Chapter 35
Slade
Piper is a vision of soft winter warmth and quiet anticipation as she stands in the center of the apartment, fastening a gold crescent-moon comb into her curls.
Her hair falls in dark, untamed spirals down her back, catching the light with every movement.
She wears a deep forest-green dress, fuzzy socks, boots, a cozy cream sweater, and my coat draped over her shoulders because she insists it’s warmer than hers.
She’s wrong.
It’s warm only because it’s mine, and everything that touches her reacts.
Newt perches on the counter like a small, judgmental emperor. He knows something is happening, tail swishing in irritation. He’s been fed. He’s been brushed. He has no reason to complain.
He complains anyway.
Piper adjusts her bag, tucks a strand of curls behind her ear, then looks up at me with that blend of curiosity and nerves she tries so hard to hide. “So, this is it? I’m meeting… your world.”
I cross to her slowly, savoring the sight of her effortlessly taking up space in what used to be my life’s quiet corners. “You’ve already met most of it. Hell. My people. My brother. Lucifer.” I pause, letting my thumb brush the side of her jaw. “Now you meet my home.”
Her breath shivers across my finger.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” I murmur.
“Oh, I’m not nervous,” she says. Then after a beat—“I’m nervous-adjacent.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. She beams at the sound, delighted and a little smug that she’s the one who pulled it from me. Newt yowls like he’s not the least little bit impressed by the joke.
Piper points at him. “He knows. He can sense a portal coming.”
“He suspects he’ll hate it,” I confirm.
She snorts. “He hasn’t even been through one yet.”
Newt yowls—long, offended, absolutely certain of his impending doom. I scoop him up. He goes boneless in my arms like he’s bracing for cosmic betrayal. Piper snorts behind her hand.
She steps closer and her hand slides into mine like it belongs there. “Okay. Let’s go before he stages a coup.”
Her trust hits me like a brand—hot, anchoring, absolute.
I raise my free hand and tear reality open.
The portal unfolds in shimmering layers of obsidian and pale gold, curling outward like a living thing. The air hums with familiar power, and she stiffens only for a moment before leaning subtly into my side.
“Stay close,” I murmur.
“As if I’d ever let go.”
I chuckle and guide her through. The realm shifts the second we cross.
Gone is the apartment’s cramped warmth and twinkling Christmas clutter.
Here, winter is a different creature—vast, humming with old magic.
Snow falls in lazy spirals, glittering like powdered starlight over the obsidian path that stretches toward the mansion.
Piper stops walking, breath catching.
The Athalar Estate rises ahead of us—massive towers of dark stone veined with glowing sigils, pulsing like the heartbeat of an ancient beast. Lanterns carved into the shapes of serpents line the path, their flames bending toward her as if bowing.
Newt clings to my coat with his claws as if hanging on during the apocalypse.
Piper whispers, “Slade… this place looks like it stepped out of a myth.”
“It did,” I answer simply. “You’re part of that myth now.”
Her cheeks flush, and she squeezes my hand. The wards surge at her arrival—recognizing her bond to me, recognizing her as Lady Athalar, claiming her in ways she hasn’t yet grasped.
The doors open before us, tall enough to dwarf giants, carved with constellations and ancient runes. Warm air spills out—sweet with incense, firewood, and the faint metallic scent of old magic.
Newt lifts his head, and sees the interior. Then, the literal throne I commissioned and picked up yesterday, placing it near the hearth—a velvet monstrosity in midnight-blue, adorned with tiny sigils for protection and comfort.
The cat howls in awe, then leaps out of my arms and sprints inside like he’s been reincarnated as royalty.
Piper blinks. “Did you… make my cat a throne?”
“He is a prince of the Ninth by association,” I say dryly. “It was overdue.”
The joy that bursts across her face nearly brings me to my knees.
Piper walks forward slowly, taking in everything—the vaulted ceilings painted with constellations that shift with real celestial movements, the sweeping golden staircases, the enormous windows overlooking forests lit with glowing flowers, the soft hum of magic that drifts like invisible snowfall.
“Slade… this is…” Her voice cracks softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s yours,” I say. “All of it.”
Her hand finds mine again, fingers intertwining on instinct.
“What do you want to see first?” I ask. “The library? The gardens? The upper levels? The forge?”
She grins. “Show me everything.”
My chest tightens. My magic rises. The estate hums in recognition.
“Then we’ll start with the heart,” I tell her, guiding her deeper into the house. “And show you what it means to be Athalar.”
Newt appears beside us with a regal strut, his tail arched like he owns the estate. Piper laughs—soft, delighted—and the estate brightens, every lantern rising half an inch. It’s as if the realm itself is pleased by her joy.
And I realize this is the beginning—her first true step into my world, and my world is already reshaping itself around her.
I take her hand gently, threading our fingers together as I lead her from the library into the long, glass passage I only ever walk alone.
Tonight, the torches burn warmer, casting molten ribbons along the stone and glass.
Her reflection keeps pace beside mine—wild curls, flushed cheeks, lips parted in wonder.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her thumb brushing the back of my hand in gentle swirls.
“You’ve seen the halls. The library. Newt’s throne. Now I want to show you something that’s always been mine.”
She lifts a brow. “Slade Athalar, if this is some weird demon lord metaphor—”
I smirk. “If I planned to seduce you with a metaphor, Piper, you wouldn’t be standing upright.”
Her cheeks flush brighter, magic coiling lightly in the air. And the realm reacts—to her. My mate.
We step onto the balcony, the world opening before us.
The terrace stretches wide, its marble floor lit with silver-fire braziers.
Far below, the Ninth Realm glows like an endless constellation—terraces carved from dark stone, ribbons of blue fire, swaying silver-leafed trees whispering in the night breeze.
Above us, the twilight sky deepens, a wash of blue-black velvet punctured by pulsing, music-making stars.
Piper walks forward slowly, bracing her hands on the carved railing, her breath visible in the cool air. Her hair lifts in a soft breeze, curls haloing her like a celestial crown. “Slade,” she breathes. “This doesn’t look like Hell.”
“This is the east side of the Ninth,” I murmur. “The quarter of the old nobility, order, history, and… things we don’t speak of lightly.”
“And you rule this.” She turns to me, eyes wide. “All of this? This is your home.”
“Now ours,” I say, my voice low. “Everything I have belongs to you.”
Her breath stutters. The bond warms between us, steady and sure.
She looks back out at the view. “It feels alive.”
“It is,” I answer softly. “The stars especially.”
She studies them—each pulsing, chiming sphere shifting like distant, blinking eyes.
“They respond to emotion,” I explain. “To magic. To intention.”
“And what do they hear from you now?” she asks quietly.
“Desire,” I say.
The word tangles in the space between us. She doesn’t withdraw, or tense. She steps closer.
Slowly, deliberately, she moves into my space until her back brushes my chest. I place a hand on her waist, fingers curving over the velvet-soft warmth of her body, guiding her gently against me.
Her exhale shivers through the cold, and the air thickens around us.
I bend my head, letting my lips graze the place where her neck meets her shoulder—a soft, reverent stroke of my mouth over her beating pulse.
Her hands rise to the railing, tightening around the carved stone as if she needs grounding.
“That spot,” I murmur against her skin, “is mine.”
Her body arches imperceptibly, offering more. She tastes like winter and warmth. Like home. My other hand slips from her waist to her hip, curving around it, guiding her back into me with slow, sinfully deliberate pressure. Her breath catches, the sound small and breakable and perfect.
“Slade…” she whispers.
“Look up,” I tell her softly.
She lifts her chin, looking up at the glittering mass above us. The stars swell brighter—responding not to me, not to my realm, but to her. To the emotion blooming in her chest that she doesn’t hide, or mask.
They pulse in rhythm with the bond.
I slide my hand up her arm—slow, deliberate—until my palm covers her heart.
Her pulse leaps against my touch. She lets her head fall back against my shoulder, exposing her throat in a gesture that is instinct, trust, surrender.
“You belong here,” I murmur, letting my lips brush her ear. “In my world… In my life. With me.”
Her fingers slide along my arm, knuckles brushing mine, her breath warm and uneven.
And slowly, she turns in my arms—facing me, framed by the soft chiming twilight. Her eyes shine with an emotion that vibrates through the bond like a deep, resonant chord.
“Then show me,” she says, her voice low and sure.
The stars flare like a breath caught in the throat of the realm. The night bends toward us.
And I step into her fully—letting the seduction deepen, letting the magic thrum, letting the world around us fade into a warm, pulsing hush.
My hands slide under her dress, finding the lace of her underwear and tearing it aside without ceremony, circling her clit with fast strokes.
I claim her mouth with a deep, consuming kiss, silencing the breath that was about to escape her.
This is beyond slow seduction now. This is famine, and the Ninth Realm is our witness.