Chapter 41
Piper
The last hour of the year winds itself around the Bellamy manor like a spell, slow and glittering and full of suspended breath.
The ballroom hums with music and laughter and the soft clink of crystal, but all I really feel is the weight of Slade’s hand at my waist and the way my heart keeps stuttering like it is trying to keep time with some secret rhythm only he knows.
Gold and silver lights drape from the vaulted ceiling like captured stars, flickering in the polished marble and scattering over swirling gowns and dark suits, and every so often, when I catch my reflection in one of the tall windows, I almost do not recognize myself.
Deep midnight-blue velvet hugging every curve, the sweetheart bodice holding my breasts in a way that makes Slade’s eyes darken every time he looks at me, the gold snowflake belt at my waist blazing with diamond fire—a Bellamy heirloom that feels like it has chosen me as much as I chose it.
My curls are piled up and pinned with delicate gold leaves, my neck bare except for a simple chain that catches the light when I move.
Newt is draped across my arms like a spoiled, purring brat in his tiny gold bow tie, smug, regal, and perfectly aware that everyone in this house worships him.
The orchestra shifts into something slower, richer, notes spilling like warm wine, and Slade turns toward me with that look—the one that burns and softens at the same time, the one that says I am his whole world and he cannot quite believe it is allowed.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, like he is asking for a lifetime and not a song, and when he takes Newt carefully from my arms and deposits him with dignified ceremony into Elle’s waiting hands—“Guard her, Your Furry Highness”—my heart does a foolish little flip because he treats my cat like a king and me like something even more sacred.
He leads me out into the center of the ballroom and the crowd eases back as if some unseen hand smooths them away, leaving us a circle of polished marble and candlelight.
His hand slides to my waist, warm and sure, his other taking my fingers, and when he pulls me in, our bodies fit together as though every dance for the last five hundred years has been rehearsing for this one.
The music threads around us, low strings and a lilting piano that tastes like nostalgia in the air.
I let my head tip toward his chest, close enough to smell cedar smoke and winter air and that faint thread of lightning ozone that clings to his skin no matter which realm we are in.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly, guiding me through a slow turn, the skirt of my dress whispering around my legs. “Unusual for you, little witch.”
I smile up at him because he is right. My words feel lodged somewhere behind my ribs tonight, caught between the joy of the bond thrumming steady and warm in my chest and the awareness that something is gathering in him, something heavy and bright and edged with nerves he is trying very hard to hide.
“I’m thinking,” I say, my voice barely above the music.
“About how two months ago my biggest problem was cursed mistletoe and now I’m dancing with a demon lord at a New Year’s Eve ball wondering if I own enough sensible shoes for my new part-time life in hell. ”
His mouth curves, slow and reverent, and his thumb brushes an absent pattern against my waist. “You don’t need sensible shoes,” he replies. “You have me.”
“You’re the opposite of sensible,” I whisper, but it comes out soft and fond and so full that my chest aches.
He leans down, his forehead almost touching mine, and the lights catch in his eyes, turning the deep green into something brighter, almost golden. “And yet you chose me,” he says, and there is wonder in it still, like he keeps expecting to wake up and find himself alone again.
I think of the curse breaking under Yule’s light, the way the bond snapped fully into place with that last, breathless yes, the way my magic has settled since, no longer flaring in panic but flooding me with something steady, rooted, whole.
I think of Newt’s throne in the Ninth Realm, of waking up tangled in emerald sheets and demon arms, of the smell of coffee and warding smoke and faint brimstone in our kitchen.
“I did,” I answer, and I press closer, because it feels important that he feel this truth against his skin. “And I would again. Every time.”
The song swells and our bodies move together as if the music is inside our bones, as if every step is a promise. Somewhere to the left, I hear Rhea’s delighted shriek of laughter as Draven pretends to be scandalized by something she has said, and Elle’s softer giggle as Caelan whispers in her ear.
Aunt Petunia glides past, arms full of what looks like an entire armory of enchanted party poppers and confetti charms, her silver hair piled high and skewered with a wand that glows faintly red at the tip.
She gives me a look so full of mischief my stomach flips and mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Get ready,” before winking and disappearing back into the throng.
The giant clock at the far end of the ballroom begins to glow faintly, numbers outlined in gold fire above the musicians’ platform, reminding everyone that midnight is no longer a distant, glittery idea but a destination.
Slade’s hand tightens at my back, just a fraction, but I feel it like a storm rolling in.
“Piper,” he says, and my name on his tongue is a caress, a vow, a slow inhale. “Come with me.”
Before I can answer, he guides us smoothly out of the circle and toward one of the tall glass doors that lead to the balcony, his body a shield between me and any curious eyes.
Newt, who has apparently decided Elle and Caelan are inadequate staff, leaps gracefully from her arms and trots after us, tail high, bow tie aggressively jaunty.
The cold hits me the moment we step outside, crisp and sharp.
Full of the metallic tang of coming snow, but it’s chased quickly by the heat radiating from Slade’s body as he closes the door behind us and pulls me toward the stone balustrade.
The city below is a sea of flickering lights and distant laughter.
The sky overhead is dark velvet pricked with stars, and the faint shimmer of warding spells woven over the manor like fine lace.
Newt hops neatly onto the railing and settles against my side, his purr a low, rumbling counterpoint to the soft music spilling through the glass.
Somewhere far off, fireworks are already beginning—small, early bursts of color that bloom and fade against the darkness like scattered, impatient wishes.
For a breath, we simply stand there, the three of us pressed together against the cold stone.
The world narrows to the feeling of Slade’s hand over mine on the rail, and the way our joined magic hums in quiet contentment under my skin.
Then he turns to face me fully and the look on his face steals whatever air the winter breeze left behind.
There is no teasing there, no lazy arrogance, no sharp, dangerous edge. There is only intensity—raw and open and luminous, like someone took every locked-away emotion and pulled it to the surface.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing along my jaw with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting, and when his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth I feel my heart tip forward in my chest like it’s about to fall into his palm.
“You changed everything,” he says quietly, the words a low vibration between us. “You summoned me into your living room with a miscast spell, a bad idea and somehow, instead of binding me with chains, you gave me a home.”
I laugh, a wet, shaky sound. “I also almost set my Christmas tree on fire.”
His mouth curves, but his gaze does not soften. “Yes. That too.”
His fingers drift down, resting against the gold snowflake at my waist, the diamonds flashing as if they are listening.
“I have walked realms that mortals have never heard of,” he continues, voice threaded with memory, with old loneliness.
“I have held power that made kings tremble. I have commanded legions and walked alone through decades, convinced that was my fate. Necessary. Inevitable.”
He inhales, and the cold air clouds between us, briefly visible before vanishing. “And then you looked at me with wild hair, stubborn eyes and told me I was being dramatic. The Ninth Realm has not been the same since.”
My throat tightens. Tears slide hot and uninvited to the corners of my eyes, and Newt headbutts my elbow in what I decide is emotional support. “Slade…” I whisper, but he shakes his head slightly, his hand tightening at my waist as if he is anchoring himself with me.
“You broke a curse older than your coven,” he says.
“You chose to face the truth instead of hiding from it. You chose to trust me when you had every reason not to. You chose a demon lord, Piper Bellamy, and in doing so you gave me something I didn’t know I could have.
You gave me a life I want to keep waking up in. ”
My vision blurs.
The bond pulses strong and bright, carrying his sincerity straight through every shield I have ever tried to put up.
Behind the glass, I hear the murmur of voices rising, the subtle shift of the crowd as people move toward the center, and the clock inside begins to chime the warning for the final countdown, each tone ringing through the magic-warmed air like a distant bell.
Slade takes a slow breath, and then—without breaking eye contact, without a single ounce of his usual showmanship—he drops to one knee on the cold stone.
The sight of him kneeling there, dark suit dusted with snowflakes, verdant eyes lifted to mine with reverence and a hint of very real fear, knocks the wind from my lungs.