“They’re hostile,” I smirk. “I like hostile. It’s festive.”
Piper grabs my sleeve. “Slade. Please.”
Something in my chest tightens. Then I turn, and open the door. The carolers pivot as one creature, their smiles stretching too wide to be natural. “HELL-O SLAAAAADE,” the old man bellows.
Behind me, Piper squeaks. Rhea swears.
I step fully outside, letting the cold bite across my skin. The carolers swarm closer—too close. One woman leans in, eyes glassy. “Do you WORSHIP the season—?”
“No,” I say. “Back up.”
They don’t. They sing louder. “GLORIAAAAAA—IN EXCELSISDEOOOOO—”
My eye twitches. I could immolate them. I could snap my fingers and disperse the enchantment with the efficiency of a scalpel. Instead… I growl, voice layered with demon command. “Silence.”
The carolers choke off mid-note, expressions drooping. Their shoulders slump. One drops a tambourine.
Behind me, Piper whispers, “Holy shit.”
Rhea whispers, “Can he do that again?”
The carolers blink in a dazed rhythm before slowly shuffling away, muttering confused fragments of lyrics like traumatized mall Santas. When the last one disappears down the snowy street, I shut the door.
Piper exhales a long, shaking breath. Rhea flops dramatically onto a counter. “Pipes. Babe. You NEED to break this curse. I don’t care if you have to kiss him, bind with him, or marry him on Christmas Eve—but I am NOT living through demon-adjacent carolers again.”
Piper’s jaw drops. “Rhea!”
Rhea shrugs. “I’m just saying. That washorrifying.”
Piper turns to me. She’s angry, and equally terrified. Confused. Too beautiful for her own good. And she whispers, “Slade… what’s happening to me?”
I step closer—slow, careful, gentle in a way demons aren’t taught to be. “The curse is waking,” I murmur. “And it recognizes you.”
Her breath trembles. “As what?”
I meet her eyes. “The one who must finish what Veda never did.”
Her pulse stutters, but she doesn't balk. I take that as a good sign.
Rhea’s amber eyes widen again. “Oh… shit.”
The ornaments tremble. Then, the lights flicker. And magic tightens around Piper like she’s the spark at the center of a long-buried fuse.
Chapter 10
Piper
My apartment smells like pine, cinnamon, and exhaustion. Mostly exhaustion. Because it’s been days—maybe a week? Time has lost meaning—since Slade wedged himself into every waking moment of my life—and I’m hanging on by a thread thinnerthan tinsel.
I’m so tired I could cry over a candy cane.
Slade, of course, is thriving. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t tire. Slade doesn’t even pretend to understand personal space. He just… exists. Constantly. Loudly. Hotly. And the worst part?
I’m not hating it as much as I should.
My resolve—the thing I held so tightly it practically left marks—is slipping. Little by little. Hour by hour. Touch by accidental, infuriating, devastating touch. I hate him. I want him.
Both statementscancoexist, unfortunately.
