Chapter 26
Slade
The first thing I feel is her. Her warmth curled against my chest. Her breath brushing the hollow of my throat. Her magic—now permanently braided with mine—thrumming in soft, molten pulses across my skin.
The second thing I feel is the bond. Alive. Settled. Purring through every nerve like satisfaction incarnate.
The third thing is a realization that hits me slowly. Then, like lightning. I slept. For the first time in over a century.
I open my eyes to find her still sleeping, lashes brushing her cheek, lips parted in a breath that ghosts warm across my collarbone. Her curls spill over my arm, soft and wild, as though the night remade her in its image.
I press a kiss to her temple—because I can. Because she’s mine now. Because the simple act feels like worship.
She stirs, stretching like a cat before blinking up at me with sleep-heavy eyes that make something deep in my spine tighten. “Morning,” she whispers, voice rough and sweet.
I brush my thumb along her lower lip. “Good morning, little witch.”
“Did you… did you rest well?” She asks, unsure how to phrase the question.
“I slept,” I say quietly, a sense of wonder filling me. “And I believe… It's because of you. And our bond.”
Piper's eyes widen, understanding flooding her, and I feel it the moment she realizes the curse really is broken. Her cheeks warm, and the bond gives a pleased thrum—like it approves, like it wants more.
So do I.
The first kiss of the day begins soft, slow, almost reverent… and ends with her beneath me again, fingers gripping my shoulders as if she never intends to let go. Her legs wrap around me, and the moment our hips align, the bond sparks, bright and consuming.
I grind into her, languidly exploring her.
She’s sore from last night, I can feel it in every shift of her body, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting.
“Slade,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my throat.
Her arms are wrapped around my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tugging gently as I claim her mouth with another deep kiss.
I pull back, breaking the kiss, and run a hand down her exposed chest. I love her perfectly fluffy stomach, those beautiful stretch marks and curves, all the way to the aching center between her legs.
She’s ready for me, soaking wet. “Such a good girl,” I groan.
She cries out when my fingers circle around her clit in three quick successions.
The sound is music to my ears, and I sink into her without another thought, thrusting with deep strokes that claim another growl from my throat.
Breakfast doesn’t stand a chance.
We end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both flushed, breathless, Piper wrapped in my shirt like a lure designed by the gods themselves. I cook because she’s smiling and watching me with warmth in her eyes she does not yet realize she’s wearing.
Her knees brush mine under the table, her toes trace my calf. Piper’s laughter spills bright into the room—and the bond hums like a second heartbeat.
After breakfast, we end up on the rug with Newt.
The cat immediately claims her lap, glaring at me as if I’m the interloper in my own conquest. Piper pets him with one hand and plays with my hair with the other, absentminded and warm, and the sensation drags a groan from my chest.
She tilts her head, amused. “You like that?”
“Like,” I repeat, running my hand along her thigh. “Try ‘unable to think straight.’”
Her laugh is silk and sunlight, and I kiss her before I can stop myself—hard, hungry, grateful.
The couch doesn’t survive us.
She ends up straddling me, curls draping down like dark ribbons across my shoulders, her lips swollen, her breath shaking every time my hands slide beneath her shirt. The bond crackles between us, eager, pulsing, begging us to keep going—so we do.
And I’ve never been more thankful for a fucking shirt. I slide her underwear to the side, and Piper frantically works at my sweats. In seconds I’m inside her again, and Piper is riding me with an agonizing pace.
Slowly, deeply, until she’s trembling and I’m groaning her name into her throat.
She works her hips, and I nip at her neck, sliding a hand up to claim her throat.
I give it a gentle squeeze, arcing my hips up to meet her thrusts, and she cries out when the orgasm hits. It doesn’t take me long to follow.
Lunch happens sometime after. Barely. We eat on the floor with Newt curled smugly between us, purring like he invented intimacy.
The afternoon drifts around us in quiet contentment.
Piper curls against my side on the couch, tracing the lines of my chest with lazy fingers that make my thoughts scatter like sparks from fire. She plays with the hem of my shirt, and I play with her hair. Neither of us says much because we don’t need to.
The bond fills all the empty spaces with warmth and truth and a kind of peace I didn’t think existed for demons like me.
I kiss her again before dinner. And during dinner. And after dinner.
By the time I carry her to bed, she’s breathless and flushed, laughing against my throat as if her heart never learned what fear felt like.
And when she slides her hands into my hair and pulls me down to her, whispering my name with the kind of want that makes my entire body bow toward her—I know with absolute certainty.
I could spend a thousand lifetimes like this. Touching her... Feeding her... Holding her... Loving her...
Over and over. As many times as she’ll let me.
Because the bond is no longer a tether. It’s a promise.
And I intend to honor every breath of it.