Slade folds his arms. “I don’t embarrass.”
Rhea smirks. “I’ve met your brother.”
Slade’s eye twitches. “What does Draven have to do with anything?”
“Ohhh,” I say, leaning in. “Draven’s going to be there?”
Rhea freezes. Actually freezes. Neck, cheeks, tips of her ears—every inch turns sickly shade of red.
Slade glances at me like we’ve just uncovered an ancient secret. “Interesting.”
Rhea points a threatening finger at him. “Shut it.”
He tilts his head. “You’re flushed.”
“I am not flushed.”
She is very flushed. I bite back a smile. “Was he invited?”
“He invites himself everywhere,” Rhea snaps. “Like a very sexy fungal infection.”
Slade’s brows rise. “Sexy?”
Rhea’s eyes go wide. “I mean—no—well—he’s—shut. up.”
Slade leans closer to me, voice low. “She’s adorable when she panics.”
Rhea glares, amber eyes glowing like candle flames about to leap from their wicks. “I am notpanicking. I simply refuse to acknowledge that demon-shaped problem until absolutely necessary.”
“So he’s coming,” I say sweetly.
She groans like she’s dying. “Yes. He grew out of ‘too good for mortal gatherings’ sometime around 1870 and now he attends everything. Including this.”
Slade smothers a smirk. “Should I tell him you expect three dances?”
“Do it,” she threatens, “and IswearI will hex your tailbone.”
He opens his mouth—probably to ask if I want to place bets on the day she finally snaps and kisses Draven senseless—but I elbow him before he can instigate. Rhea smooths her hair back, eyes bright with that Bellamy mischief that always seems one wink away from trouble. “Formal attire,” she reminds us, then shakes her head like she thought of a better idea. “Actually I’ll send over something for you, Pipes. Something bold, dramatic… witchy!”
I raise a brow. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”
“It’s perfect,” she corrects, waving off my accuracy. “And Piper?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression softens in a way that hits unexpectedly deep. “Youbelongat this ball. You always have. You weren’t just invited—you areexpected.Wanted.”
A small breath catches in my chest. Because it’s true. Even after my parents’ deaths, even after I drifted from gatherings I couldn’t handle, even after the curse made holidays feel unpredictable and heavy—my family never closed its doors.
Rhea says it like a reminder, one I didn’t know I needed.
Like awelcome home.
The shop seems to warm at her voice. Afternoon light settles along the shelves, turning the jars into stained-glass mosaics. The air smells like chamomile, clove, and something faintly sweet from the batch of enchanted wax melts curing near the register.
Slade finishes tying up an order and steps behind me, presence falling into place like it was always meant to be there. His aura brushes mine, subtle yet solid—a warm, steady tether. Rhea notices instantly, her grin blooming slow and victorious.
“Oh, that’s adorable,” she mutters. “You two are disgusting.”
