Chapter 39
Piper
Breakfast in Slade’s estate feels like something stolen out of a myth—warm, indulgent, and too intimate to catalog.
Steam curls from the plates he’s prepared, the air sweet with ember-honey and cinnamon, the hearth casting a soft glow across the obsidian floors.
I’m wrapped in one of his robes, my legs tucked beneath me, deliciously sore in ways that make heat crawl up my throat whenever Slade looks at me for too long.
He watches me eat like it’s a private pleasure, one he savors slowly.
“More?” he asks, offering another slice of fire-glazed fruit with his fingers.
“I swear you’re trying to keep me from leaving this bed ever again,” I murmur, taking the bite.
Slade’s smile is all wicked promise. “I don’t need to try.”
Before I can respond, Newt hops onto my lap with the dramatics of a dying opera singer. He plants his fluffy butt firmly on me, tail flicking, ears flattened in full betrayal.
Slade lifts a brow. “He knows we’re getting ready to leave.”
“He’s pouting,” I say, scratching under his chin.
Newt emits a tragic groan, the sound vibrating through his entire body. It’s the same noise he made the last time he was forced through a portal—right before he tried to climb Slade’s leg like a tree and failed spectacularly.
Slade shakes his head. “He hates portal travel.”
“Hates is generous,” I sigh. “I’m pretty sure he believed he saw the afterlife.”
At the mention of another portal, Newt crawls up my chest, shoving his face under my jaw as if attempting to physically anchor me to the realm. Slade watches the scene unfold, something amused but undeniably soft warming his expression. “He’s made his preferences clear.”
“Yeah,” I breathe, holding Newt close, “he really has.”
Slade steps behind me, placing one hand on my shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin. No pressure. No persuasion. Just presence.
“You could stay here,” he says quietly—not as a command, not even as an invitation. More like a truth he’s finally speaking aloud. “Portal to work. Come and go when you want. This place… it’s yours as much as mine.”
I freeze—not in fear, but in the kind of stillness that arrives when something clicks perfectly into place.
Newt wriggles off my lap then, trotting proudly across the room toward the ridiculous miniature throne Slade had crafted for him.
All polished blackwood, crimson cushioning, and carved paw motifs that make Slade look embarrassingly proud of himself.
Newt hops up and settles into it with a satisfied chirp.
Slade glances between us, smirking faintly. “I believe the cat has spoken.”
I exhale, my heart expanding in my chest until it feels too full, too bright.
The realization washes over me—not a lightning strike, but a sunrise.
I already chose. Somewhere between the bond, the laughter, the last couple of nights spent tangled in his sheets, the Ninth, and the way Newt struts through these halls like a tiny tyrant, this place became home.
“I think…” I run my fingers along Slade’s jaw, pulling him closer until our foreheads touch. “…I’d like that.”
His breath stills. “You would stay,” he says, voice dropping into something raw and reverent, “by choice?”
“Yes.” The answer slips out easily, naturally. “By choice.”
His hand tightens faintly at my waist, the only sign that the admission hits him with more force than he lets on. Heat flares between us—deep. Anchoring.
Newt chirps impatiently from his throne as if commanding us to finish the moment so he can resume being worshipped.
Slade lets out a low laugh, rarely this soft, or this unguarded. “We should go. Your friends will be expecting you.”
I lace my fingers with his. “New Year’s Eve waits for no witch.”
“And no demon,” he murmurs.
When the portal opens—gold-edged, humming gently—Newt begins yowling with operatic despair. I scoop him into my arms, pressing kisses to his head as he trembles in outrage.
Slade stands beside me, one hand on my lower back, steady and warm.
“You know,” I say, rubbing Newt’s ears, “he might never forgive us for taking him away from his kingdom.”
Slade’s eyes gleam with quiet pride. “Good. It means he’s settled. It means you are too.”
And as we step through the shimmering light—Newt howling, Slade smiling like sin, my heart steady and certain—I know he’s right.
I’m not just visiting his world anymore.
I belong to it, and belongs to me.
***
The moment we step into the mortal realm, Newt launches himself out of my arms and sprints up the hallway of my apartment building like he’s reenacting a prison break.
Slade watches him go, hands in his pockets, thoroughly amused. “He runs quickly for someone who believes he’s perpetually dying.”
“He has dramatics in his blood,” I say, unlocking my apartment door.
“Wonder where he gets that from,” Slade murmurs—right into my ear.
I elbow him. He smirks, entirely unrepentant.
The door clicks open. Newt darts inside, then stops dead in the middle of the living room, tail puffed, glaring at everything in total disgust. He swivels slowly to face us, pupils blown wide and voice trembling with betrayal.
“Mrrroooow.”
“Oh my gods,” I exhale, dropping my coat. “He’s scolding us.”
Slade enters behind me with the unbothered confidence of a man who has ruled Hell for centuries. “I wasn’t aware cats had the capacity for moral indignation.”
“He’s not a cat,” I mutter. “He’s a tiny, fluffy menace with a superiority complex.”
Newt hops onto the coffee table, deliberately knocking a coaster to the floor while maintaining direct eye contact.
Slade folds his arms. “Is he… threatening us?”
“He’s expressing his feelings,” I say sarcastically.
“Those are threats,” Slade counters. Newt opens his mouth, unleashing a long, quivering yowl of pure, operatic heartbreak. Slade blinks. “This is emotional blackmail.”
I sigh dramatically and scoop up the furry tyrant. “Okay, fine, you can be mad at us. We know you love Hell. You literally have a throne.”
Newt bats my chin in protest.
“A throne,” Slade reminds him solemnly. “Hand-carved. Crimson upholstery. A nameplate.”
Newt hisses softly, offended that the throne is being used as leverage.
Slade gestures. “Ungrateful.”
“He’s sensitive,” I whisper, kissing Newt’s head.
“He’s spoiled,” Slade corrects—but he’s hideously proud about it.
I set Newt down before he stages a coup. “We’re packing,” I announce. “You can stay mad about it.”
Newt relocates to the top of the sofa and glares down at us with the intensity of a disappointed monarch.
Slade points up at him. “That’s not resentment. That’s judgment.”
“It’s both,” I say. “He’s multifaceted.”
Slade watches me walk into the bedroom, his eyes darkening with an appreciation I feel all the way down my spine. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe,” I call over my shoulder. “Maybe I like seeing you negotiate with someone smaller than your boot.”
“I negotiated,” Slade says, following me inside, leaning in the doorway. “He refused diplomacy.”
Inside my bedroom, I pull out three suitcases and flop them open on the rug, chuckling softly to myself. Slade takes stock of the room with fond curiosity—as if wanting to memorize the space I lived in before him. Before us.
“Pack whatever you want,” he says, voice low and warm. “You won’t need much, but I want you comfortable.”
“Oh, trust me,” I murmur, tossing in clothes, lingerie, candles, three sweaters, and a stack of books, “comfort is the goal.”
Slade arches a brow at the mountain I’m making. “You’re packing enough for eight women.”
“I need options.”
He steps behind me, hands landing lightly on my hips. “You always have options, Piper.”
The words settle deep in my chest—comfortable, certain, full of promise. I slip into the closet, choosing an outfit for the rest of the day. A soft, midnight blue velvet gown edged in gold, and a delicate gold necklace that settles right above the mark Slade left on my collarbone.
When I step out, Slade goes still.
“You’re staring,” I tease, smoothing the sweater over my hips.
“I’m admiring,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Is the difference… you’re horny?”
“Yes.”
Before he can close the distance between us, Newt stomps into the bedroom, plops beside the suitcases, and lets out a low, pitiful moan.
Slade gestures at him, dead serious. “He’s doing this on purpose.”
“He’s dramatic,” I say, hoisting the last suitcase shut. “He’ll get over it.”
Newt hides his face under his paw.
Slade sighs. “Or not.”
I lift Newt into my arms, burying my face in his fur. “You love your new home,” I murmur. “You literally refused to leave your throne. Don’t pretend you’re in pitiful shape, you’re not.”
Newt blinks at me with offended resignation.
Slade grabs the suitcases with ease, all three in one hand like they weigh nothing. “We’ll leave these here for when we return.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask softly, stepping beside him.
“Tomorrow,” he promises. “Tonight we celebrate. The mortal realm gets you for one more holiday.”
Newt meows dramatically.
Slade deadpans, “And then we go home.”
The word home settles around us—warm, certain, inevitable.
I thread my fingers through Slade’s, Newt tucked between us like a furry little prince.
“Ready?” Slade asks.
I smile. “Always.”