The curse hums through the apartment, but nothing lashes or sparks. Instead, it feels almost…indulgent. As if it approves.
After dinner, Rhea slams her palms on the table. “We’re playing Santa Shots.”
Draven groans. “Why must mortals corrupt their own holidays?”
“Because we deserve it,” she chirps. “Now, pick your damn cup.”
She lines up shot glasses shaped like tiny Santa boots, each filled with a mix of peppermint schnapps and something suspiciously glittery.
The rules are simple. Draw a card. Do what it says. Or drink.
Mine says:TELL THE TABLE WHO YOU’D KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
My pulse stutters, palms sweating, stomach churning as I flush from head to toe. Rhea grins like a wolf at me, and Draven lifts a brow. Slade tilts his head slightly, gaze never leaving mine.
“I’m drinking,” I declare.
Rhea cackles. “Coward.”
Slade’s smirk is infuriating. “Interesting choice.”
I glare at him over the rim of my glass. “Drink if you think you’re subtle.”
He lifts his own cup without hesitation. “I’m very aware I’m not.”
Rhea howls, Draven chokes, and Newt chirps like he’s judging both of us. The next card goes to Draven.
It reads:COMPLIMENT SOMEONE AT THE TABLE WITHOUT INSULTING THEM IN THE SAME BREATH.
He stares at it like he’s positively flabbergasted by the request. “I can’t do that.”
“You absolutely can,” Rhea says.
“I physically can’t!”
Slade gestures at the shot. “Drink.”
Draven drinks.
Rhea’s card says:REVEAL YOUR HOLIDAY WISH.
She doesn’t hesitate. Her eyes flick to Draven for half a second—so quick I almost miss it—and then she downs the shot.
Draven splutters. “You can’t just—what was that look?”
“What look?” she says sweetly. “You must be hallucinating.”
“I saw it,” he says sternly.
“No you didn’t,” Rhea smirks.
“Yes, I did,” Draven counters with a frown.
“Oh, look at that—your ego grew three sizes. Very Grinch-core,” Rhea says, giggling over her joke.
They bicker until Newt climbs onto Slade’s shoulder and steals the attention back to himself by meowing loudly.
Eventually, we migrate to the couch with wine, movies queued up, and blankets that smell like cinnamon and old magic. Rhea claims the armchair. Draven takes the floor, muttering about mortal furniture. Slade sits next to me—close enough that our legs brush every time I shift.
