Hex the Halls (A Hexed Christmas Romance #1)

Chapter 1

Piper

If Snowglobe Hollow had a town motto, it would be… We Wish You a Merry Christmas, Whether You Like It or Not.

The evidence?

Mariah Carey is already screaming through my bedroom window, and it’s barely sunrise.

I groan and shove the blankets off my body, peeling myself from the warm nest I’d built overnight.

My curls—thick, dark, and forever plotting my downfall—spill around me as I sit up.

They’re frizzed into a halo of chaotic energy, sparking faintly at the ends in a way that says the curse is awake before I am.

Great. Just what I needed.

The floor is freezing when my feet hit it, and I bite out a curse under my breath.

My entire apartment smells like cold air and a hint of cinnamon from the candle I forgot to snuff out.

I tug my tank top straight over my chest—big boobs and gravity have been in a long-term feud—then pad into the kitchen, thighs brushing pleasantly with every step.

The coffee pot gurgles like it’s chewing gravel.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.

It explodes anyway.

Not destructively—just a violent puff of steam that blasts peppermint grounds across my counter and coats my cheeks in warm, sticky grit. I glare at the machine through lashes dusted in coffee shrapnel.

The Bellamy Holiday Curse strikes again.

Every December, the curse wakes like some ancient, bored creature stretching its limbs. Our magic—usually stable, manageable—turns feral. Overly emotional. Overreactive. Spells slip their leashes. Charms misbehave. Enchantments twist into something darker, louder, messier.

Magic reacts to mood, and mine?

Decidedly stabby before caffeine.

My grandmother used to call us the Winter Witches. My mother used to call us walking hazards. I just call it another Tuesday.

I wipe the mess from my porcelain-pale skin, the pink of my lips going redder from the friction.

My striking blue eyes—which my aunt always said were “Bellamy blue, storm-bound and stubborn”—catch my reflection in the toaster.

I look like a sleep-paralyzed Victorian ghost who happens to be wearing Target pajamas.

Perfect.

I yank on jeans that hug my hips and a sweater thick enough to count as armor, then shrug into my coat.

When I step outside, a blade of cold air slices across my face, waking me up instantly.

The street is buried under twinkling lights and fake snow, wreaths hanging from poles, garlands draped across every doorway.

Snowglobe Hollow doesn’t decorate.

It blazes Christmas spirit.

The whole damn town smells like pine sap and gingerbread. My breath clouds as I walk, boots crunching in perfect rhythm with a distant choir warming up in the town square. My curls snag on my scarf, static biting at my ears.

The curse always heightens my senses.

The world feels too loud—too bright. More… alive.

I feel magic, even mundane magic, like temperature—an ambient pressure curling against my skin, prickling along my ribs. Today it hums beneath everything, restless and metallic like a storm wanting out.

I make it to my shop—Bellamy’s Hearth & Home—just as the bells above the entrance tinkle on their own. Not the simple chime they’re supposed to give. No. It's a freaking melody—a jaunty little tune, like they’re auditioning for a fantasy musical.

“I swear to the spirits,” I mutter, “if you’re about to sing—”

They chime again. Innocently… Mockingly.

Inside, the shop reeks of lavender, dried rosemary, and faint smoke.

My senses stretch, cataloguing the changes immediately.

My potions are stacked in a rainbow gradient I never arranged.

A spell jar labeled Noise Reduction throbs with bass like it wants to DJ my morning.

And every bundle of mistletoe I prepped for tomorrow’s craft fair?

They’re all dragged into a pile in the center of the floor.

Staring at me like a predator. Sentient even. “Back up,” I tell them.

They rustle like they’re offended.

I sigh and lock the door behind me. This is what happens when the curse builds—magic starts… thinking for itself. Bending things. Nudging things. Rearranging my life like an overbearing mother-in-law I don’t have.

I drop behind the counter, letting my weight settle into the stool. My thighs spill warmly against the seat, grounding me. The curse claws at my spine again, a tremor of static whispering beneath my skin.

This is getting worse. Earlier. Sharper.

I pull the grimoire from the drawer—heavy, leather, older than every building in Snowglobe Hollow combined. The worn cover feels warm, familiar, comforting in a nostalgic, mildly terrifying way.

The pages flutter open without permission… directly on a warding ritual. Simple. Elegant. Meant to stabilize magic.

My pulse races, sending me into a tizzy. “This is fine,” I whisper. “A ward is fine.”

My curls crackle. The lights flicker, shimmering back and forth with a faint buzz. The mistletoe pile scoots an inch to the left like it’s settling in for a show.

I gather ingredients with hands that won’t stop trembling. Salt. Chalk. Rosemary. Belladonna. A pinch of sugar because I’m exhausted and improvisation isn’t a crime yet. I draw the circle slowly. Carefully. The chalk line glows faint silver when I complete it—never a great sign.

My magic surges in my chest and it feels like swallowing a sparkler—bright, hot, frayed at the edges.

The curse responds, tightening like cold fingers around my ribs. I take a breath. My lips part around the incantation.

“Just a ward,” I remind myself. “Not a summon. Not a binding. Just—”

My magic leaps, sparks flying. Candles roar to life.

The grimoire slams shut. The air explodes outward in a wind that isn’t wind—cold and hot at the same time, rippling down my spine like a voice whispering finally.

The chalk ignites. Flame spirals up in a ring, consuming the circle in a flash of blue-white light.

And I feel it. Something ancient… powerful. Something answering.

“Oh… no.”

Magic snaps through the room like a whip. Every candle dies. The mistletoe pile flees behind the register. And the floor hums with the unmistakable resonance of a summons.

Not a ward…. Nor a charm. And absofuckinglutely not harmless.

It’s a summoning.

“Shit.” I scramble to the floor, sitting on shaky knees.

The floor hums harder—deep, resonant, vibrating through the soles of my boots.

Air thickens like syrup. The smell hits next.

It’s smoke, cedar, winter wind, and something darker—something sinful.

“Oh, come on,” I whisper. “I said ward. WARD. Like, the magical equivalent of putting a baby gate on my powers. I did not order a—”

The circle detonates. Blue-white fire shoots upward, then collapses inward, like the air is folding itself into a form. A person-shaped structure.

My heartbeat goes rabid. My hair floats like static-bloomed smoke around my head. Even the mistletoe peeks out from behind the counter like it’s watching a horror movie through its fingers.

The flames twist, pull, compress—splitting open. A figure steps through, rising from the dying fire like a man built out of shadows and bad decisions.

Oh. Oh no. Oh hell no.

My eyes rake over him. He’s tall, stupidly broad, muscles for days, carved like he was sculpted by someone who had clearly been in their feelings about “vengeful hotness.”

Boots hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Black hair falls in slightly messy waves around his jaw, glossy as spilled ink. His eyes—Gods help me—are green. A bright, unnatural, dancing green that flicks over me like he’s assessing both my soul and my credit score.

His presence fills the room like gravity decided to pick a favorite.

He looks at me. And smirks. I’m going to die, I think. And he’s going to be smug about it.

His voice drops like velvet dipped in smoke. “Well,” he drawls, “you’re not what I expected.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He glances around my shop with bored disdain, like he’s rating it one star on Yelp. “This is… quaint.” His gaze lands on the mistletoe pile. “And deeply pathetic.”

“Those are sentient,” I snap.

He lifts a brow. “Then they should be ashamed.”

My jaw drops. “Okay, listen—whoever you are—this was an accident, and you need to—”

“How do you accidentally summon a demon?” he interrupts, stepping fully out of the circle as it fizzles into glittering ash. “You either have catastrophic impulse control or you’re stupid.”

My blood pressure skyrockets, and I'm suddenly seeing red. “I’m not stupid,” I hiss, “and that wasn’t a summoning. It was a simple ward. Emphasis on simple. It’s not my fault the universe hates me.”

His mouth curves in a slow, dark smile. “I don’t think the universe hates you, Piper Bellamy.”

My entire body freezes. He knows my name. “How the fuck—”

“I knew the moment your magic touched me.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like this is normal. Like he isn’t standing there looking like temptation incarnate.

His eyes sweep over me—my thick thighs still braced in a defensive stance, my sweater stretched across my chest, my wild curls floating with residual static, my lips parted in shock. Something flickers in his expression. A spark? Interest, maybe. Heat.

He masks it with annoyance. “You’re… very noisy,” he mutters.

“I’m noisy?” I choke out. “You literally just crawled out of a magical inferno like you’re auditioning for a metal album cover.”

He steps closer, then another. He is VERY big. And very shirtless. And very… everything. “Who are you?” I demand, trying not to look directly at the abs that are practically sculpted invitations to sin. “And why did you come through my circle?”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “I’m Slade Athalar.” He lets the name hang in the air like thunder. “Demon,” he adds, unhelpfully.

“No shit.”

“And I didn’t come through your circle.” His smile sharpens. “You pulled me.”

“I did not—”

“Oh, you did.” He steps even closer, his heat rolling off him despite the cold draft swirling around us. “You reached for power—and found me.”

“That is NOT what happened!”

He grins. “I felt your magic all over me.”

“Can you not say it like that?”

His gaze drops to my lips, and I watch, stuck frozen in place as he bites his bottom lip. “I can say it any way I like.”

My stomach swoops. No. Absolutely not. Bad Piper. Bad hormones.

He extends a hand, like he expects me to take it. I don’t. “Put your hand away,” I say flatly.

Slade looks offended. No—shocked. Like no one has ever said no to him in the history of time.

“You summoned me,” he says slowly, “and now you’re refusing me?”

I cross my arms. “My bad. I didn’t realize demons came with customer service expectations.”

His nostrils flare. The lights flicker. Somewhere behind me, the mistletoe lets out a weak squeak.

He's too close, an array of scents assault my nostrils—smoke. Pine and sandalwood. Cold winter air mixed with scorch. The scent hits me like a memory I’ve never had. He leans down, voice a low warning rumble. “You shouldn’t have called me, Piper Bellamy.”

“I didn’t call—”

“Because now,” he murmurs, “I’m bound to you.”

Bound… wait. Bound?! My heartbeat stops. Then races. Then vaults out of my ribcage entirely. “No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—absolutely not. You are not bound to me. I do not have a demon. I barely have time for a cat.”

He smirks. “You did this.”

“I DID NOT—”

“You summoned me with emotion instead of ritual. That’s a bond invocation.” His grin is devastating. “You didn’t just summon any demon, witch.”

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across my lips. “You summoned me.”