Chapter 34
Piper
Ishould recognize the look on Slade’s face the second he steps into the shop—quietly smug, deliberately composed, carrying that slow-burning anticipation that usually means my night is about to getinteresting.
Instead of pouncing or issuing some sinful command, he simply leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed, eyes glinting with intent. “Close early,” he says, voice smooth as warm dusk. “We can even dress up. I’m taking you out.”
I blink at him, halfway through labeling a jar. “Out?”
A hint of a smile curves his mouth. “Dancing.”
That single word sends a spark straight through me. Slade doesn’t do crowds. He doesn’t do thumping music, mortal nightlife, or even strangers at Lucifer’s Ball breathing near me.
“You want to go dancing?” I ask slowly.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says, stepping close enough that the shadows lean toward him, “where the world is loud enough that you forget everything except me.”
Well. That’s that.
I lock the door, and we head straight home.
By the time I finish getting ready, the sun is gone and the apartment hums with quiet anticipation.
When I step out of the bathroom, smoothing down the shimmering black dress hugging every curve, Slade is waiting in the living room—lounging on the arm of the sofa like temptation sculpted itself and got comfortable.
His eyes drag over me in a slow, possessive sweep.
“Little witch,” he says, voice deepening, “you’re… devastating.”
My pulse trips. Because he’s not wrong—he looks lethal in his open-collar black button-down, sleeves rolled up over rune-marked forearms, the sharp line of his jaw begging to be kissed or bit.
“You clean up pretty damn well yourself,” I say.
He steps forward, fingers brushing my waist—light, but enough to spark heat down my spine. “Come with me.”
***
The place he chooses glows with enchanted neon—gold dust drifting in the air, music pulsing low and dark, weaving magic through the bass. The crowd is warm, the lights soft, the whole room thrumming with spell-infused energy.
Slade guides me through the bodies with a hand at the small of my back, protective even in the chaos.
He doesn’t sit, doesn’t offer a drink. No, Slade takes my hand, pulls me straight onto the dance floor, and it’s like the world tilts.
The music is slow and heavy, almost sin-thick, designed to pull bodies flush. Slade draws me in with both hands—one curling at my hip, the other sliding along my back, each touch deliberate.
“Relax,” he murmurs into my ear, lips brushing my skin. “Let me hold you.”
I sink into him easily—tooeasily—our bodies finding rhythm like we’ve been dancing together for years. His thigh slips between mine, and myhands find his shoulders. The bond hums low and sweet, like it approves.
He watches me closely—every breath, every sway of my hips, every bite of my lip. His eyes dip to my mouth, then lower, then rise again with a hunger that coils heat low in my stomach. Slade turns me, my back against his chest, his hands guiding my hips with a slow, devastating precision.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice all velvet and warning. “Move like that again and I’ll take you home before the next verse.”
“Maybe Iwantyou to,” I whisper.
His fingers tighten, just enough to make my knees soften.
“We’re not done here,” he breathes, turning me to face him again. “Not yet.”
