Before I can reply, Rhea bursts into view in a whirl of emerald silk, eyes alight with mischief and pride.
“You look perfect,” she announces, grabbing my hands and giving me a once-over. “Elle is going to lose her mind.”
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Being dramatic,” Rhea sighs fondly. “You know. Existing.”
Right on cue, Maristelle—Elle to everyone who wants to live—glides down the curved balcony stairs like she was born in moonlight.
Her gown is liquid gold, catching the light in long, fluid sweeps as she moves. Her hair—lighter brown than Rhea’s, straight as a blade and glossy as polished bronze—is swept up into an intricate braided twist, tendrils pinned with tiny gold snowflake clips. Her amber eyes, a paler shadethan her sister’s, warm instantly when they land on me.
“Pipes!” she squeals, voice ringing through the ballroom like a bell. She rushes the last few steps, practically launching herself into my arms.
I laugh as she squeezes me tight enough to wrinkle the velvet. “You look incredible.”
She pulls back, offering me a full once-over. “Oh please. I look like a festive Oscar statue. You—” she grabs my shoulders and shakes me lightly, “—look like Yule royalty. The belt? The dress? Piper Bellamy, you are going to slay tonight.”
“Rhea oversaw the alterations,” I admit.
Elle snorts. “Of course she did. She’s been vibrating about itallday long.”
Rhea, hovering dramatically behind us, flips her hair. “I have excellent taste, thank you.”
Elle rolls her eyes in that perfect younger-sister way and then her attention shifts—sharply, curiously—to the demon standing solidly at my side.
Hergaze drags slowly up Slade, from the embroidered evergreen sheen of his tux to the crisp lines of his shoulders, to the way he holds himself like a fortress carved out of shadow. Her expression shifts. Approving. Calculating. A little dangerous. “And this,” she says, voice velvet-edged, “must behim.”
“It is,” I say, biting back a smile.
Slade inclines his head with a quiet grace that still knots heat low in my belly. “Slade Athalar. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
Elle’s eyes narrow—not in suspicion, but in the kind of scrutiny only a Bellamy woman can pull off without blinking.
Then she smiles. Sharp. Beautiful.EntirelyBellamy. “Good,” she says. “Because if you hurt her, I will turn you into a garden ornament. A tasteful one, but still.”
Slade’s mouth curves—just barely. “That seems to be a theme as of late.”
Rhea chokes on her drink. “Elle, for gods’ sake, he hasn’t committed a crime.”
“Yet,” Elle mutters. “But I like to set expectations early.”
I snort, and Slade rests his hand at the small of my back, thumb brushing warm circles through velvet—a grounding, steady touch that sends a shiver down my spine.
Elle notices. Of course she does.
“Oh saints, you two are disgusting already,” she says, but her smile softens. “It suits you.”
“The ballroom looks exquisite,” I say, trying to change the subject.
Rhea sidles in, linking her arm with mine. “Elle helped oversee the decor this year. Don’t encourage her ego too much.”
“You mean my mastery?” Elle counters. “My artistic genius? My contribution to holiday magic?”
Rhea mutters, “Your relentless need to micromanage,” under her breath.
Elle gasps, scandalized. “I do not micromanage.”
“Elle, you rearranged the centerpieces six times,” Rhea deadpans.
