We put on a Christmas movie. I have no idea which one. My awareness narrows to the warmth of his arm against mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the low rumble of his chuckle when I mock the acting. When I lean forward to grab my wine, his hand steadies my knee—not intentional, not seductive, just instinctive.
But the curse reacts anyway. The room brightens, ornaments sway, and the damned garland shivers like it’s sighing happily. I feel it inside my ribs too—warm, alive, tugging gently toward him.
And Gods help me… I let myself lean into the moment.
For the first time in days, the weight in my chest loosens. The fear dulls. The world feels possible again. And I realize, with slow, inevitable clarity—I don’t want to lose this.
Any of it.
Not the laughter. Not the chaos. Not the demon lord who cooks like seduction is a language.
I’m falling.
Fast.
And the only thing scarier than the curse in my blood is the way he’s waking something in my heart.
Chapter 24
Slade
The apartment is quiet without her.
Not empty—Piper has never left a room empty in her life—but quiet in a way that feels wrong. No soft humming while she brews potions. No clatter of jars. No gentle, restlessbuzz from her magic. No Newt yowling like the world revolves around him.
Just the hush of morning light sliding through the curtains and the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air from where she slept.
Three days until Christmas.
Three days until the deadline hanging over her head like a blade.
Three days until she must choose me—or walk away and let the curse devour another century of Bellamy women.
She left early, dressed in a soft winter sweater that clung in ways my hands have memorized, crescent-moon earrings catching the light, curls pinned back on one side so her throat was exposed just enough to tempt the darkest pieces of me. She kissed Newt goodbye, ignored how long she lingered looking at me, and walked out before she could talk herself into staying or I could talk her into never leaving again.
And now I stand in her kitchen, hands braced on the countertop, staring at the space she usually occupies like a man teetering on the edge of something sharp and inevitable.
Tonight, I’m done holding the line.
If she’s going to decide, she deserves to do it with the whole truth in front of her—not just the curse, not the fear, not the weight of a five-century wound.
She deserves what the bond feels like when it is not twisted by grief. She deserves me without restraint, deserves pleasure so consuming it silences doubt and drowns hesitation.
Tonight, she will know exactly what it means to be mine.
The planning starts slowly. Then consumes me.
The first step? Atmosphere.
I move through the apartment with deliberate care, letting my magic rise in quiet ribbons of shadow and warmth. Candles light at a gesture—hundreds of them, soft gold and deep crimson,flickering like stars fallen into her home. Their glow settles gently, casting warmth on the walls, softening edges, turning the entire living room into something intimate and low-voiced.
Then the rose petals.
Human tradition, yes—but there is something deeply satisfying about the softness of them spilling in a path from the front door to her bedroom. A trail meant only for her eyes, her steps, her anticipation.
The scent of roses mixes with candlelight and the faint winter-cold air drifting through the cracked window. It smells like desire waiting to be touched.
In the bathroom, I draw a bath.
