Chapter 37
Piper
Iwake to heat.
Not the wild, molten kind from last night—though my thighs tremble at the memory—but a softer, steadier warmth that sinks into my skin like I’m lying on the sun itself.
Slade is behind me, one muscular arm slung heavy over my waist, his breath a slow, controlled rise and fall against the back of my neck.
The massive emerald duvet is tangled around our hips, half-dragged to the floor during what I can only describe as a marathon of worship and destruction.
My body feels tender, used, adored. My every nerve is a hum of lingering magic.
I shift, just barely, and a low sound rumbles in his chest—an approving purr that vibrates straight through me.
Oh gods.
Everything inside me clenches with immediate, aching need.
“Don’t start,” he murmurs against my hair, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not fed yet.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Slade… I’m starving for something else entirely.”
His hand tightens on my hip in warning—a warning that sends another little shockwave through my core.
He presses his lips to the back of my shoulder, slow and deliberate. “I know, little witch.” His voice is velvet dipped in sin. “But if I touch you again right now, you won’t leave this bed for hours, and I need you walking for the tour.”
A whimper slips out before I can stop it.
A pleased, sinful sound vibrates in his throat. “Exactly.”
I turn slightly so I can see him. His hair is a wild, glorious mess across the pillow. His eyes are half-lidded, dark green and molten, the kind of look that promises everything and threatens my sanity.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I shift onto my back, and he immediately rolls over me—not heavy, not demanding, just covering me like he’s making sure I’m still real. His thigh slides between mine, and I swear my soul tries to leave my body.
He feels it, and grins like a demon who knows he owns me. “Later.”
“Cruel,” I whisper.
His mouth brushes my cheek, my jaw, the place just beneath my ear that makes my spine arch without permission. “Efficient,” he corrects. “And you need food. Water. Maybe a healing potion.”
I shove him lightly. “I’m not that wrecked.”
“You are absolutely that wrecked,” he says, leaning back enough to rake his eyes slowly down my naked body. “And you look perfect.”
Heat floods my face, down my throat, between my legs. Slade groans under his breath like the sight alone is enough to undo him. He kisses me—slow, deep, maddeningly restrained—before finally pulling himself away and rising from the bed in one lazy, predatory stretch.
I watch shamelessly.
He notices within seconds. Slade smirks and offers me his hand. “Come. Bath. Food. Then I show you the realm.”
Our realm.
The realization flutters in my chest as he helps me stand, steadying me when my knees wobble.
“See?” he murmurs, amused. “You absolutely need the potion.”
I glare. He kisses my forehead in apology. Or condescension. Or both. Hard to tell.
He guides me through the screened archway into a bathing chamber carved from black stone veined with glowing gold. Steam curls lazily from the wide pool sunk into the floor, the water sparkling with suspended motes of magic. He lowers me in first, then sinks behind me, drawing me between his legs.
The warm water immediately soothes the delicious ache radiating through me. I melt against him with a soft sigh.
“That’s better,” he breathes into my ear.
“Mm. You just like having me trapped.”
“That too.”
We stay in the bath until my muscles stop trembling and he decides I can be trusted to walk without falling apart. He wraps me in a thick, emerald towel, drying every inch of me with slow, reverent hands that make my pulse skip.
Breakfast waits on a nearby table—fresh fruits, warm bread, spiced meats, and something that looks suspiciously like a dish Slade made specifically because he knows I love it.
We eat together, knees touching, his hand resting on my thigh every time he reaches for his cup. I steal bits of fruit off his plate. He lets me—barely.
By the time I finish my meal, I’m warm, full, and steady again.
Which only makes the hunger for him sharper.
I lean closer, brushing my lips against the edge of his jaw. “So… what does this tour include?”
He stands, pulling me gently to my feet. His eyes darken with slow, promised heat.
“Everything,” he says. “The gardens. The living flame springs. The old throne hall.”
“And then?”
He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip.
“And then,” he murmurs, “I bring you back here… and ruin you properly.”
Heat pools low and sweet inside me. I lace my fingers with his, letting him lead me toward the wardrobe where clothes for both of us wait. He pauses in the doorway, looking down at me with something warm and fierce and newly settled. “Ready to see your realm, Piper Athalar?”
My breath catches. Not Piper the cursed witch, or the outsider. Piper Athalar.
I nod, heart tripping hard in my chest. “Show me everything.”
He smiles—a slow, wicked, devastating thing—and opens the door. “Good,” he says. “Hold on to me.”
And gods help me, I always will.
***
Slade leads me through the archway, and the moment we step into the corridor, the entire estate seems to inhale—recognizing him, recognizing me.
Torches flare brighter. Shadows shift like bowing attendants. Magic hums down the marble floors like welcome home.
His hand stays wrapped around mine, thumb brushing my knuckles in lazy, possessive circles.
“Where first?” I ask, trying not to gape like a tourist.
“The gardens,” he says, voice low with something close to pride. “You’ll like them.”
We move through the palace until a set of carved obsidian doors swing open at his mere approach. Beyond them, the world expands into a breathtaking, impossible landscape—an underworld Eden.
The air is warm, threaded with faint jasmine and something spicy and wild, like cinnamon bark burning in the distance.
Blackstone paths curve around bioluminescent blooms, each flower casting its own soft glow—violet, ember-red, ghost-white, deep gold.
Some float, some pulse with an internal heartbeat, others shift shape as if dreaming.
Slade watches my reaction like he’s memorizing it.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
“It’s ours,” he corrects.
We walk slowly, our fingers still laced. Trees rise tall around us, their leaves shimmering like brushed metal. Strange birds—inky creatures with ember eyes—flit overhead, leaving brief spirals of glowing dust behind them.
I pause beside a massive blossom shaped like a flame. When I reach out, it curves toward my palm, warm as breath.
“It recognizes you,” Slade murmurs.
“Because I’m your…?”
He steps close behind me, his chest brushing my back. “Because this realm bends to power. And you have more than you realize.”
Heat blooms low in my belly. Not lust—well, okay, also lust—but something deeper. Something that feels like belonging.
We continue on, and the garden gives way to a series of stone steps leading to a cliffside balcony.
Below us, the Ninth Realm sprawls in a breathtaking tapestry of glowing rivers, jagged obsidian spires, shimmering plains, and distant cities lit from within by magic. The sky above is a deep, rich violet—almost black—with drifting constellations that shift and reform like living stories.
“What… are those?” I whisper, pointing to the slowly changing star patterns.
“Fragments of lost souls,” he says softly. “Ancestors. Old gods. The realm keeps their memories as light.”
I press a hand to my heart. “They’re beautiful.”
“So are you,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to my temple.
We linger there, the wind warm and strange against my face, carrying the scent of smoldering stone and rare flowers.
Then he leads me down a winding path to a glimmering pool carved into the earth. The water glows from within—liquid flame, dancing gold and soft white. “The Living Flame Springs,” he says quietly.
The air vibrates with ancient magic.
Slade stops at the edge. “The springs amplify whatever burns in your heart. Passion. Power. Grief. Hope.”
I dip my fingers in, and warmth spreads through me, curling along every vein like it wants to unlock something inside me. Slade takes my hand again, steadying me. Protective. Present. “It likes you,” he says quietly.
“Everything in your world seems weirdly friendly to me.”
Slade chuckles softly, shaking his head at me.
We leave the springs behind and continue toward the oldest part of the estate—a towering structure carved directly into the rock face.
The doors open with a moaning groan, ancient magic stirring. The hall is magnificent—vaulted ceilings painted with old wars, old kings, old sacrifices. Massive braziers line the walls, flames shifting colors that don’t exist in the mortal world.
At the center sits a throne of blackstone and gold veins, carved so intricately it almost appears woven. Behind it is a smaller chair—elegant, curved, with a cushioned seat of deep green velvet.
My heart stutters, flip-flopping in my chest like a fish on land. I don’t bother hiding the grin as it spills across my face. “You have a throne,” I tease.
He gestures toward the smaller one. “You have a throne, too.”
I freeze. “Slade…”
“You are Lady Athalar.” His voice holds no hesitation.
“The realm knows it. I know it. That throne will accept no one else.” Emotion rises unexpectedly in my throat.
He notices instantly, pulling me gently into his arms. “You don’t have to rule anything,” he says, low and warm.
“You don’t have to claim anything. This just means…
you have a place here. A home. With me.”
I breathe him in, and the ancient hall seems to breathe with me.
“I love it,” I whisper.
He exhales slowly, as if I’ve told him something important. Then he pulls back and lifts my chin with two fingers. “One more stop.”