Chapter 24
Slade
The apartment is quiet without her.
Not empty—Piper has never left a room empty in her life—but quiet in a way that feels wrong. No soft humming while she brews potions. No clatter of jars. No gentle, restless buzz from her magic. No Newt yowling like the world revolves around him.
Just the hush of morning light sliding through the curtains and the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air from where she slept.
Three days until Christmas.
Three days until the deadline hanging over her head like a blade.
Three days until she must choose me—or walk away and let the curse devour another century of Bellamy women.
She left early, dressed in a soft winter sweater that clung in ways my hands have memorized, crescent-moon earrings catching the light, curls pinned back on one side so her throat was exposed just enough to tempt the darkest pieces of me.
She kissed Newt goodbye, ignored how long she lingered looking at me, and walked out before she could talk herself into staying or I could talk her into never leaving again.
And now I stand in her kitchen, hands braced on the countertop, staring at the space she usually occupies like a man teetering on the edge of something sharp and inevitable.
Tonight, I’m done holding the line.
If she’s going to decide, she deserves to do it with the whole truth in front of her—not just the curse, not the fear, not the weight of a five-century wound.
She deserves what the bond feels like when it is not twisted by grief. She deserves me without restraint, deserves pleasure so consuming it silences doubt and drowns hesitation.
Tonight, she will know exactly what it means to be mine.
The planning starts slowly. Then consumes me.
The first step? Atmosphere.
I move through the apartment with deliberate care, letting my magic rise in quiet ribbons of shadow and warmth.
Candles light at a gesture—hundreds of them, soft gold and deep crimson, flickering like stars fallen into her home.
Their glow settles gently, casting warmth on the walls, softening edges, turning the entire living room into something intimate and low-voiced.
Then the rose petals.
Human tradition, yes—but there is something deeply satisfying about the softness of them spilling in a path from the front door to her bedroom. A trail meant only for her eyes, her steps, her anticipation.
The scent of roses mixes with candlelight and the faint winter-cold air drifting through the cracked window. It smells like desire waiting to be touched.
In the bathroom, I draw a bath.
Warm water fills the tub in a slow, steady cascade, steam rising in curling tendrils. I infuse the water with enchanted salts—Bellamy-safe herbs woven with my power, crafted to soothe her magic, loosen tension in her limbs, and coax every last flicker of doubt into quiet submission.
The foam rises thick and velvety. The air smells of jasmine, bergamot, and heat. I imagine her sinking into it, sighing as the water kisses her skin.
Magic stirs low beneath my ribs. I continue.
Food comes next. A seduction in its own right.
I dice garlic, listening to the soft scrape of the knife against the board.
The aroma blossoms instantly—warm, rich, honeyed with butter.
Basil bruises beneath my fingers. Tomatoes simmer, while I grill the chicken.
I choose a dish mortals have always equated with romance because they are not wrong.
Cooking for someone is an act of devotion.
Cooking with intention is an act of claim.
By the time the creamy cheese sauce thickens, the kitchen smells like promise.
Newt pads into the room, tail flicking, gaze narrowed in deep feline suspicion. He circles my feet once. Twice. Then bumps his head into my shin with a sound that clearly means, if you screw this up, I will pee in your shoe.
“I’m aware,” I tell him.
He meows again, louder.
To avoid further criticism, I pull out the small collection of gifts I acquired for him earlier.
A plush bed he will ignore. Toys he will pretend to disdain.
Treats he will inhale. I set them near the tree, where several wrapped boxes already wait—some for Piper, some for her cousin, one questionable one for Draven.
Newt inspects his pile with grave importance, then sits directly on top of the softest blanket like he has just accepted the throne he deserves.
Only one thing remains unfinished.
The tree.
I step toward it, and the ornaments hum—responding to Piper’s presence even without her here.
I breathe out, letting my magic thread through the branches.
Lights brighten gently, glowing like embers.
Snowflake charms sway. A single glass star shifts into place at the top, catching the candlelight and spinning the reflection into soft halos around the living room.
When I step back, the room feels transformed. Warm. Sensual. Inviting. Like the inside of a heartbeat. Like a place where a choice could be made.
A soft pulse moves through the apartment—Bellamy magic responding to mine. The curse, sensing intention. Not flaring. Not resisting. Simply watching.
It knows something is coming. So do I.
I check the clock.
Piper will close her shop soon. She’ll lock the door, pull her coat tight around her shoulders, tuck her curls behind one ear, and walk toward home with the exhaustion of the season weighing on her.
But tonight—tonight she’ll open the door to warmth, to candlelight, to rose petals, to a bath drawn just for her, to food waiting on the table, to a demon lord ready to worship her without hesitation or restraint—and she’ll understand exactly what choosing me would feel like.
Not a demand, or command. Not a bargain.
A truth. A promise. And if she lets me—if she steps into my hands willingly—the bond between us will not just hum.
It will ignite.
I glance at the window again, at the soft snow beginning to fall, at the faint glow of holiday lights outside, and I feel something dangerous unfurl in my chest. Something close to anticipation… desire… hope.
“Come home, Piper,” I murmur to the empty room. “Let me show you what you’ve been running from.”
Behind me, Newt hops into one of the gift bags and rustles around like a gremlin. I let him, because it’s adorable and I’m tired of fighting him to stay out of them. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Everything is ready.
And when she crosses that threshold… she will never doubt the bond again.
***
The lock clicks. It’s a soft sound—barely a whisper of metal—but my entire body answers it like a command written into bone.
Newt perks up on his velvet blanket-throne, ears forward, tail curling. The candles flicker in the living room. Even the tree seems to pause, lights pulsing once in quiet anticipation.
Then the door opens, and Piper steps inside.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
She just stands in the doorway, holding her tote bag, curls tossed by the winter wind, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her sweater is dusted with snowflakes that glitter under the warm candlelight, and her amethyst pendant glows faintly—reacting to the magic suspended in the room.
Her lips part. Slowly. Barely breathing.
She sees the rose petals first. Then the soft glow. Then the faint steam coming from the bathroom. Then the table—set for two. And the tree—haloed in gold.
Her eyes soften in a way that hits me like a blade slid between ribs. “Slade,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
I step forward from the kitchen. Her gaze snaps to mine, pupils expanding in a single dizzying heartbeat.
“Welcome home,” I murmur.
She doesn’t move. She just stares at me, breath trembling, as though every carefully stacked defense she built this week is threatening to slide apart all at once. “What… what did you do?” she manages.
“Everything,” I answer. And it is the truth.
Her fingers curl tighter around her tote strap. Piper’s throat bobs. Her magic rushes to the edge of her skin—soft, warm, curious—brushing against me the way a candle tests the air before catching flame.
She takes one step toward me. Just one. But it’s enough to make heat coil at the base of my spine.
“I made dinner,” I say quietly. “A bath is drawn. And the rest…” I gesture around us. “The rest is simply because you deserved to come home to warmth instead of dread.”
Her breath catches. “I—Slade, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
The truth hangs between us, warm as the candlelight.
She looks at the rose petals leading to the bathroom, at the table set with soft linen and wine, at the ornaments swaying lazily on the tree as if held aloft by the hush settling over the room.
Then her gaze drifts back to me—slow, deliberate, burning.
“What is all this?” she asks.
“A seduction,” I say simply. Her pulse jumps, I see it in her throat, and the way she darts her eyes. “But only if you want it.”
The air thickens with longing—not frantic or wild, but deep and certain, like a tide drawing her toward me.
I extend a hand. She doesn’t take it. Piper steps closer instead. Her sweater brushes my knuckles. Her breath warms my throat, her magic pressing against mine, shy but insistent.
She lifts a hand and touches my cheek, barely—just the edge of her fingertip, feather-light as a promise she’s afraid to speak aloud.
The single point of contact makes my power roar through me so fiercely I clench my jaw to keep myself from dragging her into my arms.
Her voice is soft, but not uncertain. “Show me.”
Gods, she will undo me.
I take her hand gently, letting my thumb trace the line of her palm.
“Dinner first,” I whisper, because if I don’t maintain some kind of order, I will take her against the nearest wall without hesitation.
She blushes, color blooming beneath her pale skin in a way that makes my control strain. “I can eat after,” she murmurs.
“No,” I say, stepping closer until I feel the warmth of her body against mine. “You’re going to sit at that table, and I’m going to feed you, and then—when your guard is soft and your mind is quiet and you’re drowning in how much I want you—then I’ll take you.”
Her breath shudders. “And if I want it now?” she whispers.
I inhale sharply, fighting every instinct urging me to claim her. “Then you’ll wait,” I say, voice dropping, “because I’m going to savor every moment of you—not rush through it.”
Her eyes darken. “Slade…”
I press a gentle hand to her lower back and guide her toward the table. The rose petals crush softly beneath her boots. The candles respond to her presence—brightening, warming, leaning toward her as though reaching for their witch.
When she sits, her curls spill over her shoulders, her lips parted in a small, breathless shape that makes desire curl deep in my gut.
I pour red wine into her glass—she watches my hands. I sit the plate in front of her—she tracks the way my mouth moves. I go to take my seat, and her eyes greedily roam over my body.
The curse stirs, not in warning, but in something almost like approval.
I take a slow sip of wine, letting my gaze drift to her throat, her collarbone, the faint rise and fall of her chest. “Eat,” I murmur.
Her fork trembles slightly when she lifts it. Every time she takes a bite, her eyes flick to mine, like she can feel how much I want to devour her instead. By the end of the meal, her cheeks are warm from wine, her defenses softened, her aura loose and glowing.
Newt hops onto her lap, curls into a ball, and purrs as if sealing my victory. She sets her fork down, breath unsteady. “What now?” she asks.
“Now,” I say, rising from my chair and offering her my hand, “you let me take care of you.”
She slides her fingers into mine. Newt hops off her lap, offended of course, but returns to his perch. The bond stirs—rich, heavy, thrumming like a heartbeat between ribs.
I lead her toward the bathroom.
The scent of jasmine and bergamot welcomes her, steam drifting lazily from the full tub, lilies floating on the surface, candles lining every edge of the room.
She sucks in a breath. “Slade…” Her voice breaks. Emotion—soft, aching, vulnerable—rushes through her aura like a tide.
I step close behind her, letting my fingers skim her waist, then her hip, gentle but certain. She shivers. “You deserve beauty,” I murmur against her ear. “You deserve softness. And you deserve a night where nothing hurts.”
Her head tips back slightly, exposing more of her throat. “And you?” she whispers.
“I deserve to worship the woman fate carved for me.”
She trembles. I reach for the hem of her sweater, brushing my knuckles along the warm skin beneath—her breath shatters.
“Slade… I want this.”
I take her chin gently, turning her face toward mine. “I know,” I whisper, before I kiss her.
And this kiss—this one is not hungry or rushed or desperate.
It is slow. Deep. Certain. A kiss meant for a mate. A kiss meant for a woman I intend to kneel for as much as I intend to ravish.
Her fingers curl into my shirt—her body leaning into mine.
Her magic flares and melts and folds around me like a sigh. And as I lift her into my arms, carrying her toward the bath, one truth settles into place with absolute clarity…
Tonight, she won’t run from the bond. Tonight, she’ll feel exactly what it means. And when she chooses—she’ll choose me.