“A throne,” Slade reminds him solemnly. “Hand-carved. Crimson upholstery. A nameplate.”
Newt hisses softly, offended that the throne is being used as leverage.
Slade gestures. “Ungrateful.”
“He’s sensitive,” I whisper, kissing Newt’s head.
“He’sspoiled,” Slade corrects—but he’s hideously proud about it.
I set Newt down before he stages a coup. “We’re packing,” I announce. “You can stay mad about it.”
Newt relocates to the top of the sofa and glares down at us with the intensity of a disappointed monarch.
Slade points up at him. “That’s not resentment. That’s judgment.”
“It’s both,” I say. “He’s multifaceted.”
Slade watches me walk into the bedroom, his eyes darkening with an appreciation I feel all the way down my spine. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe,” I call over my shoulder. “Maybe I like seeing you negotiate with someone smaller than your boot.”
“I negotiated,” Slade says, following me inside, leaning in the doorway. “He refused diplomacy.”
Inside my bedroom, I pull out three suitcases and flop them open on the rug, chuckling softly to myself. Slade takes stock of the room with fond curiosity—as if wanting to memorize the space I lived in before him. Before us.
“Pack whatever you want,” he says, voice low and warm. “You won’t need much, but I want you comfortable.”
“Oh, trust me,” I murmur, tossing in clothes, lingerie, candles, three sweaters, and a stack of books, “comfort is the goal.”
Slade arches a brow at the mountain I’m making. “You’re packing enough for eight women.”
“I need options.”
He steps behind me, hands landing lightly on my hips. “You always have options, Piper.”
The words settle deep in my chest—comfortable, certain, full of promise. I slip into the closet, choosing an outfit for the rest of the day. A soft, midnight blue velvet gown edged in gold, and a delicate gold necklace that settles right above the mark Slade left on my collarbone.
When I step out, Slade goes still.
“You’re staring,” I tease, smoothing the sweater over my hips.
“I’m admiring,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Is the difference… you’rehorny?”
“Yes.”
Before he can close the distance between us, Newt stomps into the bedroom, plops beside the suitcases, and lets out a low, pitiful moan.
Slade gestures at him, dead serious. “He’s doing this on purpose.”
“He’s dramatic,” I say, hoisting the last suitcase shut. “He’ll get over it.”
Newt hides his face under his paw.
Slade sighs. “Or not.”
I lift Newt into my arms, burying my face in his fur. “Youloveyour new home,” I murmur. “You literally refused to leave your throne. Don’t pretend you’re in pitiful shape, you’re not.”
