“Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop glowing when you’re angry.”
“I don’t glow.”
“You’re glowing now.”
And I know—with a certainty that terrifies me more than the curse—they’renext. Not now. Not today. But eventually? Absolutely.
Rhea marches past him, setting the wine on my counter. “We’re doing dinner. A distraction. You need one. He—” she flicks her chin at Slade “—needs one. And this one—” she glares at Draven “—needs supervision.”
Slade’s shoulders relax, only a fraction, but enough to cut through my guilt. He wants to stay.
He’s giving me space only because he thinks it’s what I need. My chest tightens. “Fine,” I whisper. “Dinner.”
His eyes soften in a way that makesmy knees warm.
***
Slade cooks, and I swear it’s because he’s secretly a top chef.
The man who can tear open portals with a flick of his hand now stands barefoot in my kitchen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sautéing garlic and basil for spaghetti like sin has its own culinary school.
The scent is intoxicating—warm, rich, threaded with heat and something darker underneath that is unmistakably him. If desire had a kitchen, this would be it.
Rhea has already made herself at home, leaning one hip against the counter as she uncorks the second bottle of wine with a flourish that suggests she’s uncorked far more dangerous things in her life. “You realize,” she says, eyeing the pot Sladeis stirring, “that you’re setting unrealistic expectations for mortal men everywhere.”
Slade doesn’t look up. “I’mnotmortal.”
Draven drags a chair out, flips it backward, and straddles it like he’s starring in a demonic boyband audition. “Oh please. Stop flirting with her through food. It’s embarrassing.”
Slade’s reply is calm, elegant, and deadly. “You’re only mad because you’d burn water.”
“I can cook,” Draven says indignantly.
“You can heat,” Slade counters dryly.
“Heatiscooking,” Draven says with mock shock.
Rhea snorts into her wine. “Heat is combustion, sweetheart. Cooking is chemistry.”
Draven shoots her a look. “Are you implying I lack finesse?”
“I’m outright declaring it.”
They glare at each other with enough friction to power a city grid. The room hums around them—my garland twitching,the ornaments chiming softly like little traitors delighted to witness whatever’s happening between those two.
Newt curls at Slade’s hip, tail flicking as though he’s claimed the demon lord as his new favored scratching post. When Draven reaches for a piece of freshly grated cheese, Newt launches a paw swipe so aggressive it would have taken a finger if Draven hadn’t yanked his hand back.
“Your familiar is broken,” Draven mutters.
“He just has impeccable taste,” Slade answers without missing a beat.
Something in my chest warms. The apartment itself seems to agree, because the lights brighten and dim in a soft pulse—like a pleased exhale.
Dinner ends up being ridiculous and perfect. The table is warm with candlelight. The spaghetti, of course, is sinful. Rhea tells a story about accidentally turning an ex-boyfriend’s hair bright pink during an argument. Draven counters witha tale involving a stolen carriage, a banshee choir, and absolutely no shame.
Slade watches me more than he eats, every glance low and lingering, like he’s memorizing the way I laugh. And I—I can’t stop smiling. I forgot what that felt like.
