Chapter 40
Slade
The Bellamy manor rises before us like a living constellation—balconies lined with gold-twinkling lights, frost glittering across carved stone, warmth spilling from the windows in soft amber ribbons. The last time we were here, the halls held the magic of Yule.
Tonight, the air feels different. Charged, expectant, heavy with everything I’ve planned—and everything I’m terrified she’ll see before I’m ready.
Or maybe that weight is simply my heart trying to beat its way free.
Beside me, Piper adjusts the midnight-blue velvet of her gown, the gold thread catching in the lantern light as she turns. Her eyes flick down to my hands just as I adjust my collar for the fourth time.
“Nervous?” she asks, smirking.
If she knew why, she’d be the one nervous.
“Bellamy gatherings are… unpredictable,” I say smoothly.
She laughs softly. “You love unpredictable.”
I love her. The rest is insignificant.
Her fingers slip around my arm, warm and sure. Newt perches on my shoulder wearing his gold bow tie as though he’s descended from royalty. His tail flicks—imperious, dramatic—as if he personally approves tonight’s aesthetic.
The great doors open before our hands touch them.
Warmth crashes out—music, laughter, clinking glasses, and the layered chorus of too many conversations happening at once. A celebration of endings and beginnings, drenched in magic.
We step inside—and Piper stops.
“What the hell?” she whispers. “Slade… this was supposed to be immediate family.”
I scan the crowd, realizing she’s right.
Aunt Petunia’s “little gathering” looks more like a magical summit. Cousins. Great-aunts. Matriarchs. Families I’ve never seen. People I would swear aren’t even fully human. Bellamy’s have multiplied like enchanted rabbits.
Piper’s brows shoot up. “Petunia said small. This is not small.”
I lean closer. “Your family must have a different definition.”
“Yeah,” she deadpans. “Apparently ‘immediate’ means the entire fucking bloodline plus half of Europe.”
Her irritation is adorable. I hide my smile behind my hand.
“Slade,” she whispers, “why are there so many people here?”
Because your aunt is a menace who somehow sensed I’m proposing tonight. Because this family treats events like omens and wants witnesses. Because the Bellamys never do anything quietly. Ever.
But I cannot tell her that.
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” I say solemnly.
She gives me a suspicious squint, but before she can interrogate me further, Rhea spots us practically breaking her neck to change directions. “PIPER! SLADE!” she shrieks, barreling through the crowd like a glamoured hurricane. She slams Piper into a hug, then jabs a finger at me. “Behave.”
“I always behave.”
She snorts so loudly a passing witch chokes on her champagne.
Elle glides up behind her—gold gown, amber eyes bright. She kisses Piper’s cheeks, then gives me a look that promises polite, glitter-covered assassination if I break her cousin’s heart.
Then—unexpectedly—Draven and Caelan appear.
“Pipes!” Caelan grins, scooping Piper into a delighted spin that sends her laughing.
Draven stands beside Rhea as though he’s been summoned by destiny or sheer mischief. His smirk is all knowing villainy. “Slade,” Draven drawls.
“Draven.”
Rhea elbows him so hard he doubles over. Draven wheezes. “I was being friendly!”
“It was suspicious,” she snaps.
They bicker their way into the crowd, and I lean down, murmuring into Piper’s ear, “They’ll be mated within three months.”
“Three weeks,” she whispers, eyes sparkling.
Her laughter warms through the bond, curling under my ribcage like a private sunrise.
I rest my hand on her waist—because I can, because she’s mine, because tonight I intend to make that forever. The ring burns in the inner pocket of my coat. Dark green stone. Black diamonds. Forged with ancient Ninth Realm magic. A promise waiting for her hand.
At the stroke of midnight, I’ll ask Piper Bellamy to marry me.
The thought tears through my composure like a blade.
Aunt Petunia materializes out of nowhere—glittering, regal, chaos incarnate.
“Children! There you are!” She hugs Piper fiercely, then pats my cheek like I’m her favorite cursed nephew, and Newt practically dives off my shoulder for Piper’s arms. “Take care of her tonight. And bring her around after midnight so I can brag to the ancestors.”
I choke.
Piper blinks. “Brag about what?”
“Your future!” Petunia chirps, floating off before I can collapse on the spot.
Piper turns, brows arched. “Any idea what she means?”
I lift her hand and kiss it. “Not a clue.”
Lie. I’m sweating under immortal composure. She watches me for a long moment—as though she feels the truth thrumming beneath my skin—and smiles softly.
The night unfolds like a tapestry. Champagne. A dozen dances. Elle’s laughter ringing like bells. Rhea out-drinking Draven. Caelan conjuring indoor snowflakes to impress Elle. Newt staring judgmentally from Piper’s arms like the world’s fluffiest chaperone.
The lights dim, and the orchestra swells. The countdown magic begins shimmering in the air—the veil between this year and the next stretching thin.
I tighten my arm around Piper’s waist. The ring feels heavier in my pocket, as the moment draws closer. Every heartbeat thrums like fate knocking on my ribs.
Piper turns toward me, eyes gilded by candlelight. “Slade? You okay?”
I cup her cheek gently. “More than okay.”
She must feel it—my magic trembling, anticipation rising like a tide. She leans into my touch, trusting, open, perfect.
One more hour. One more dance. One more breath before I kneel before her.
Tonight, I offer her my future. I ask her to be mine past death, past realms, past eternity. New Year’s Eve is endings and beginnings.
But with her? It feels like destiny.
And nothing—not hell, not fate, not prophecy—will stop me from claiming forever with Piper Bellamy.