Too hard.
I drag a hand through my hair, grounding myself before I do something catastrophically stupid—like press her against the wall and introduce her body to mine. She rounds on me, cheeks pink, curls wild. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”
I lean against her wall, arms crossed, holding her gaze like it’s a leash. “Sweetheart,” I murmur, “I’m not goinganywhere.”
Chapter 3
Piper
There should be rules about demons following you home. Like…Don’t. Or at the very least… callfirst. But Slade stands in my living room like he owns oxygen, arms folded over his stupidly muscular chest, green eyes glowing faintlyas they track every inch of me. It’s unsettling. Infuriating. It’s…annoyinglyattractive.
“Make yourself at home,” I mutter. “By all means. I justloveunexpected supernatural intrusions during the holidays.”
He doesn’t move. Hasn’t blinked. Just watches me like a predator. Like he’s waiting for me to bolt so he can chase. The heating kicks on with a soft rumble. My curtains sway from the draft, brushing against the faint hum of magic still clinging to Slade like a second skin. I tap my fingers against my thigh. “So. Ground rules.”
His lips twitch. “Rules. For me?”
“Yes.”
“Bold.” His green eyes flash mischievously.
“Shut up.”
He smirks, stepping closer. My breath catches — damn him — because he moves like a threat and a promise wrapped into one. “What are your rules?” he asks, voice low and ruinous.
“Rule one: You’re sleeping on the couch.”
“If I wanted a bed,” he says, leaning in, “I’d take yours.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “No. You will not be taking anything.” Another step. I retreat instinctively, bumping into my bookshelf. His eyes dip — briefly, hungrily — to my throat. “Rule two,” I whisper, “you can’t just… touch me. Whenever you want.”
His gaze darkens. “I’m already restraining myself, little witch.”
I hate how that affects me.
Newt leaps onto the bookshelf beside my head, hissing at Slade with theatrical disgust. I stroke between his ears to soothe him. Slade glares back, unimpressed with my furry bodyguard. “That creature has a death wish,” he mutters.
“His name is Newt,” I correct. “And he’s family.”
Slade scoffs. “I’ve slain warlords with less ego.”
I roll my eyes. “Rule three… Stop making everything sound like a threat.”
His expression turns wicked. “Sweetheart, everything I say is a threat.”
And I believe him.
I exhale, pushing past him toward the kitchen. My apartment smells like cinnamon, vanilla, and my favorite winter candle —Frostbound Hearth— something I usually find comforting. Tonight it feels… intrusive.
Slade shadows me like a large, ominous storm cloud. Every motion radiates heat. Every breath vibrates with something dark and ancient.
“Stop looming,” I snap again.
“I’m observing,” he says.
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m ensuring you don’t pass out,” he says with an eye roll.
