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. “Ihave 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 Ididn’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.
Newt lets out an indignant chirp at the movement and climbs higher into my arms, pressing his warm, solid weight against my chest as if herefuses to miss a single second. Slade reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a small velvet box, black as a starless sky, and when he opens it the faint light from the manor catches on deep green and dark fire.
The ring is breathtaking. An emerald so dark it’s almost black at the edges, cut to catch hidden flashes of forest and storm, encircled by a halo of black diamonds that glitter like captured void. All set into a band of black gold etched with delicate runes that glow faintly in response to our bond. It looks like something that belongs in both worlds—witchcraft and hellfire, winter forest and midnight throne. It looks like it was always meant to find its way to my hand. My breath comes out in a shaking rush. “Slade,” I say again, but now it is not a warning or a protest, it is a plea, a prayer, a tremor.
He looks up at me as if I am the only star in a sky he thought was empty. “Piper Bellamy,” he says, voice steady even as his magic tremblesagainst mine, “you are my mate, my equal, my favorite catastrophe. You are Lady Athalar in all but name. I love you in this realm and every realm, in every season, in every quiet morning and every reckless night. I love the way you burn and the way you heal. The way you care for a ridiculous cat, a cursed bloodline, and a demon who never thought he deserved any of it. I want every mundane moment and every impossible one. I want to fight with you, laugh with you, cook too much food with you, and spend the next hundred New Year’s Eves arguing about which movie we watch after midnight.” His eyes shine, wet at the edges, and something in my chest cracks open and floods with light. “Will you marry me?” he asks softly, holding the ring up like an offering. “Will you be my wife, my queen, my partner in all things? Will you stand with me in hell, in your shop, and everywhere in between and let me love you for the rest of this immortal mess I call a life?”
There is a beat where the world seems to hold its breath. Inside, I can hear the muffled chant beginning—Ten… nine… eight…—voices rising with giddy anticipation.
Newt shifts in my arms and plants one soft paw on my collarbone, as if he is physically holding me upright, and something inside me aligns so completely it almost hurts. Every fear, every unanswered question, every shadow of Veda’s story, every weight of the curse that used to press on my spine, all of it feels distant now compared to this clear, overwhelming truth.
I love him. I choose him.
Not because the bond demands it, not because fate wrote it, but because somewhere between hexed mistletoe, Lucifer’s Christmas Ball and hellfire bubble baths… This impossible, infuriating, devoted demon became the safest place I know.
Tears spill freely down my cheeks, hot on my cold skin, and I laugh through the sob. Because of course I’m crying while holdinga fat cat in a bow tie. All on a balcony while my demon lord kneels in the snow with a ring forged of hell. “Yes,” I choke out, my voice breaking on the word, and then stronger, fuller, more sure.
“Yes, Slade Athalar. I will marry you. I want all of it. The shop, hell, Newt’s ridiculous throne, and every version of us that exists. I love you.” The bond surges. A bright, resonant chord that rings through my magic and his. Through the wards around the manor and the very stones under our feet, and for a moment I swear the stars above us flare a little brighter.
He exhales a sound that’s half laugh, half ragged relief, and his hands shake just enough that I see it as he slides the ring onto my finger. The metal is cool against my skin, then warms instantly, adjusting, accepting, sealing something that feels both ancient and brand new. Newt leans down and sniffs it, then gives a tiny approving trill like he has just signed off on a sacred contract.
Inside the ballroom, the countdown reaches three… two… one… and the instant the crowd roars “Happy New Year!” the sky above the city explodes into color.
Fireworks bloom in cascading arcs of gold and red and sapphire, reflections dancing in Slade’s eyes as he rises to his feet and pulls me into his arms just as the first brilliant flare bursts overhead. Behind us, there is a sudden, deafening pop and the muffled shrieks of delighted shock.
Aunt Petunia’s confetti bomb goes off right on cue, magically amplifying it so that shimmering bursts of gold and silver paper shower the ballroom. All of it whirling past the glass like enchanted snow, some of it magically drifting out onto the balcony in lazy spirals.
It clings to Slade’s dark hair and catches in my lashes, sparkling in Newt’s fur. When Slade cups my face and kisses me—really kisses me, slow, deep, reverent, with his hands cradling my jaw as if I am something priceless and irreplaceable.The taste of champagne and winter air and his devotion mixes with the faint paper-sweet tang of confetti dust on my lips.
The cheers from inside swell, muffled but joyful, and I hear Rhea’s voice rise above the din—“SHE SAID YES, DIDN’T SHE? I KNEW IT!”—followed by Draven’s amused drawl, Elle’s delighted squeal, and Aunt Petunia’s triumphant, “I told the ancestors!” but all of it feels far away, like background music to the only moment that matters.
Slade rests his forehead against mine when the kiss finally breaks, both of us breathing hard, Newt wedged snugly between us like a small, purring barrier of judgment and approval. “Happy New Year, Piper Bellamy,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.
I smile through my tears and hold up my hand so the ring catches the exploding light. “Happy New Year, Slade Athalar,” I whisper back. “Fiancé.” Theword feels wild and perfect on my tongue.
He smiles, slow and unguarded, undone in the most beautiful way. Above us, fireworks break open the sky. Confetti drifts in shimmering arcs. Newt purrs steadily against my ribs. And standing here—on this balcony, with my engagement ring warm on my finger—Ifinallyunderstand.
