“That doesn’t mean I LIKE you.”
His head tilts. “Your magic does.”
“That is irrelevant,” I argue, dismissing him with a wave of my hand.
He leans closer, voice dropping. “You’re my mate, Piper.”
I freeze. “And you didn’t know it would be me,” I whisper.
“No.” His expression softens—not much, but enough that it cracks something inside me. “I expected someone ruthless. Power-hungry. Vicious. Someone who would destroy me before I could destroy them.”
My throat tightens.
“But I got you instead.” His voice roughens almost imperceptibly. “And you are…infuriatinglyhuman. Stubborn, bright. Braver than some demons I know. Soft in ways I don’t deserve.”
That catches my breath. But I shove the moment aside because I can’t—can’t—accept this. “You only want my help because of the curse.”
“No.” He moves closer, crowding into my space, heat rolling off him. “I wantyou. The curse is incidental.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Demons don’t lie,” he says quietly. “Not about this.”
Something beats hard against my ribs. I step back. “I don’t want any of this.”
He doesn’t chase me this time. He just watches. Patient… Hungry. Certain. “Liar,” he murmurs.
Before I can react, the front door bursts open and Rhea barrels in like a chaotic missile wrapped in a peacoat. She stops dead, sees Slade, then me, and how close we are. “Oh,” she says slowly. “Well. This looks…charged.”
I bury my face in my hands. Slade grins like he’s been handed a holiday gift soaked in gasoline.
Rhea drops her purse. “Okay. Someone start talking. Preferably Piper. Slade looks like he’s seconds from doing something… irreversible.”
Slade’s gaze flicks to me—low, dark, promising. “I won’t do anything irreversible,” he says lazily. “Yet.”
Rhea fans herself. “Yup. I’m staying.”
I groan. “Please leave.”
“No,” both of them say at once.
I glare up at the ceiling, searching for divine intervention. Instead, a strand of tinsel on the nearest tree twitches and floats toward Slade like it wants to perch on his horns. I smack it down.
He smirks. Rhea squeals. The curse hums, and I realize—with bone-deep dread—that keeping him away from me?
Is becoming impossible.
***
“Okay,” Rhea says, planting her hands on her curvy hips, brown hair spilling in glossy waves past her shoulders. Her amber eyes glitter with mischief and concern—heavyon the mischief. “Someone explain the tension in here before I spontaneously combust.”
“You won’t combust,” Slade says with a lazy smirk. “You would sizzle.”
Rhea blinks. “Oh my gods, he finally speaks.”
“He talks too much,” I snap.
Slade tilts his head, amused. “You enjoy it.”
