Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“He’s hot.”
Bianca’s assessment comes from somewhere behind the front desk, where she’s supposed to be organizing registration forms for the showcase. I don’t look up from the competition requirements I’m annotating. If I ignore her, maybe she’ll focus on her actual job.
“Like, objectively hot. Scientifically hot. If scientists studied hotness, they would use him as a control sample.”
“Bianca.”
“What? I’m just stating facts. Facts are educational.” Papers rustle. “He’s also looking at you right now. Through the window. Very intensely.”
My pen stutters across the page, leaving an ugly streak of blue ink across the section about costume requirements. I force myself not to glance toward the front window. “He’s probably just checking the time.”
“There’s a clock on the wall behind the desk. He’s not looking at the clock.”
“Maybe he’s admiring the studio décor.”
“We have motivational posters about following your dreams and a silk plant that’s actively dying. Nobody admires that.” A pause. “He’s still looking.”
I finally abandon the pretense of working and meet Bianca’s eyes.
She’s grinning at me with the particular brand of delight she reserves for moments when she thinks she’s discovered something interesting about my personal life.
Her curly blonde hair is escaping its ponytail in approximately seven different directions, and there’s a smudge of ink on her cheek from the ancient printer that refuses to die.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” She leans her elbows on the desk. “So. Hot mystery man who paid you a small fortune for private lessons. What’s his deal?”
“His deal is that he can’t dance and apparently has unlimited funds to throw at his own inadequacy.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.” I glance at the clock—a full five minutes before his scheduled lesson. At least he’s not forty-five minutes early §this time. Progress. “He’s also infuriating, impossible to teach, and convinced that rules are merely suggestions.”
“Sounds like someone has a type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Everyone has a type. Yours is apparently tall, dark, and allergic to structure.”
“Bianca—”
The door opens before I can finish whatever defense I was about to mount, and suddenly Malachi Vexis is here, filling up the small reception area with his presence and his ridiculous suits and that smell of smoke and spice that seems to follow him everywhere.
Today’s suit is charcoal gray, fitted within an inch of its life, with a shirt the color of fresh blood underneath. His collar is still unbuttoned. I’m starting to think he does it on purpose.
“Ladies.” His voice is warm velvet and dark chocolate, and I absolutely do not notice the way it makes something in my chest flutter. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Bianca’s smile has gone slightly dazed. I know the feeling—Mal has that effect on people—but I refuse to let it affect my professionalism. “Izzie was just telling me how much she enjoys teaching you.”
“Was she now?” His gaze slides to me, amusement dancing in those amber-flecked eyes. “How flattering.”
“That’s not what I—” I shoot Bianca a look that promises retribution. “We should get started. The studio’s free.”
“I’m eager to begin.” He falls into step beside me as I head for the main room. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you?”
“In my mind. Very thoroughly.”
“Mental practice isn’t real practice.”
“Tell that to Olympic athletes. They visualize constantly.”
“Olympic athletes also do the actual physical work.”
“Details.” He holds the studio door open for me with an elaborate bow. “After you, maestro.”
I brush past him, catching another whiff of that strange smoke-and-sulfur scent.
In the daylight streaming through the windows, his skin looks almost golden, and there are shadows under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well.
The bracelet is still there on his wrist, that crude leather band with its dull black stones, looking more out of place than ever against the fine fabric of his sleeve.
Stop noticing things about him. He’s a student. A means to an end.
“Shoes off,” I say, moving to the stereo. “We’re picking up where we left off.”
“The waltz of eternal suffering?”
“It’s a basic box step. Toddlers can do it.”
“Toddlers have lower centers of gravity. Unfair advantage.”
Despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch. I ruthlessly suppress it. “Center of the room. Frame position. Now.”
He sighs dramatically but complies, and we begin.
The first ten minutes are exactly as frustrating as I expected.
He steps when he should slide, slides when he should pivot, and at one point attempts what I can only describe as a jazz walk in the middle of a foxtrot sequence.
I correct, adjust, demonstrate, and resist the urge to grab his shoulders and physically move him into position.
But then—
“No, weight on the ball of your foot—yes, like that. Now transfer, don’t hop—better. Again.”
He does it again. Correctly.
“Good. Now the turn—no, tighter—there. Hold it. Hold—good.”
The surprise must show on my face because he grins. “Told you I practiced.”
“You practiced by actually practicing?”
“Shocking, I know. There may be hope for me yet.”
There might be. The thought hits me sideways, unexpected and slightly alarming.
Because underneath all the attitude and the improvisation and the deliberate chaos, Malachi Vexis has something.
A natural grace that emerges when he stops fighting the structure and lets himself move with it.
Raw talent, buried under layers of stubbornness.
We continue. He still makes mistakes, but the ratio of success to disaster is shifting. By the half-hour mark, we’ve completed an entire waltz sequence without him stepping on my feet once. It’s practically a miracle.
“Again,” I say. “From the top. And this time, try to—”
“Feel the music, not just count it?”
I pause. “I was going to say maintain your frame through the turns, but yes. That too.”
He holds out his hand. After a moment, I take it.
The music begins—a slower piece, romantic and sweeping, something I usually save for intermediate students. His left hand settles against my shoulder blade with more confidence than he’s shown before, and when I step into the frame, our bodies align with surprising ease.
One-two-three.
We move.
It’s not perfect. His transitions are still rough, his footwork occasionally approximates rather than executes, and there’s a moment during the progressive turn where I’m fairly certain we’re both just guessing. But there’s something there. A connection I haven’t felt since—
Since David.
The thought slices through me, sharp and unwelcome. I push it away, focusing on the physical mechanics. Weight transfer. Frame alignment. The pressure of his hand against my back, too warm, too solid, too present.
The music swells. He spins me—properly this time, with actual technique, his arm guiding rather than dragging. I come out of the turn and find myself closer than I expected, close enough to see the slight stubble on his jaw and the way his pupils have expanded in the low light.
“Better?” His voice is rougher than usual.
“Better.” My own voice sounds strange to my ears. Breathless. “Much better.”
We stand there for a moment, frame still intact, the music fading into silence. His eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, and there’s something almost hungry in his expression.
The Showcase. The thought surfaces from somewhere practical, somewhere that hasn’t been completely compromised by proximity and pheromones and whatever spell this man seems to cast. He could do it. With more practice, with proper training, he could—
“I have a proposition.”
The words come out before I’ve fully decided to say them. His eyebrows rise.
“Do you now?”
“The Bellamy Cove Showcase. It’s in six weeks.
” I step back, breaking the frame, needing distance to think clearly.
“I was planning to enter solo, but the couples’ division has better prize visibility.
Better press coverage. Better—” Better chances of saving my studio. I don’t say that part out loud.
“You want me to be your partner.”
“I want you to consider it.”
“Isadora Solis.” He says my name like he’s tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. “Are you asking me to dance with you?”
My face heats. This is ridiculous. I’ve partnered with dozens of students over the years, entered countless competitions, stood in front of judges and performed routines that required far more intimacy than a simple waltz. There’s no reason for this to feel so monumental.
But it does.
“It would be... mutually beneficial.” I force my voice to stay level. “You’d get accelerated training, real performance experience, and I’d get—”
“A partner who can actually keep up with you.” He’s smiling now, that crooked smile that transforms his face from handsome to devastating. “I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s strategy.”
“Of course. Pure business.” He takes a step closer, and I hold my ground through sheer force of will. “No other motivations whatsoever.”
“None.”
“Purely professional interest in spending six weeks in close physical proximity.”
“Purely professional.”
“Dancing together. Practicing together. Developing the kind of chemistry that makes audiences believe we’re—”
“Are you going to say yes or not?”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and he stares at me with an expression I can’t read before bowing his head.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Was that not clear?” He extends his hand again. “I would be honored to dance with you, Isadora. For the showcase. For whatever comes after.”
I should correct him. I should establish boundaries, expectations, and a strict professional framework that will keep this from becoming anything more complicated than a business arrangement.
But his hand is waiting, and the music is still echoing in my ears, and before I can stop myself, I take it.
“One run-through,” I say. “To see if we’re compatible.”
“Aren’t we already?”
I ignore that. I move to the stereo and queue up the piece I’ve been choreographing on the nights when I can’t sleep. It’s dramatic, passionate, and technically demanding—exactly the kind of routine that would make judges sit up and take notice.
“Tango?” he asks, reading the title over my shoulder.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” His smile widens. “I do love a challenge.”
The music begins. I take position, and after a beat, he joins me.
What follows is chaos. Beautiful, frustrating, exhilarating chaos.
He doesn’t know the steps, but he follows my lead with an intuition that borders on supernatural, anticipating my movements half a second before I make them.
We clash, we stumble, we find each other again.
His hand on my hip burns through the fabric of my practice dress.
My fingers dig into his shoulder as we execute a turn that’s more instinct than technique.
It’s wrong. It’s messy. It’s nothing like the precision I’ve spent years perfecting.
It’s also the most alive I’ve felt in months.
The music builds to its climax—a dramatic pause followed by a final flourish. I lean back into what should be a simple corté, expecting him to fumble it, bracing for the inevitable awkwardness.
He doesn’t fumble.
His arm tightens around my waist, supporting my weight as I arch backward.
The world tilts. The ceiling spins overhead, fluorescent lights blurring into streaks of white.
And then he’s pulling me up, closer than the choreography calls for, close enough that our chests press together and I can feel his heart pounding as fast as mine.
The music stops.
We don’t move.
His eyes are fixed on my lips. Mine are fixed on his.
There’s barely an inch between us, and his breath is warm against my face, and somewhere in the back of my mind a very sensible voice is screaming about professional boundaries and student-teacher relationships and all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.
The very sensible voice sounds very far away.
“Izzie—”
“Don’t.” I don’t know if I’m telling him not to speak or not to move or not to do the thing we’re both clearly thinking about. “We can’t—”
“Can’t we?”
His hand shifts on my back, fingers spreading, and I become acutely aware of every point of contact between us. His palm. His hip. The brush of his thigh against mine. The heat radiating from his skin like he’s running a fever, like there’s something burning under the surface.
Then I notice his bracelet in my peripheral vision. The one with the seven black stones. Except one of them isn’t black anymore. It’s red. Deep, glowing ruby red, like someone trapped a drop of blood inside and set it on fire.
I blink. The stone is still red.
“Your bracelet—”
The spell breaks. He steps back so fast I stumble, catching myself on the barre. When I look again, the bracelet is half-hidden by his sleeve, and his expression has gone carefully blank.
“Sorry.” His voice is strange, like he’s swallowed something sharp. “Got carried away. Heat of the moment.”
“The stone—”
“Trick of the light.” He’s already moving toward the door, collecting his shoes without putting them on, his movements jerky in a way that’s completely unlike his usual fluid grace. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Mal—”
“I should go.” He pauses at the door, and when he turns back, his smile is firmly in place, that charming mask that I’m starting to realize hides more than it reveals. “Wonderful lesson, as always. I look forward to making you want to strangle me again very soon.”
The door swings shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of my studio, heart pounding, lips tingling with the memory of a kiss that didn’t happen, and stare at the empty space where he stood.
What the hell was that?
Through the window, I see him striding down Main Street at a pace that’s almost a run. The afternoon sun catches his bracelet as he goes.
Even from here, I can see the red glow of that single stone.