“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’sscoldingus.”
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, fluffymenacewith 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.
