Chapter 27
Piper
The shop smells like winter and possibility. Cinnamon bark simmering in the cauldron-shaped diffuser. Orange peel drying on the racks. Juniper sprigs tucked inside tiny glass bottles that catch the sunlight in jeweled flashes.
Two days before Christmas Eve, the place always hums with magic and human excitement in equal measure. Today, though? The air feels warmer. Softer. Threaded with something I recognize now without thinking—Slade’s presence.
He moves through my shop like he was always meant to be part of it—setting out trays of enchanted soaps, straightening bundles of protective sachets, tying ribbons around herb packets using a skill that makes customers stare at his hands more than they should.
He doesn’t seem to notice their stares. But I do. So does the bond—quiet but pleased, warm as a candle flame flickering between our ribs.
When the morning crowd thickens, he steps easily beside me, handing me bags, answering questions, lifting boxes, and murmuring calm instructions that make my pulse skip.
We work in tandem, like a practiced duo instead of a witch and a demon lord learning how to be something together.
Every time our hands brush, a subtle spark sweeps up my spine, warm and intimate, like the universe nudging us together just a little more.
By noon, the shop is full of familiar faces—locals who’ve been coming to Bellamy’s Hearth & Home since my grandmother ran it.
Mrs. Hanley points openly at Slade as she leans across the counter. “And who is that tall drink of trouble?”
I flush. “He’s… helping.”
“Helping?” She squints at me over her glasses. “His helping looks a lot like hovering.”
She waves her cane toward him. “You! Tall one!”
Slade turns with the patience of a saint—or a very determined predator. “Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Hanley studies him like a hawk assessing a shiny new offering. “Are you kind to our Piper?”
He opens his mouth, but I beat him to it.
“He is,” I say quickly, unable to stop the smile that pulls at my lips.
The smile is what gives me away. Everyone sees it. Everyone reacts to the way I practically glow, coming alive from within.
Mrs. Hanley beams. “Good. Because we’ll tear you limb from limb if you break her heart. Understand?”
Slade gives her a solemn nod. “Perfectly.”
I swear the bond purrs at his seriousness.
The next customer—a college girl who’s been buying anxiety charms for three years—gives Slade a long, appreciative once-over before turning to me. “Piper… is he your…?”
I feel my cheeks warm again. “Something like that.”
Her grin could power a small city. “He’s gorgeous. And he just scared off that creepy guy who always asks if you have sage ‘for personal use.’ You’re living my dream life.”
Slade overhears exactly none of this and exactly all of it, judging by the faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he organizes crystal grids like he was born doing it.
Through the afternoon, women come and go—mothers, grandmothers, teenagers, coven members, solitary witches—all giving Slade variations of the same warning:
“If you hurt her…”
“You better treat her right…”
“She deserves the moon, demon boy…”
Each time, he nods, replies politely, or simply stands a little closer behind me, presence protective but not oppressive.
He never once looks irritated. If anything, he looks… proud. My chest does strange, fizzy things about that.
Near closing time, the door jingles and Rhea sweeps in, smelling like peppermint lattes, snow, and trouble.
Sweeping between customers with the confidence of someone who has hexed more than one person for standing in her way.
“Okay, move,” she announces, waving her hand in a grand arc. “I have news.”
Slade stiffens beside me—just enough that I feel it in the bond—and I raise a brow.
Rhea wiggles her fingers at him. “Relax, Lord Broody. It’s good news. The world isn’t ending yet.”
“That’s debatable,” Slade mutters.
I cross my arms. “What kind of news?”
“The best kind.” Rhea plants her hands on her hips, grinning like the cat who stole Christmas. “The Bellamy Yule Ball is officially happening this year. On Christmas Eve because of course everyone had to be difficult, but it’s no matter. OH! And you’re both attending.”
My heart leaps. “Really? Elle will be there?”
Slade looks confused. “Elle?”
“Maristelle,” I explain. “Rhea’s older sister.”
“That’s not my sister’s name today,” Rhea snaps. “Her name is Elle. Nobody calls her—” She glances around the shop and lowers her voice to a whisper. “—the full thing. It’s basically a slur.”
I laugh, and the sound bursts out of me too bright to stop. Slade turns sharply, eyes softening in that warm, hungry way that still makes me melt.
“Anyway,” Rhea continues, pretending she isn’t flustered, “Elle is flying in tomorrow, and she already asked if you’re alive or if you’ve been eaten by possessed garland.”
“Reasonable,” Slade murmurs.
Rhea ignores him with expert precision and hops onto the counter like she owns the place. “Formal attire. Gold and evergreen theme. Try not to embarrass us.”
Slade folds his arms. “I don’t embarrass.”
Rhea smirks. “I’ve met your brother.”
Slade’s eye twitches. “What does Draven have to do with anything?”
“Ohhh,” I say, leaning in. “Draven’s going to be there?”
Rhea freezes. Actually freezes. Neck, cheeks, tips of her ears—every inch turns sickly shade of red.
Slade glances at me like we’ve just uncovered an ancient secret. “Interesting.”
Rhea points a threatening finger at him. “Shut it.”
He tilts his head. “You’re flushed.”
“I am not flushed.”
She is very flushed. I bite back a smile. “Was he invited?”
“He invites himself everywhere,” Rhea snaps. “Like a very sexy fungal infection.”
Slade’s brows rise. “Sexy?”
Rhea’s eyes go wide. “I mean—no—well—he’s—shut. up.”
Slade leans closer to me, voice low. “She’s adorable when she panics.”
Rhea glares, amber eyes glowing like candle flames about to leap from their wicks. “I am not panicking. I simply refuse to acknowledge that demon-shaped problem until absolutely necessary.”
“So he’s coming,” I say sweetly.
She groans like she’s dying. “Yes. He grew out of ‘too good for mortal gatherings’ sometime around 1870 and now he attends everything. Including this.”
Slade smothers a smirk. “Should I tell him you expect three dances?”
“Do it,” she threatens, “and I swear I will hex your tailbone.”
He opens his mouth—probably to ask if I want to place bets on the day she finally snaps and kisses Draven senseless—but I elbow him before he can instigate.
Rhea smooths her hair back, eyes bright with that Bellamy mischief that always seems one wink away from trouble.
“Formal attire,” she reminds us, then shakes her head like she thought of a better idea.
“Actually I’ll send over something for you, Pipes. Something bold, dramatic… witchy!”
I raise a brow. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”
“It’s perfect,” she corrects, waving off my accuracy. “And Piper?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression softens in a way that hits unexpectedly deep. “You belong at this ball. You always have. You weren’t just invited—you are expected. Wanted.”
A small breath catches in my chest. Because it’s true. Even after my parents’ deaths, even after I drifted from gatherings I couldn’t handle, even after the curse made holidays feel unpredictable and heavy—my family never closed its doors.
Rhea says it like a reminder, one I didn’t know I needed.
Like a welcome home.
The shop seems to warm at her voice. Afternoon light settles along the shelves, turning the jars into stained-glass mosaics. The air smells like chamomile, clove, and something faintly sweet from the batch of enchanted wax melts curing near the register.
Slade finishes tying up an order and steps behind me, presence falling into place like it was always meant to be there. His aura brushes mine, subtle yet solid—a warm, steady tether. Rhea notices instantly, her grin blooming slow and victorious.
“Oh, that’s adorable,” she mutters. “You two are disgusting.”
I elbow her lightly.
Slade pretends he didn’t hear, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Aunt Lyra’s going to weep when she sees you two walk in together,” she says. “She’s been begging the universe for a Bellamy Christmas miracle.”
My cheeks heat, but Rhea’s teasing isn’t sharp—just affectionate, warm, threading through the hollow places grief used to live.
Slade shifts fractionally closer, his magic brushing my skin in a slow, quiet sweep. He doesn’t touch me—not here, not in front of customers—but I feel him like a heartbeat beside my own.
Anchoring. Reassuring. Mine.
Rhea sees it—all of it. And her smile softens into something understanding and knowing.
I’ve already chosen him—us—the bond.
I just haven’t made it officially… official. Not yet, not when so much still hangs over the coming days. But the decision thrums quietly between us, warm and steady as the magical thread pulling us together.
The shop glows in the last stretch of afternoon, dust motes drifting like tiny enchantments. Newt sprawls across a display of faux snow and refuses to move for anyone but Slade. Customers linger, laughing, whispering that they “approve of this one.”
Rhea nudges me with her shoulder. “Elle is dying to see you,” she says. “Don’t make her wait.”
My chest tightens—not with fear this time, but anticipation… belonging. A future that suddenly feels possible.
Slade steps close enough for his body heat to slip under my skin, and when my eyes meet his—dark, warm, full of unspoken devotion—I feel the truth settle deeper.
I’m ready. I’ve been ready. And this Yule ball… it isn’t just a family tradition.
It’s the night everything shifts.
And I can’t wait.