Chapter 4
Piper
Iwake up to the smell of cedar, smoke, and pure demonic arrogance. Fantastic.
My curls are a disaster, my face is flushed, and my magic is prickling under my skin like static begging to misbehave. I sit up slowly, scanning the living room. Slade is standing by the window. Just… standing there.
Back turned, shoulders broad enough to block out half the damn morning light, arms crossed as he stares outside at Snowglobe Hollow like the town owes him money. His black hair is messy, his muscles unfair, and his entire presence is screaming… I hate joy.
He glances over his shoulder. “You slept,” he says flatly.
“Yeah,” I mutter, pushing my curls back. “That’s what humans do.”
“In case you forgot… demons don’t.”
“I don’t care.”
He turns fully toward me—slow, predatory, gorgeous. “I wasn’t asking for permission for you to care.”
My stomach dips. I ignore it. “Okay, demon boy.” I grab my robe and tie it tight. “We need to set some actual fucking boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” he repeats dryly, crossing his arms, somehow making a plain black shirt and fitted jeans look sinful. “Between bonded souls? How cute.”
“I will throw you out the window.”
He smirks. “I’d survive.”
“Don’t test me.”
Newt hops onto the back of the couch, fixing Slade with a homicidal glare. “Your familiar is deranged,” Slade mutters.
“He’s not my familiar,” I snap. “He’s my cat.”
“He attacked me,” Slade mutters in disdain.
“You existed!”
Slade’s lip twitches. I have to get out of this apartment before I combust. I grab my phone, scrolling through my Bellamy contacts until I reach the only person insane enough to understand this.
Rhea Bellamy—resident chaos witch, egotistical and successful CEO of House of Rheadora, a fashion empire that she's built from the ground up. It's inspiring, and slightly intimidating if I’m being honest. It helps she’s my older cousin by three years, Elle’s older sister—the lesser of the two evils—but she happens to be away in Milan.
But… on the other hand. Elle would set the moon on fire if it looked at her wrong.
I hit the call button anyway.
She picks up on the first ring. “PIPER LEIGH FUCKING BELLAMY,” she screeches before I say a word. “I felt that magical spike from THREE TOWNS OVER. What the hell did you do?”
I wince. “Good morning to you too.”
“Oh no,” she says, voice going gleefully feral. “No, no, no. Don’t you dare try to downplay this. The entire Bellamy line just hiccuped. Spill.”
I swallow. Slade is staring at me like he can hear every word. He probably can. “I—uh—may have attempted a ward.”
“A ward?” Rhea cackles so loud I pull the phone away. “A WARD? In DECEMBER? You absolute MORON. Piper, honey, sweet baby witch, the curse is at its PEAK.”
“I KNOW!” I screech back.
Slade snickers. I flip him off.
“What exactly happened?” Rhea demands, equally delighted.
“There was a circle,” I mumble. “And… candles. And basically… well… my magic was being rude.”
“And then?” She prompts.
“And then something came through.”
Silence. Then—“OH MY GOD YOU SUMMONED A DEMON.”
She is shrieking with joy. Actual fucking hysterical joy.
“It was an accident!”
“There is NO SUCH THING as accidental demon summoning,” she cackles. “Piper, what the FUCK were you thinking?”
“I WASN’T—”
“You never do,” she interrupts. “Which demon is it? I swear to god if it’s the Imp King I’m going to piss myself laughing—”
“A higher demon,” Slade calls from across the room, bored.
Rhea gasps so loud it whistles through the phone. “Oh. My. GOD. A HIGHER DEMON? Piper, you’re DONE. You’re DEAD!" She squeals dramatically, then pauses like something just clicked in her head. “OR… You’re MATED.”
“I AM NOT—!!!”
I almost throw my phone. Slade smiles, slow and wicked, all while Rhea continues screaming in my ear. “Send me a photo RIGHT NOW. If he looks like a decaying corpse I’m breaking the curse myself. No cousin of mine is mating with a demon that isn’t hot.”
I squeak. Slade leans against the wall like a magazine centerfold. “Is he hot?” Rhea demands.
“No,” I lie.
Slade raises an eyebrow.
“You’re lying,” Rhea says practically cackling all over again. “You only sound like that when you’re lying or orgasming. You remember that time when I walked in on you and—”
“RHEA,” I bark.
Slade visibly perks up at the word orgasm. Andddd… I contemplate walking into traffic. “I’ve got to go,” I say, mortified. “Work. Life. Panic. Goodbye.”
“NO—SEND PICTURES—”
I hang up. Slade’s smirk is catastrophic. “No,” I warn him.
“You have an interesting family,” he says, clearly amused.
“No.” Is that seriously the only word I know?
“She’s not wrong about the bond.”
“NO.” Yep, it’s definitely the only word I’m capable of saying right now.
He steps toward me—slow, deliberate, heat radiating off him like a storm. “Piper.”
“Nope.” Oh! One for the win. Gods, I need help.
“You’re trembling.”
“That’s fear,” I lie.
“That’s arousal.”
“No the fuck it’s—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?” I screech, eyes widening a fraction as he stops directly in front of me. He’s close enough that my breath hits his chest.
“Because you summoned me,” he murmurs. “And now I’m in your world. Your home. Your orbit. And whether you accept it or not…”
He lifts my chin with two fingers. “…you are mine.”
My heart flatlines. Newt hisses like a disapproving chaperone. Slade doesn’t blink. I break first, stumbling back. “I’m going to work,” I croak. “You are going to stay here and not talk… Or… breathe loud. Or touch anything.”
Slade leans against my doorway like sin incarnate. “I go where you go.”
“You go NOWHERE.”
He only grins, and my heart plummets to my ass all over again. I’m in over my fucking head. And he knows it. Fucking bastard. A very big, very sexy, very smug bastard who is currently leaning in my doorway like he’s posing for a demon-themed advent calendar.
“Stay,” I tell him.
Slade lifts a brow. “I’m not a dog.”
“Then stop acting like you’re going to follow me everywhere.”
He steps closer. Too close. His voice drops into that deep, I’m-your-problem-now rumble. “I go where the bond leads.”
“No,” I hiss, poking his chest. “You go WHERE I SAY.”
His grin is slow and devastating. “Say please.”
I shove past him before I lose my last functioning brain cell, turning around to yell, “STAY. HERE.” It comes out like I’m yelling commands at a toddler or malfunctioning Roomba.
Slade leans against my kitchen counter, arms crossed, smirk sinful. “For a little witch who summoned a higher demon, you give terrible orders.”
“Stay,” I repeat, jabbing a finger at him.
“Make me.”
I nearly scream. Newt does scream—hissing from atop the fridge like my feral hype man.
Slade snorts. “I’ll consider staying.” His eyes drag over me, slow and molten. “If you say it nicely.”
“I hope your horns grow crooked.”
He… laughs. Actually laughs.
Great. Add “demon delighting in my misery” to the morning checklist.
Finally, finally, I storm out and slam the door.