“Yes,” I murmur into her hair. “But he can’t touch you.”
She tilts her face up to mine. “He already has,” she says softly. “He touched Veda. And that means he touched every one of us.”
My jaw tightens. Because she’s right.
And because I would burn every realm—hell included—before I let him do it again.
Chapter 23
Piper
I’ve been pretending the world didn’t tilt under my feet the moment I opened Veda’s grimoire. It’s been two days since I learned the curse wasn’t some Bellamy mishap—it was heartbreak weaponized. Since Lucifer lookedat me like history had found its favorite puppet again. And two days since I let Slade hold me while I shook apart.
I’ve avoided him since. Not because I’m angry—because I’m terrified of how safe I felt in his arms.
The apartment hasn’t forgiven me for the avoidance. The lights flicker with attitude. Newt keeps knocking shit off counters like I personally hurt his feelings. And I swear the Christmas garland sighed dramatically this morning.
Slade has kept his distance, like he thinks he’s done something wrong, which somehow makes everything worse. His silence presses against the room like a missing heartbeat.
I’m pacing the living room, hair flowing down my back, dressed in a purple sweater, a black corduroy skirt, dagger earrings brushing my neck, and my familiar amethyst pendant warm against my skin, trying to calm down after closing shop for the day. Nothing is working.
I’ve already put on my favorite Christmas slippers—Jack and Sally willalwaysbe superior—thinking the familiar soft and plush goodness would be the ticket.
I’m on my third turn about the room, when the air shifts—warm, shadow-sweet, unmistakably Slade—and I freeze.
He stands in the doorway, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I know.” I fold my arms. “I’m just… not ready.”
“Then we talk when you are.” He turns slightly, giving me the option to step away.
Something in my chest twists. This—this gentle consideration—is exactly why I’ve been avoiding him.
Before I can reply, magic ripples across the room like someone dragging a hand through water.
Draven steps through the veil. Of course he does.
He doesn’t knock—doesn’t greet. He gives me a long once-over and clicks his tongue. “Bellamy, you look like you’re deciding whether to adopt a puppy or commit a homicide. Honestly? Either works.”
I blink, then scowl. “Whyare you here?”
“To check your pulse,” he says. “Slade’s been sulking so hard the Ninth Realm developed a weather pattern.”
Slade growls. “Draven…”
“What? I’m helping,” he says with a fake pout.
He’s not helping.
Before I can answer, the apartment door opens and Rhea breezes in wearing designer jeans, a cashmere sweater and a winter coat that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She holds two bottles of wine and something that smells like cinnamon and mischief.
She sees Draven, he sees her, then they stare. The air between them all but crackles with mutual disdain.
“Oh,” Rhea says flatly. “The problem child.”
Draven smirks. “Sunshine.”
