Chapter 3 #2
But the words stick in my throat because he’s watching me with that curious intensity again, like he can see right through my professional veneer to something rawer underneath.
“Let’s take a break,” I say instead, turning away. “Five minutes. Water’s on the table.
I busy myself with the stereo, not really doing anything, just pressing buttons and adjusting volume levels that don’t need adjusting. My hands are shaking. Adrenaline, probably, or frustration. Definitely not anything else.
In the mirror, I watch him wander toward the water station.
He moves like a cat, all lazy grace and coiled power, somehow making even the act of opening a plastic bottle look elegant.
As he raises the water bottle, my attention snags on the bracelet around his left wrist. Cracked black leather woven with tarnished silver, and set into it, seven stones that look like they might have been onyx once but have faded to a dull, lifeless black.
The whole thing looks ancient, crudely made, like something you’d find in an antique shop or a museum display about medieval craftsmanship. It doesn’t match the designer suit, and yet he wears it like it’s welded to his skin.
“See something interesting?”
I snap my gaze up. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read, something guarded lurking behind the easy charm.
“Just surprised,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You don’t seem like the type for costume jewelry.”
“It’s not a costume.” His smile doesn’t waver, but something in his eyes sharpens. “Family heirloom. Very sentimental value. Very uncomfortable to remove.”
Uncomfortable how? I don’t ask. I have a policy about not getting personally involved with students, and Malachi Vexis is already testing that boundary without me giving him any additional openings. But something about the bracelet keeps drawing my eyes back to it.
“You’re staring again.” His voice is back to its usual amusement, and I jerk my gaze away.
“I’m assessing your posture.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “And what’s your assessment?”
“Terrible. You walk like you’ve never had a spine.”
“Bold words from a woman wound tighter than a clock spring.”
My shoulders stiffen reflexively, which only proves his point. Damn him.
“Five minutes are up.” I stride back to the center of the floor. “We’re trying the waltz again. This time stop trying to guess where you’re going and just go where I tell you.”
“But I know where I’m going.”
“You don’t. That’s the point. You’re just... chaos in human form.”
He laughs at that, a genuine sound that transforms his face from handsome to something more dangerous. “You have no idea how accurate that is.”
I ignore the comment. I ignore a lot of things about Malachi Vexis—the way his hand feels against my back when we attempt a practice hold, warmer than it should be through the thin fabric of my practice top.
The way his eyes track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
The way he smells like something burning in the best possible way.
Focus. I’m a professional.
I queue up a slow, simple piece, something I use for absolute beginners who’ve never heard a three-count in their lives. “Remember: one-two-three, one-two-three. The emphasis is on the one. You step forward on one, side on two, close on three.”
The music starts, and Malachi immediately does.
.. something. Not a waltz. Not a foxtrot.
Not any dance I’ve ever seen. He’s moving to the music, yes, but in a way that seems to actively defy the rhythm, his feet finding beats that don’t exist, his body swaying in patterns that belong to no choreographed form.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.” He spins me—actually spins me, without warning, without proper technique, his hand catching mine and pulling me into a turn that I only survive through sheer reflex. “Can’t you feel it? The music wants us to move like this.”
“The music wants you to count to three!”
“Music doesn’t count. Music breathes.” He dips me again, and I grab his shoulder to keep from toppling. His face is inches from mine, those amber-threaded eyes bright with something that might be mischief or might be madness. “You’re so focused on the steps that you’re not feeling the dance.”
I shove myself upright, breaking his hold. My heart is pounding—from the near-fall, obviously. From the physical exertion. Absolutely not from the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to something I keep carefully hidden.
“This isn’t about feeling. This is about technique.”
“But—”
“You hired me to teach you to dance. If you wanted to just... flail around to music, you could do that at home. For free.” I fold my arms. “So either learn the steps I’m teaching you, or we’re done here.”
He’s quiet for a moment. The music continues playing, a gentle one-two-three that suddenly sounds absurdly inadequate. His expression is unreadable, all that playful arrogance stripped away to reveal something more complicated underneath.
Then he sighs. “Very well. Show me again.”
We try again. And again. And again.
He’s still terrible, but somewhere around the seventh attempt, I notice that he’s actually trying.
The improvisation has scaled back, replaced by a genuine effort to follow my instructions.
His feet still land in the wrong places and his frame still collapses at inopportune moments, but there’s a concentration in his face that wasn’t there before.
“Better,” I admit grudgingly.
“High praise indeed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My head is already enormously swollen with pride.” He grins, and despite everything, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “See? I saw that. You nearly smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did. It was small and brief, like a butterfly landing on a cactus, but I witnessed it.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor.”
“I have many more. Would you like to hear them?”
“Absolutely not.”
We continue. The sun shifts through the windows, casting long shadows across the studio floor. I lose track of time, which almost never happens—I’m usually hyper-aware of every passing minute, mentally cataloging what I should be doing next, what tasks are waiting, what deadlines are approaching.
But teaching Malachi requires my full attention. Not because he’s difficult, although he is, but because there’s something hypnotic about trying to get through to him. Like he’s a puzzle that keeps rearranging itself every time I think I’ve found a piece that fits.
By the time I call the session to a close, we’ve covered approximately one-tenth of what I’d planned, my voice is hoarse from counting out loud, and I have a headache forming behind my left eye.
“Same time tomorrow?” He’s pulling on his ridiculously expensive shoes, somehow making even that look like a modeling pose.
“No. I have an opening at 10:00 AM for a private lesson.”
“Ten o’clock? In the morning?” He gave me a horrified look.
“If you insist on these lessons.”
“Oh, I insist.” He stands, and for a moment he just looks at me, that strange intensity back in his gaze. “You’re not what I expected, Isadora Solis.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who teaches by the book. Someone who cares about form over substance.” He tilts his head. “You do care about form, obviously. Obsessively. But there’s something else there. Something you’re not showing your students.”
“That’s quite an analysis from someone who still can’t count to three.”
He laughs and heads for the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I make no promises.”
The door swings shut behind him, and the studio falls silent.
I stand in the middle of the floor for a moment, collecting myself and cataloging everything that needs to happen before tomorrow.
Clean the mirrors. Check the registration for Saturday’s children’s class.
Email the Showcase committee about performance requirements.
I turn toward the mirrors to start wiping them down. And freeze.
There’s something in the reflection, hovering at about knee height near the basket of practice shoes. Two spots of luminous yellow that look almost like—
Eyes.
I spin around to check the basket, my heart hammering. Nothing. I spin back to the mirror but there’s nothing there now. I scan the studio, searching for any explanation, any source of reflected light that could account for what I saw. The windows. The overhead fluorescents. Nothing.
I’m tired. I’m stressed. I imagined it.
I take a breath, then another, and force my shoulders down from where they’ve crept up around my ears. This is ridiculous. I’m seeing things because I spent two hours trying to teach an infuriating man how to put one foot in front of the other.
I head for the practice shoe basket to tidy up—and stop.
I count. I count again.
There should be twelve pairs of practice shoes. It’s a number I know intimately, because I’m the one who orders replacements when they wear out and budgets for new ones each quarter. Twelve pairs, various sizes, a rainbow of worn leather and scuffed canvas.
Now there are eleven pairs and a single left shoe, size ten.
The other shoe is missing. I search the studio.
I check under the piano, behind the barre, in the corners where dust collects despite my best efforts.
I even check the bathroom, though why a practice shoe would end up there defies explanation. Nothing.
Where the hell—
My phone buzzes. A text from my part-time assistant Bianca. I’d discussed the showcase with her since it would require more time and effort from her, and she’d immediately jumped on the idea with her usual optimism.
Bianca: Have you registered yet? The deadline is tomorrow.
I stare at the message, then at the basket of mismatched shoes, then at the mirror where I’m almost certain I saw something that shouldn’t exist.
The showcase. The studio. The bills piling up on my desk. The strange man who paid me five thousand dollars to teach him skills he seems determined not to learn. And now, apparently, a missing shoe and possible hallucinations.
Just another Thursday.
I grab my phone and text back.
Me: Yes. We’re doing this.
Bianca: Yay! It’s going to be great!
I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm as I put my phone away. Then I head to the stereo to pull up the salsa playlist and try very hard not to think about glowing yellow eyes in the mirror, or the way Malachi’s skin felt too warm against mine.
I don’t succeed.