I forget how to breathe. He leans in—not kissing me, but letting the warmth of him settle over my skin in a way that dissolves thought.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
The curse responds instantly. Lights flicker. Warm air ripples through the kitchen. The mistletoe shivers like it’s preparing a second assault. I step back, cheeks burning, trying to hold myself together. “We need to go,” I say, voice strained. “Before this gets worse.”
Slade watches me like a man enjoying a secret only he knows. “It will,” he murmurs. “Just not in the way you fear.”
I don’t say anything to that, turning away instead, still pretending he doesn’t affect me at all.
But I know… he doesn’t believe me in the slightest. And I’m starting to wonder… do I even really believe myself?
***
Slade doesn’t push me the moment I step back from him, though the look in his eyes suggests he wants to. The curse hums in the air like static before a storm, subtle but restless, and the mistletoe in the sink gives one last irritated tremor.
I decide I need shoes, coffee, twelve layers of emotional camouflage, and—to my misfortune—Slade.
He watches me while I throw myself together in the living room, coat half-zipped, curls barely tamed, to-go mug clutched like a lifeline. His expression is unreadable in a way that makes my skin tingle. “You ready?” I ask, trying to soundneutral and definitely not flushed from that earlier good girl comment.
His smile is a slow, dangerous thing. “I’ve been ready since you woke up.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”
Slade steps outside like the cold doesn’t exist. I, on the other hand, immediately regret being human. Snowglobe Hollow’s winter air cuts through me, crisp and clean and laced with the faint scent of pine.
We walk in silence for a few blocks, my boots crunching in the snow, Slade’s footsteps soundless as shadows. “You never answered my question,” I say finally, adjusting my scarf. “Where exactly are we going?”
“A place that specializes in information.”
“That is incredibly vague,” I say with a frown.
“Intentionally.”
“And you thought taking me was smart?”
“I didn’t say it was smart,” he replies. “But it’s necessary.”
“How reassuring.”
The next city over isn’t far—just fifteen minutes by car—but every one of those minutes feels heavy. Slade’s presence fills the vehicle, warm and consuming, like the cabin itself is too small to contain him. He watches the passing trees with mild disinterest, but occasionally, when he thinks I’m not watching, his gaze flickers to me.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Frostharrow, dusk has already crept across the sky. The neon sign flickering outside the dive bar readsTHE HOLLOW TANKARD, though half the bulbs are dead and the rest are trying their best. It looks like a place where hope comes to die. “Charming,” I mutter.
“It’s a front,” Slade says simply. “Humans see a rundown bar. Magic sees doors.”
I eye him warily. “Have you… been here before?”
“Yes.”
I blink. “Do you come here often?”
His smile sharpens. “Sweetheart,” he says, leaning close enough that his breath warms the air near my cheek, “my reputation keeps me from needing to ‘come often’ to any establishment. When I walk in, people talk.”
I hate that my stomach flips.
Inside, the Hollow Tankard smells like old whiskey, pine sap, and something metallic that makes the back of my throat prickle. The lights are low, more shadow than illumination, and the patrons are a collection of misfits—witches, fae, shifters, things I can’t immediately categorize.
Every head turns when Slade enters. Not in fear. Not exactly… But in acknowledgment. He moves like a storm given legs—dangerous, hungry, familiar to every dark corner of this place.
