There is nowhere in any realm I would rather be. Not in another life. Not under another sky. Only here, with him, at the start of forever.
Chapter 42
Piper
Three months later…
Spring doesn’t simply arrive at the Bellamy manor—iterupts.
At dawn, the estate stirs under a wash of rose-gold sunlight, every window catching the glow like a held breath. Flowers—Bellamy-boundand 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 aresorude. You promised you wouldn’t bawl first.”
“I said I wouldn’t bawl at thealtar.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. Ablack 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.
