Chapter 6 #2
“Because it requires trust and synchronization, and we weren’t ready.”
“Are we ready now?”
No, I think. We’re not ready for anything. You’re some kind of mystery wrapped in designer clothes and strange bracelets, and I’m a control freak who just admitted she can’t stop thinking about kissing you, and the showcase is in three weeks and this is all going to end in disaster.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s try it.”
The lift is technically demanding. It requires a running start, precise timing, and absolute trust between partners. The woman launches herself at the man, who catches her at the waist and lifts her overhead in a fluid motion that looks effortless when done correctly.
When done incorrectly, it results in bruises, concussions, and the occasional broken collarbone.
“Explain it again,” Mal says.
“You’ve seen the video.”
“I’ve seen the video seventeen times. I want to hear you describe it.”
I take a breath. “I’ll approach from stage left. Three steps at increasing speed, then a two-foot takeoff. You catch me at the hip and waist—simultaneously, that’s critical—and lift straight up, extending your arms fully. I’ll hold the arabesque at the peak, then you lower me into the fish dive.”
“And if I drop you?”
“Don’t drop me.”
“Reassuring.” But he moves into position, bracing himself. “How many students have you traumatized with this particular move?”
“None. I usually practice with professionals.”
“Ouch.”
“You asked.”
I walk to the starting point, shaking out my arms and legs. This is the part of training I’ve always loved—the technical challenges, the physical problem-solving, the moment when your body does something it shouldn’t be able to do. It’s pure and clean and entirely about skill.
You can trust your body, my mother used to say. Bodies are predictable. People are not.
“Ready?” I call.
He nods, settling into a lower stance. I run three steps and takeoff. For a moment, I’m suspended in air, completely at the mercy of physics and a man I’ve known for less than a month—
His hands catch me perfectly. Hips and waist, just like I described. The lift is smooth, controlled, exactly right. I hit the arabesque at the peak, arms extended, holding the position while the studio spins below me.
“Now the descent,” I say.
He lowers me slowly. The fish dive requires him to lean forward while supporting my entire body weight, my back arched over his arm, my head nearly touching the floor.
We hold it. One beat. Two.
“Good,” I breathe. “That was—”
His arm shifts a fraction of an inch, just enough to change the angle, and suddenly my face is level with his, our noses nearly touching.
“Good?” he asks, with that particular smile that means he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Adequate.”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
“I’m being accurate. Your left arm drifted during the lift. We’ll need to drill the catch until it’s automatic.”
“My left arm was perfectly positioned.”
“It was half an inch too high.”
“Half an inch.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You measured that while inverted and moving at speed?”
“I have excellent spatial awareness.”
“You have excellent something.” He still hasn’t released me from the fish dive. My core is starting to burn from maintaining the position. “Should we try again?”
“Yes. After you put me down.”
“Why would I do that? The view from here is spectacular.”
“Mal.”
“Isadora.”
“My abs are on fire.”
“That’s what core strength is for.”
“I’m going to kick you.”
“Unlikely. You don’t have the leverage.” But he straightens, helping me back to standing. “Another run-through?”
I glare at him, and he grins.
“Fine.” I stalk back to the starting position. “But this time, keep your left arm where it belongs.”
“My left arm is deeply apologetic for its half-inch transgression.”
“Your left arm should be.”
I run. He catches me. We lift.
This time, his arm stays exactly where it should. But this time, I make the mistake of looking at his face during the descent, seeing the concentration there, his attention trained on me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters.
My breath catches, and he notices.
“Distracted?” he murmurs as he lowers me through the fish dive.
“Focused.”
“On what?”
“The technique.”
“Liar.” His mouth is very close to my ear. “Your technique is flawless. That’s not what made you stumble.”
“I didn’t stumble.”
“You hesitated. Your breath caught. Your heart rate spiked—yes, I can still feel it.” His thumb presses against my ribcage through the fabric of my leotard. “Something distracted you. I wonder what.”
“Nothing distracted me.”
“Nothing?” He pulls me up, and we’re face to face again, close enough to share air. “Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
He kisses me.
It’s barely a brush of lips, more suggestion than contact, but it sends electricity crackling down my spine. My hands tighten reflexively on his shoulders, and a small sound escapes my throat, entirely against my will.
He pulls back, looking insufferably pleased.
“I thought we agreed,” I manage, “to be professional.”
“We agreed I would follow your lead. You were staring at my mouth.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. You’ve been staring at my mouth all morning, whenever you think I’m not paying attention.” His thumb traces my lower lip, mirroring what I’d apparently been doing with my eyes. “For someone so controlled, you’re remarkably transparent.”
“I’m not transparent.”
“You’re practically see-through. It’s charming.”
“Stop calling me charming. And adorable. And readable.”
“What should I call you instead?”
I don’t have an answer. I don’t have anything except the burning need to kiss him again and the desperate awareness that doing so would make everything exponentially more complicated.
“We should keep practicing.”
“Should we?”
“The showcase—”
“Isn’t for three weeks. And we’ve been at it for”—he glances at the clock—”two hours and forty-seven minutes. Even you must be tired.”
I am tired. Exhausted, actually, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from emotional turmoil disguised as physical exertion. My legs are trembling. My arms ache. And underneath all of it, there’s a tension that has nothing to do with muscle strain.
“I don’t get tired.”
“Everyone gets tired.”
“Not me.”
“Isadora.” He cups my face in both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m—”
“Shaking and visibly exhausted.” His thumbs stroke my cheekbones. “When was the last time you actually rested? Not practiced, not planned, not organized something—just rested?”
I try to remember, and come up blank.
“That’s what I thought.” He releases me, but gently, like I might shatter. “We’re done for today.”
“We’re not done. We still need to work on the synchronization in the third section, and the timing on the final pose is off by—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Mal—”
“Tomorrow.” He’s already moving toward his bag, pulling out a water bottle and tossing it to me. “Drink that. Go home. Take a bath or read a book or do whatever it is you do when you’re not obsessively perfecting choreography.”
“I don’t obsessively—”
“You do.” He shrugs on his jacket. “It’s part of your charm. But even perfectionists need rest, and I refuse to be responsible for you collapsing during the showcase because you worked yourself into the ground.”
“I don’t collapse.”
“Everyone collapses eventually.”
“Not me.”
“Especially you.” He crosses back to me, tilting my chin up with one finger. “You’re wound tighter than anyone I’ve ever met. Sooner or later, something has to give. I’d rather it wasn’t during competition.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Try to relax. I know it’s not your natural state, but consider it practice for a different kind of performance.”
“What kind?”
“Being human.” His smile is almost tender. “It’s harder than it looks, but I’m told it’s worth the effort.”
He leaves before I can respond, the studio door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
I stand there for a long moment, the water bottle clutched in trembling hands, and my heart racing at approximately one hundred and twelve beats per minute.
Being human, I think. What a strange thing to say.
But then again, everything about Malachi Vexis is strange. The bracelet with its mysterious stones. The phrases that don’t quite fit. The way he exists—like someone playing at being human rather than actually being one.
Thirty years, he’d said. Three centuries, my memory whispers.
I drain the water bottle and reach for my own bag, determined to put the thoughts out of my mind. The showcase is in three weeks. I have choreography to perfect and a reputation to rebuild and absolutely no time for mysteries or complicated feelings or the lingering memory of his lips against mine.
But as I lock up the studio and step into the sunlight, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something important. Something hiding in plain sight, just waiting for me to see it.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I can worry about mysteries. Today, I can rest.
I don’t believe it for a second.
But I try.