Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
We dance until my feet ache and the crowd has thinned to scattered clusters of the most dedicated partygoers.
“It’s late,” he says finally. “We should—”
“Yes.”
We make our way through the remnants of the party, collecting coats and making polite farewells. Bianca catches my eye from across the room and gives me a double thumbs-up. Rita Jenkins winks. Mrs. Patterson mouths what looks like “beautiful grandchildren.”
I ignore all of them.
Outside, the night air is cool and sweet, carrying the scent of the gardens. Mal’s car is waiting, and he opens the door for me with a flourish.
“Your chariot,” he says.
“It’s a sedan.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
I slide into the passenger seat, too tired to argue. He rounds the car and climbs in beside me, and for a moment we just sit there, engine running, staring out at the empty parking lot.
“So,” I say. “You promised me answers.”
“I did.”
“Where do you want to do this?”
He turns to look at me. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes are very dark.
“Your place,” he says. “If you’ll have me.”
Something in my chest flutters. “For answers?”
“For answers.” A pause. “And whatever comes after.”
I should tell him no. I should insist on neutral ground. Instead, I reach over and take his hand.
“Then drive.”
The cottage is quiet when we arrive.
I unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers—from the evening air, I tell myself, nothing else—and lead him inside. The space feels different with him in it, smaller and more intimate.
“Tea?” I offer. “Or something stronger?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
I opt for whiskey, the bottle a friend left me years ago that I only break out for emergencies. This feels like an emergency.
We settle on the couch, leaving a careful space between us. He accepts his glass but doesn’t drink, just turns it slowly in his hands.
“Where do I start?” he asks.
“The beginning usually works.”
A short laugh. “The beginning was about three hundred and fifty years ago. We might be here a while.”
I stare at him. “Three hundred and—”
“I’m a demon, Isadora.” He says it simply, like stating the weather.
“A demon.”
“A demon.”
“Yes.”
“Like... pitchfork? Fire and brimstone? Eternal damnation?”
“More like chaos and mischief and really excellent taste in tailoring.” His smile is weak. “The pitchfork thing is a stereotype. Very outdated.”
I stare at him.
“I know it’s a lot to take in—”
“A demon.” I repeat it again, testing the word. Waiting for him to laugh, to tell me it’s a joke, to explain that he’s just some guy with an unusual medical condition that makes his eyes flash red.
He doesn’t.
“Approximately three hundred and fifty years old, give or take a decade. I lose track.” He spreads his hands. “Born in what’s now northern Spain, turned during a period of my life I’d rather not discuss, spent the subsequent centuries doing various things I’m not proud of.”
My brain feels like it’s buffering. Like someone has hit pause on reality and it’s taking too long to restart.
“Demons are real.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re one of them.”
“Also yes.”
“And you’ve been—what? Pretending to be human this whole time?”
“I prefer ‘presenting as human for mutual convenience.’ The glamour helps.” He tilts his head. “Would you like to see what I actually look like?”
Every instinct screams no. If I don’t see it, maybe I can convince myself this is all an elaborate prank. Maybe I can go back to the comfortable reality where monsters don’t exist and my dance partner is just an eccentric rich man with unusual eyes.
But I’ve never been good at hiding from uncomfortable truths.
“Yes.”
Mal takes a breath. Then something shifts.
It’s not dramatic—no smoke, no lightning, no special effects.
One moment he looks like himself, and the next he looks like.
.. more. Small curling horns emerge from his dark hair, black and gleaming.
His eyes flood completely red, crimson from edge to edge.
When he opens his mouth slightly, I catch a glimpse of elongated canines.
And behind him, curling lazily, is a tail. Sleek and black and pointed at the tip, like something from a medieval woodcut.
“Oh,” I say faintly.
“I can put it back if—”
“No. Don’t.” I lean forward, studying him with the same analytical eye I use to assess a student’s technique. “The horns. Are they always there?”
“Always. The glamour just makes them invisible to human eyes.”
“And the tail?”
It flicks, seemingly of its own accord. “Unfortunately persistent.”
I should be screaming. I should be running. I should be doing something other than cataloguing his demonic features like I’m reviewing a new routine.
But here’s the thing: it’s still him.
The same crooked smile. The same intelligent eyes, even if they’re now the color of fresh blood. The same slightly too-long hair, now with horns peeking through. He’s different and he’s the same, and somehow that paradox makes it easier to process.
“Can I...?” I gesture vaguely at the horns.
His eyes widen. “You want to touch them?”
“I want to know if they’re real.”
“They’re real.”
“Then I want to touch them.”
He leans forward, lowering his head. My hand trembles slightly as I reach out.
The horns are warm. Smooth, like polished stone, with a subtle texture I can feel when I run my thumb along the curve. They’re real. This is real. All of it.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my hand back. “Okay. You’re a demon.”
“I am.”
“I am.”
“And you’ve been taking ballroom lessons from me because...?”
Here his expression shifts. Something complicated passes across his features—guilt, maybe. Or fear.
“That’s a longer story.”
“I have time.”
“It involves the bracelet.”
I look at his wrist. The leather-and-silver band looks slightly different now, I realize. Shinier. Less crude. As if it’s transforming alongside its wearer.
“What is it?”
“A contract.” He rotates his wrist, letting the lamplight catch the stones. “Nearly three hundred years ago, I made a deal with another demon. A powerful one. I was young and arrogant and convinced I could outsmart anyone.” A bitter laugh. “I was wrong.”
“What kind of deal?”
“The kind with very specific terms and very dire consequences if those terms aren’t met.” He meets my eyes. “The bracelet is the physical manifestation of the contract. It tracks my progress toward fulfilling certain conditions.”
I take a large sip of whiskey. “Go on.”
“Seven invitations, freely given, from a human who—” He hesitates. “From a human who develops genuine feelings for me. No coercion, no deals, no manipulation. Just... real. When all seven turn, the binding breaks.”
I process this slowly. “You’re saying... this contract requires someone to fall in love with you?”
“Close enough.”
“And the invitations?”
“Think of them as milestones. Proof that the connection is real. Asking me to be your dance partner. Inviting me to dinner. Asking me to accompany you tonight.” He looks down at the bracelet. “Three invitations. Three rubies.”
“What happens when all seven turn?”
“I’m free. The contract is fulfilled. My debt is paid.”
I set down my whiskey glass. My hands are shaking.
“So this whole time,” I say carefully, “you’ve been—what? Cultivating me? Engineering situations to make me invite you to things?”
“No.” He says it firmly, almost angrily. “That’s exactly what I can’t do. The invitations have to be freely given. No manipulation, no influence, no demonic tricks. If I push, if I scheme, the stones know. The progress resets.”
“Then why me?”
“The contract… pushes me towards certain individuals.” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are bright with something I can’t name.
“Isadora, I need you to understand something. When I walked into your studio that first day, yes, I was looking for someone who could help me fulfill the contract’s terms. You seemed promising because you had walls, which meant your invitations would be genuine. You wouldn’t offer them lightly.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I know. But listen.” He reaches for my hand, then stops himself. “Everything changed. I didn’t expect... this.” He gestures between us. “I didn’t expect you. The way you challenge me. The way you see through my bullshit. The way you dance like you’re having a conversation with the music.”
My chest aches. I want to believe him. I want it so badly it hurts.
“How do I know you’re not manipulating me right now?”
“Because I can’t.” He holds up the bracelet. “It’s one of the contract’s conditions. I cannot use supernatural powers to influence your choices. No compulsion, no glamour directed at your emotions, no magical persuasion. If I try, the contract voids and I lose everything.”
“So you’ve been... what? Charming me the old-fashioned way?”
“Attempting to, at least.” His smile is rueful. “Though you make it very difficult. You have the best bullshit detector of anyone I’ve ever met.”
That’s not entirely true, I think. I didn’t detect this. A three hundred-year-old demon and I just thought he had unusual eyes.
His jaw tightens. “I’ve spent years trying to break this contract. It never works because I can never make myself actually feel anything.”
“But?”
“But then I met you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “And you were so... stubborn. And prickly. And brilliant. And you looked at me like you saw right through every trick I had. And instead of running, I wanted to—”
He breaks off, shaking his head.
“Wanted to what?”
“Stay.” The word comes out rough. “I wanted to stay. To actually learn to dance instead of faking it. To make you laugh instead of manipulating you. To be real with someone for the first time in three centuries.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” I ask finally. “Because you thought I’d think it was fake?”
“Partially. And because I was afraid.” He sets down his untouched whiskey. “I’m still afraid. You have every reason to walk away right now. To kick me out and never speak to me again. I’m using you, even if I don’t want to be. My freedom depends on your feelings, and that’s—”
“Complicated.”
“At best.”
I stare at the three rubies on his wrist. Three invitations. Three milestones. Four more to go.
“What happens if I don’t give you the rest?” I ask. “If we stop here?”
“The contract remains in place.” His voice is casual, but there’s something raw beneath it.
I think about that. About three hundred and fifty years of existence, three hundred of them spent bound and desperate.
About failed attempts at freedom and the slow erosion of hope.
Then I think about the way he looked at me tonight.
The way he held me on the dance floor. The way he’s sitting here now, utterly exposed, waiting for my judgment.
This could all be a lie, some part of me whispers. A more sophisticated manipulation.
But I look at his face—the fear there, the hope, the raw vulnerability—and I don’t believe it. I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid. Probably both.
“Okay,” I say.
He blinks. “Okay?”
“I believe you.” I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I don’t understand everything yet. I have about a hundred more questions. But I believe that what you’re feeling is real. And I believe what I’m feeling is real. So... okay.”
“Isadora—”
“I’m not saying I’ll give you the other four invitations.” My grip tightens on his hand. “That’s not something I can promise. If this is going to work—whatever this is—it has to happen naturally. Not because you need it to.”
“I know.”
“And you have to keep being honest with me. No more secrets. No more ‘I’ll tell you later.’ If I ask a question, you answer it.”
“I will.”
“And if I ever find out you’ve manipulated me, even once—”
“You won’t.” He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I swear it. On whatever’s left of my soul.”
I don’t know what that means, exactly. I’m not sure I want to know. But when he looks at me over our joined hands, his eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light, I feel something click into place.
This is insane, I think. Absolutely certifiably insane.
But then again, I’ve spent my whole life being careful. Being controlled. Maybe it’s time to try something different.
Maybe it’s time to dance with the demon.
“It’s late,” I say. “You should go.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move.
“Early class tomorrow.”
“I remember.”
“So...”
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t.
The kiss is different from the first ones—softer, sweeter, more deliberate. It tastes like whiskey and promises. Like the beginning of something that might destroy us both.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are very bright.
“Goodnight, Isadora.”
“Goodnight, Mal.”
He lets himself out. I sit on the couch for a long time after, staring at the door, wondering what I’ve just agreed to.
Four more invitations.
Four more rubies.
And somewhere in the future, a demon’s freedom—or my heart’s destruction.
What could possibly go wrong?