Chapter 42
Piper
Three months later…
Spring doesn’t simply arrive at the Bellamy manor—it erupts.
At dawn, the estate stirs under a wash of rose-gold sunlight, every window catching the glow like a held breath.
Flowers—Bellamy-bound and wild—burst open across the grounds the moment my feet touch the balcony.
It’s as if the land has been waiting for me to wake, waiting for this day, waiting to bloom.
My wedding dress hangs in the center of the room like a small miracle.
Ivory silk forms the base—smooth as water, soft as moonlight.
Woven through the entire bodice and cascading down the skirt are faint blush-toned florals.
Magnolia, hellebore, anemone. Not printed, or embroidered—stitched in with protection sigils, the Bellamy way.
Their runic seams pulse faintly as I approach, shimmering rose-gold at the edges, each one whispering quiet blessings.
Protection, longevity, devotion, and fertility.
My veil lies beside it—long, flowing, with delicate floral points embroidered at the hem. Snowdrops, foxglove, and early roses—each enchanted to sway as though caught in the gentlest of breezes, even indoors.
Rhea clasps a hand over her mouth the moment she sees me step into the gown. “Piper Leigh Bellamy, if you don’t stop looking like the goddess of spring herself, I’m going to cry directly onto your bodice.”
Elle pushes past her, already crying. “You are so rude. You promised you wouldn’t bawl first.”
“I said I wouldn’t bawl at the altar. This is pre-altar,” Rhea sniffs.
They work around me in practiced tandem. Rhea adjusts the sigil placement on the skirt, fingertips glowing faintly. Elle pins my curls back into a soft half-up twist, sliding in the flowered circlet—tiny evergreen tips mixed with blush florals, bridging Yule to Ostara.
“You look like the first breath of spring,” Elle whispers.
Rhea nods, awed. “Slade’s going to black out.”
I breathe, slow and steady. “Is he… ready?”
Elle smirks. “He’s been ready since the Yule Ball. Today he’s downright feral about it.”
They help me into my shoes—ivory satin with tiny gold sigils etched across the straps—and step back, quiet, reverent.
“Let’s go get you married,” Rhea says softly.
***
The Bellamy gardens have been transformed into something out of myth. A canopy of arching willow branches sweeps over the aisle, their leaves glinting with dew. Blooms spill across every surface—blush, white, pale green—as though the earth has been coaxed into peak spring overnight.
Floating candles circle slowly above us, drifting like tiny suns. Petals fall from nowhere, slow as snow.
And at the end of the aisle—Slade.
My breath leaves me in a single rush. He wears charcoal-gray that fits him with sinful precision. A black shirt, and muted sage tie, with an evergreen sprig resting in his lapel, tied in black silk. His hair is swept back. His five-o’clock shadow sharpens every line of his face.
But it’s his eyes—dark green, edged in storm—that nearly stop my heart.
In his hand, resting against his chest, is the ring box.
I know what’s inside. I still nearly falter at the sight.
An emerald so dark it verges on black at the edges—cut in a shape that catches hidden flashes of forest and storm when the light touches it.
Encircled by a halo of black diamonds that glitter like captured void.
And set into a band of black gold, etched with runes that glow faintly whenever our bond stirs.
A ring forged of witchcraft and hellfire. Of winter forest and midnight throne. A ring that belongs to both of our worlds.
Slade looks at me—and the storm in his eyes softens into wonder.
Petunia officiates, of course. In a gown that looks like she stole it from a solstice queen.
“We gather,” she begins, voice soft but carrying, “in the Blooming Hour. At the turning of Ostara. Under the veil of new life and old magic, to unite Piper Bellamy and Slade Athalar.”
Magic trembles in the air, as Rhea and Elle step forward first—the Bellamy blessing.
Rhea places her hands over mine. “For protection.”
Elle places hers over Slade’s. “For devotion.”
Their combined magic blooms around us in a shimmering blush-and-emerald haze.
Then the handfasting cord is brought forth—evergreen braided with rose-gold silk and a thread of shadow from Slade’s realm. As Petunia winds it around our wrists, the sigils on my gown glow brighter, responding to the bond knitting between us.
“Piper,” Petunia asks, “do you welcome Slade as your partner in all cycles, all realms, all magic?”
“I do.”
Her voice gentles. “Slade Athalar, do you welcome Piper as your equal, your tether, your chosen match in fate and eternity?”
Slade never looks away from me. “Always.”
The cord flashes with light—rose-gold, emerald, black-gold—and our sigils burn into visibility beneath our skin. Matching sigils flare beneath our skin, shimmering just long enough for the gathered magic to recognize them, to seal them, to claim them.
For a heartbeat, the world stills. The garden holds its breath. The candles steady. Every blossom seems to turn toward us, petals trembling with a magic older than the Bellamy line itself. The air warms, infused with the scent of new spring—honeysuckle, rain, earth waking beneath sunlight.
I feel Slade’s magic thread around mine, dark heat brushing against my warmth in a slow, reverent spiral. Our bond tightens—not the fierce, desperate snap of survival, but something gentler. A promise.
Petunia’s smile brightens, her voice soft as she declares, “You are bound.”
The cord unfurls from our wrists in a shimmer of stardust—and Slade doesn’t wait for permission.
His hand comes to my cheek, tender and sure, the other sliding to the small of my back as though my body has always belonged beneath his touch.
Then his mouth is on mine—soft, reverent, devastating—stealing the breath from my lungs and the rhythm from my heart.
The kiss tastes like spring rain, like wildfire, like eternity.
The guests erupt around us.
Flowers release their petals in a sudden swirling cascade, drifting like enchanted snow. Floating candles flare brighter. Magic hums through the Bellamy gardens like a song.
Rhea sobs—loudly, dramatically, while Draven looks positively uncomfortable.
Elle fans her with a handkerchief embroidered with tiny foxglove blossoms and Caelan grimaces in her direction.
Petunia wipes a delighted tear onto the sleeve of an unfortunate fae lord who looks entirely unprepared for Bellamy affection.
Newt lets out a triumphant, echoing meow, tail flicking with the smugness of a creature who believes this entire wedding was orchestrated for him personally.
Slade pulls back just enough that our lips still brush, breath mingling in the charged air between us. “Mine,” he murmurs, low and reverent.
“Yours,” I breathe back, dizzy with joy, with magic, with the sheer enormity of this moment.
He presses another kiss to the corner of my mouth, slow and tender, as the applause swells and magic curls around us in warm spirals. Petunia lifts her arms, proclaiming us joined before realms, before spring, before fate itself.
And as Slade threads our fingers together—our rings glinting, our sigils still faintly glowing—I know with absolute certainty.
This is the beginning of our forever…
And the world is blooming with us.