Chapter 34
Piper
Ishould recognize the look on Slade’s face the second he steps into the shop—quietly smug, deliberately composed, carrying that slow-burning anticipation that usually means my night is about to get interesting.
Instead of pouncing or issuing some sinful command, he simply leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed, eyes glinting with intent. “Close early,” he says, voice smooth as warm dusk. “We can even dress up. I’m taking you out.”
I blink at him, halfway through labeling a jar. “Out?”
A hint of a smile curves his mouth. “Dancing.”
That single word sends a spark straight through me. Slade doesn’t do crowds. He doesn’t do thumping music, mortal nightlife, or even strangers at Lucifer’s Ball breathing near me.
“You want to go dancing?” I ask slowly.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says, stepping close enough that the shadows lean toward him, “where the world is loud enough that you forget everything except me.”
Well. That’s that.
I lock the door, and we head straight home.
By the time I finish getting ready, the sun is gone and the apartment hums with quiet anticipation.
When I step out of the bathroom, smoothing down the shimmering black dress hugging every curve, Slade is waiting in the living room—lounging on the arm of the sofa like temptation sculpted itself and got comfortable.
His eyes drag over me in a slow, possessive sweep.
“Little witch,” he says, voice deepening, “you’re… devastating.”
My pulse trips. Because he’s not wrong—he looks lethal in his open-collar black button-down, sleeves rolled up over rune-marked forearms, the sharp line of his jaw begging to be kissed or bit.
“You clean up pretty damn well yourself,” I say.
He steps forward, fingers brushing my waist—light, but enough to spark heat down my spine. “Come with me.”
***
The place he chooses glows with enchanted neon—gold dust drifting in the air, music pulsing low and dark, weaving magic through the bass. The crowd is warm, the lights soft, the whole room thrumming with spell-infused energy.
Slade guides me through the bodies with a hand at the small of my back, protective even in the chaos.
He doesn’t sit, doesn’t offer a drink. No, Slade takes my hand, pulls me straight onto the dance floor, and it’s like the world tilts.
The music is slow and heavy, almost sin-thick, designed to pull bodies flush. Slade draws me in with both hands—one curling at my hip, the other sliding along my back, each touch deliberate.
“Relax,” he murmurs into my ear, lips brushing my skin. “Let me hold you.”
I sink into him easily—too easily—our bodies finding rhythm like we’ve been dancing together for years. His thigh slips between mine, and my hands find his shoulders. The bond hums low and sweet, like it approves.
He watches me closely—every breath, every sway of my hips, every bite of my lip. His eyes dip to my mouth, then lower, then rise again with a hunger that coils heat low in my stomach. Slade turns me, my back against his chest, his hands guiding my hips with a slow, devastating precision.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice all velvet and warning. “Move like that again and I’ll take you home before the next verse.”
“Maybe I want you to,” I whisper.
His fingers tighten, just enough to make my knees soften.
“We’re not done here,” he breathes, turning me to face him again. “Not yet.”
We keep dancing, bodies sliding into each other with heat and promise. His thumb strokes slow circles against my side, and my pulse stumbles every time he pulls me closer. The magic in the room thickens—cinnamon, smoke, warmth—wrapping around us like a spell.
I don’t know how long we dance like that, the two of us grinding against each other with careful precision. It’s only when Slade pulls me from the dance floor and toward the front door that I realize I’ve never felt this alive.
When we finally step outside, snow is falling again in slow and quiet little flakes. Slade wraps an arm around me, pulling me against him as we walk through the near-empty street. The world somehow feels warmer next to him—less dangerous, more possible.
The snow catches in my curls. Slade brushes a thumb across my cheek, everything about him soft, intense, and unbearably mine.
“Piper,” he murmurs, voice rough with something deeper than desire. “Let’s go home.”
There’s no hesitation. No fear. Just heat, certainty, and the bond humming between us.
I take his hand. And we walk the rest of the way home.
I don’t release his hand until we’re inside my apartment and the lock has clicked shut behind us. The air is cold from the snow outside, but the heat Slade generates is immediate and overwhelming.
I turn, ready to be kissed, ready to be taken, but he simply leans back against the closed door, his dark green eyes heavy with a patience that feels like a threat.
“That dance was a declaration,” he states, his voice low. “Now, I take the payment.”
He doesn’t move. He waits. For me to cross the floor, for me to submit to the inevitable. The challenge hums in the air between us.
I walk to him, slow and deliberate, shedding my coat onto the floor as I go. My blue eyes don’t leave his. When I reach him, I place my hands flat on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart.
He still doesn't touch me, letting me feel the weight of my own desire, my own need to be dominated.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Piper?” he asks, his fingers hooking lightly under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“I’m giving you control,” I whisper, my voice catching.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise is a coil tightening low in my belly.
This time, he kisses me like he’s starving—a kiss of deep possession that sweeps away the cold and the noise and the magic of the nightclub. His hands finally settle on my waist, not to hold me, but to lift me, slamming me against the door with a controlled force that makes my teeth click.
I wrap my legs instantly around his waist. He pushes my skirt up, bunching the fabric at my hips, his fingers finding the edge of my silk underwear.
“Mine,” he growls against my throat, the word a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my bones.
He doesn’t waste time. His fingers slide beneath the silk, slick and demanding, and the sudden, intense pressure sends a bolt of desire straight through me. I gasp, arching my back, pressing my mouth frantically to his jawline.
He releases my mouth and lowers his head, his teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive curve of my collarbone, establishing his claim with a lingering, biting intensity. His hand moves, finding the perfect, unrelenting rhythm to drive me wild.
“Look at me,” he commands, pulling his face back just enough for me to see the darkness in his eyes. “Tell me what you need, little witch.”
“You,” I choke out, unable to form anything coherent. “Now.”
He laughs—a low, dark sound of triumph. “Now is my command.”
He frees himself, his length hot and heavy against my core.
He positions me, making me feel every heavy inch of him, and then he drives home in one single, punishing thrust. My head falls back against the wood of the door, and the impact rattles my teeth, but the shock is immediately replaced by agonizing, beautiful pleasure.
He moves with a furious, controlled rhythm, pinning me against the door, my feet dangling, dependent entirely on his strength.
He takes me high and hard, dominating the space between us.
Dominating every action, demanding every single sound and tremor from my body.
I clutch his black hair, pulling him closer, begging without words for him to speed up, to take me past the edge.
He stops abruptly, pulling back halfway, breathing hard.
“Say it,” he orders, his voice raw.
“Please," I beg, frantically, my hips twitching.
“No,” he shakes his head, watching the desperate plea in my blue eyes. “The other one’s.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp, surrendering the final layer of my control.
“Good girl,” he rewards me with a deep, shuddering thrust that steals my breath and sends me into a blinding, ecstatic climax, my voice lost to a silent, drawn-out scream.
He follows quickly, burying himself deep, his body going rigid, his demonic magic flooding me in a sweet, heavy wave. He holds me against the door, the only thing keeping us upright, and we hang there, spent and breathless in the aftermath.
Slowly, his grip softens. He lets my feet slide down the door, letting me rest against his chest. He kisses the top of my head, a gentle, possessive gesture.
“We need to get off this door,” he murmurs, his tone returning to his normal, rough affection.
We stumble, toward the living room sofa, sinking onto the cushions, tangled and spent. Slade pulls the discarded throw blanket over us. He rests his cheek on my curly hair, his energy settling.
The room is warm in the soft glow of the Christmas lights we never bothered turning off. My breathing evens out, matching the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. His arm wraps around me, firm and protective, like he’s anchoring us both to this moment.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just breathe, tangled together, the quiet intimacy of the night settling around us like a second blanket.
Eventually, Slade exhales—a slow, deep release that brushes the top of my head.
“Piper.” His voice is soft, low, rough from everything we just did. “Tomorrow… I want you to come with me.”
I blink up at him, still tucked into his side. “Where?”
“My estate,” he says, brushing a thumb across my cheek with deliberate tenderness. “There are preparations I need to oversee. It’s time you saw it. All of it.”
A little spark flares low in my chest—excitement, anticipation, maybe even a nervous thrill.
His estate isn’t just a place. It’s his world. His history. His home.
“You’re sure?” I ask, my voice quiet.
His eyes meet mine—steady, full of meaning he doesn’t even try to hide.
“I want you there,” he says simply. “Not as an obligation. Not because of what we’ve been through. I want you there because you’re mine. And because I want you to see the place where I learned to be who I am.”
My throat tightens. I lift a hand and stroke my fingers along his jaw, feeling the warmth beneath my fingertips.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”
A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth—one that still somehow manages to be gentle. He lowers his head and kisses me softly, tender where the rest of the night was anything but.
“Good,” he murmurs against my lips. “Then tomorrow, we begin something new.”
I melt into him, letting his warmth sink deep beneath my skin. Newt hops onto the back of the couch, gives us a look so judgmental I swear Slade nearly laughs again, and flops down in dramatic resignation.
“He hates sharing me,” I mutter.
“He hates sharing everything,” Slade replies, running his thumb slowly down my arm. “Including the air we breathe.”
I snort softly into his chest, and he presses another kiss into the top of my head. “Rest now,” he murmurs, voice dipping back into that low, intimate timbre that always undoes me. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”
I curl closer, my body fitting against his like it’s the place I’ve always belonged. The room fades to a warm haze—the lights, the heat, the lingering scent of him on my skin—and my eyes drift shut.
Tomorrow, I’ll step into his estate. His world. His life.
But tonight, wrapped in his arms on this sofa, with my curls tangled against his chest and his breath steady on my skin—I fall asleep knowing everything in front of us is ours now.
And for the first time in my life… I’m ready for whatever comes next.