“You’ve been flushed since you woke up.”
I stab my fork into my eggs with unnecessary force and shove a bite into my mouth to avoid acknowledging him. Then it happens. A faint creak above the refrigerator. I look up, stomach sinking.
A sprig of mistletoe dangles precariously above me, shifting as if caught on a breeze that… doesn’t exist. “Oh, for the love of—no. No, we are NOT doing this.”
It wiggles. Slade doesn’t turn around. “Mm.”
“Slade,” I warn, backing away as the mistletoe dips closer.
He finally glances over his shoulder, obviously amused. “It’s reacting to your magic again...”
“It’shuntingme.”
“It’senchantedto encourage intimacy,” he counters, clearly amused at my panic.
“I didn’t enchant it!” I screech at him.
“And I didn’t either.”
“Then WHY is it—oh gods—”
Themistletoe swoops. I yelp and duck as it dives dangerously close to my face. Slade catches it in one smooth, effortless motion, holding it up between us. He studies it like it’s mildly amusing instead of a predatory plant with romance-based murder in its heart. “Harmless,” he says, mouth curling up in amusement.
“It’splotting,” I argue. “Put it outside.”
“It will return.”
“It can find… NEW FRIENDS.”
He tosses it into the sink. It hops out again, cheery and malevolent. Slade smiles. “Persistent. Just like the bond.”
“Stop. Saying. Bond,” I grit out, grabbing a wooden spoon like I’m about to declare war.
He watches me with a slow, warm amusement that makes my blood hum. “If you hex me every time I’m right, you’ll wear yourself out.” His tone changes—low, dangerous, enticing. “Careful, Piper.”
My pulse jumps. I hate that he sees it. I straighten, dragging air into my lungs. “Rhea said something about old spellwork. You said the Bellamy line kept records. If you know something, you’re going to start talking.”
“I will.”
“When?” I ask, obviously wanting a clear answer so he can’t back out of it later.
“After breakfast.”
“Slade.”
He steps close—too close—and slips a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up with disarming gentleness. “We’ll look today,” he says. “I’ll take you to what remains of your family’s archives. Some were lost. Some were hidden. Some only demons know the location of.”
A cold shiver crawls down my spine. “And you know this how?”
“I’ve lived long enough to see where witches hide their secrets. Your bloodline is predictable in that way.”
“That’s not an answer,” I argue.
“It’s the one you have.”
Heat slides up my neck. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, letting his thumb brush the edge of my jaw, “are learning to lean into what you pretend you don’t feel.”
