drags a chair out, flips it backward, and straddles it like he’s starring in a demonic boyband audition. “Oh please. Stop flirting with her through food. It’s embarrassing.”
Slade’s reply is calm, elegant, and deadly. “You’re only mad because you’d burn water.”
“I can cook,” Draven says indignantly.
“You can heat,” Slade counters dryly.
“Heat is cooking,” Draven says with mock shock.
Rhea snorts into her wine. “Heat is combustion, sweetheart. Cooking is chemistry.”
Draven shoots her a look. “Are you implying I lack finesse?”
“I’m outright declaring it.”
They glare at each other with enough friction to power a city grid. The room hums around them—my garland twitching, the ornaments chiming softly like little traitors delighted to witness whatever’s happening between those two.
Newt curls at Slade’s hip, tail flicking as though he’s claimed the demon lord as his new favored scratching post. When Draven reaches for a piece of freshly grated cheese, Newt launches a paw swipe so aggressive it would have taken a finger if Draven hadn’t yanked his hand back.
“Your familiar is broken,” Draven mutters.
“He just has impeccable taste,” Slade answers without missing a beat.
Something in my chest warms. The apartment itself seems to agree, because the lights brighten and dim in a soft pulse—like a pleased exhale.
Dinner ends up being ridiculous and perfect.
The table is warm with candlelight. The spaghetti, of course, is sinful.
Rhea tells a story about accidentally turning an ex-boyfriend’s hair bright pink during an argument.
Draven counters with a tale involving a stolen carriage, a banshee choir, and absolutely no shame.
Slade watches me more than he eats, every glance low and lingering, like he’s memorizing the way I laugh. And I—I can’t stop smiling. I forgot what that felt like.
The curse hums through the apartment, but nothing lashes or sparks. Instead, it feels almost… indulgent. As if it approves.
After dinner, Rhea slams her palms on the table. “We’re playing Santa Shots.”
Draven groans. “Why must mortals corrupt their own holidays?”
“Because we deserve it,” she chirps. “Now, pick your damn cup.”
She lines up shot glasses shaped like tiny Santa boots, each filled with a mix of peppermint schnapps and something suspiciously glittery.
The rules are simple. Draw a card. Do what it says. Or drink.
Mine says: TELL THE TABLE WHO YOU’D KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
My pulse stutters, palms sweating, stomach churning as I flush from head to toe. Rhea grins like a wolf at me, and Draven lifts a brow. Slade tilts his head slightly, gaze never leaving mine.
“I’m drinking,” I declare.
Rhea cackles. “Coward.”
Slade’s smirk is infuriating. “Interesting choice.”
I glare at him over the rim of my glass. “Drink if you think you’re subtle.”
He lifts his own cup without hesitation. “I’m very aware I’m not.”
Rhea howls, Draven chokes, and Newt chirps like he’s judging both of us. The next card goes to Draven.
It reads: COMPLIMENT SOMEONE AT THE TABLE WITHOUT INSULTING THEM IN THE SAME brEATH.
He stares at it like he’s positively flabbergasted by the request. “I can’t do that.”
“You absolutely can,” Rhea says.
“I physically can’t!”
Slade gestures at the shot. “Drink.”
Draven drinks.
Rhea’s card says: REVEAL YOUR HOLIDAY WISH.
She doesn’t hesitate. Her eyes flick to Draven for half a second—so quick I almost miss it—and then she downs the shot.
Draven splutters. “You can’t just—what was that look?”
“What look?” she says sweetly. “You must be hallucinating.”
“I saw it,” he says sternly.
“No you didn’t,” Rhea smirks.
“Yes, I did,” Draven counters with a frown.
“Oh, look at that—your ego grew three sizes. Very Grinch-core,” Rhea says, giggling over her joke.
They bicker until Newt climbs onto Slade’s shoulder and steals the attention back to himself by meowing loudly.
Eventually, we migrate to the couch with wine, movies queued up, and blankets that smell like cinnamon and old magic. Rhea claims the armchair. Draven takes the floor, muttering about mortal furniture. Slade sits next to me—close enough that our legs brush every time I shift.
We put on a Christmas movie. I have no idea which one.
My awareness narrows to the warmth of his arm against mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the low rumble of his chuckle when I mock the acting.
When I lean forward to grab my wine, his hand steadies my knee—not intentional, not seductive, just instinctive.
But the curse reacts anyway. The room brightens, ornaments sway, and the damned garland shivers like it’s sighing happily. I feel it inside my ribs too—warm, alive, tugging gently toward him.
And Gods help me… I let myself lean into the moment.
For the first time in days, the weight in my chest loosens. The fear dulls. The world feels possible again. And I realize, with slow, inevitable clarity—I don’t want to lose this.
Any of it.
Not the laughter. Not the chaos. Not the demon lord who cooks like seduction is a language.
I’m falling.
Fast.
And the only thing scarier than the curse in my blood is the way he’s waking something in my heart.