Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
By noon, the immediate crisis has stabilized. The floors are drying. The bathroom is gutted but contained. The restoration team has finished their first phase and left with promises to return tomorrow.
My class schedule, however, waits for no plumbing disaster.
“The afternoon sessions can use Studio B,” I tell Mal, scrolling through my phone. “That’s the smaller room upstairs. It’s cramped but functional.”
“What about the junior class?”
“That’s—” I check the time. “That’s in two hours. Bianca usually assists, so I should be able to manage...”
My phone buzzes with a text from Bianca.
Bianca: Izzie I’m so sorry—woke up with a fever of 102 and can barely stand. Doctor says flu. I tried to power through but I literally can’t stop throwing up. I’m DYING.
A second later.
Bianca: Not actually dying. But close.
“Problems?” Mal asks, reading my expression.
“Bianca’s sick.” I stare at the text, feeling the familiar pressure building behind my eyes. “The junior class has twelve kids registered. I can’t handle twelve kids alone in a cramped space with half my equipment soaking wet.”
“So cancel.”
“I can’t cancel. There’s a recital in three weeks, and the parents have already paid for the costumes.” I press my fingers to my temples. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
Mal is silent for a moment. “I could help.”
I look at him.
“With the class,” he clarifies. “An extra set of hands. I’m already here.”
“You want to help teach a junior ballroom class.”
“‘Want’ might be a strong word. But I’m offering.”
“Have you ever worked with children before?”
“How hard can it be?”
I think about a chaos demon who is terrible at following instructions and constitutionally opposed to doing anything the expected way trying to wrangle a dozen eight-year-olds through a waltz. It’s going to be a disaster. But it’s also the only option I have.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But you have to follow my lead. No improvising. No chaos. No teaching them anything inappropriate.”
“Define inappropriate.”
“Mal.”
“I’m kidding.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. What time do we start?”
The children arrive at 2:00 PM sharp, a small army of energy and enthusiasm in an assortment of dance attire.
I’ve managed to clear enough space in Studio B for basic movement.
The room is cramped because it’s meant for private lessons, not group classes, but it’ll have to do. At least the floor here is dry.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” I clap my hands to get their attention. “I know things look a little different today, but we’re going to make it work. And I have a special helper joining us.”
Eleven pairs of eyes swivel to Mal, who is standing near the door looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“This is Mr. Malachi. He’s going to assist me today since Miss Bianca is feeling under the weather.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The question comes from Emmalyn, a seven-year-old with pigtails and zero filter. She’s watching Mal with the intensity of a detective interrogating a suspect.
“He’s my dance partner,” I say carefully.
“For the Showcase?” This from Charles Jr., Mrs. Patterson’s grandson, who has clearly been absorbing his grandmother’s gossip. “My grandma says you’re going to get married.”
“Your grandma is—”
“Getting ahead of herself,” Mal interrupts smoothly. “We haven’t even discussed flower arrangements yet.”
The children giggle. I shoot Mal a look that promises death, but he just winks.
“All right,” I say firmly. “Let’s begin with our warm-up. Everyone find a space.”
The next ten minutes are controlled chaos as I lead the class through stretches and basic footwork. Mal stays near the back of the room, watching, occasionally helping a child who’s struggling with positioning. To my surprise, he’s... not terrible at it.
He kneels down to address them at eye level. He keeps his voice low and encouraging. When little Amelia trips over her own feet and starts to cry, he’s there before I can even cross the room, offering a hand and a joke that makes her laugh instead.
“That was a very dramatic fall,” he tells her seriously. “Very theatrical. Have you considered a career in opera?”
Amelia giggles, tears forgotten. “I don’t know any operas.”
“Neither do I. We could learn together.”
I move through the room, adjusting arms and correcting posture, but I keep finding my attention drawn back to Mal. The way he talks to the children—patient, playful, never condescending. The way they respond to him, clustering around him like he’s some kind of magnet.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Charm has always been his gift. But this feels different. Less performance, more... genuine.
“Okay, everyone partner up!” I call out. “We’re going to practice our box step. Remember—frame, posture, count.”
The children scramble to find partners, and I suddenly remember I have an odd number today.
Eleven kids, which means five pairs and one child left standing alone.
It’s Oliver, a quiet boy with glasses who’s been attending classes for three months but still freezes up whenever he has to dance with someone.
His parents enrolled him hoping it would help his social anxiety. So far, the results have been mixed.
“Mr. Malachi?” Oliver’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Will you be my partner?”
Mal looks at me. I nod.
“I would be honored,” he says, and the formal language makes Oliver stand a little straighter. “Though I should warn you—I’m still learning. You might have to help me.”
“Really?”
“Really. Miss Isadora gets very frustrated with me.”
“She gets frustrated with everyone,” Oliver confides. “But she’s nice about it.”
“That she is.”
I start the music and move through the room, offering corrections and encouragement.
But my eyes keep drifting to the corner where Mal is dancing with Oliver.
He’s bent almost in half to match Oliver’s height, his frame deliberately loose and playful.
Oliver is counting under his breath, brow furrowed in concentration, and every time he completes a box step successfully, Mal gives him a small nod of approval.
“One-two-three, one-two-three—I did it!”
“You did. That was perfect.”
“Can we try going faster?”
“Let’s ask Miss Isadora.”
I realize I’ve been standing still for at least thirty seconds. The other children are looking at me expectantly.
“Uh—yes. Let’s try a slightly faster tempo.” I restart the music, increasing the speed, and Oliver’s face lights up with excitement.
The class continues. There are stumbles and missteps and at one point, a minor crisis when Emmalyn’s partner steps on her toe, but overall, it goes remarkably well. Better than I expected. Better than it has any right to go, given the circumstances.
By the time parents start arriving for pickup, the children are pink-cheeked and chattering, clearly pleased with themselves.
“Mr. Malachi!” Amelia tugs on his sleeve. “Are you coming back next week?”
“That depends on Miss Isadora.”
“Please?” This from Charles Jr., who has apparently decided Mal is the height of cool. “You’re way better than Miss Bianca.”
“Charles.” I try to sound stern and fail miserably. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“It’s true though!”
Oliver is the last to leave. His mother appears at the door, looking harried, and he runs to her with an enthusiasm I’ve never seen from him.
“Mom! I danced with a partner and I didn’t mess up!”
“That’s wonderful, sweetie—”
“And Mr. Malachi said I was a natural!”
Oliver’s mother looks over his head at us, eyebrows raised. Mal raises a hand in acknowledgment.
“He was excellent,” he confirms. “Best partner I’ve had all day.”
Oliver beams. His mother mouths thank you and leads him out, and then the studio is quiet.
I turn to Mal. He’s standing near the windows, afternoon light catching the planes of his face, and he looks... tired. Rumpled. More human than I’ve ever seen him.
“That was...” I search for the right word. “Unexpected.”
“The children?”
“You. With them.” I shake my head slowly. “I thought you’d cause chaos. Turn the whole class into bedlam. Instead you were...”
“Adequate?”
“Wonderful.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “You were wonderful with them. Patient and kind and—”
“Careful.” His voice is light, but something flickers in his eyes. “You’re dangerously close to giving me a compliment.”
“I give you compliments all the time.”
“You give me constructive criticism. It’s different.”
I want to argue, but he’s not wrong.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “For today. All of it. The pipes, the phone calls, the class...” I gesture vaguely at the chaos around us. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“No.” He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “But I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because you let me.” His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Because for the first time, you actually asked for help. Do you have any idea how much that means?”
I don’t know what to say to that so I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach up and touch the bracelet on his wrist. Four rubies now, glowing softly in the afternoon light. Four invitations. Four steps closer to his freedom.
“Three more,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“And then?”
His fingers intertwine with mine. “And then I’m free. And you’ll have to decide if you want me to stay anyway.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s the truth.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “The contract brought us together. But once it’s fulfilled, there’s no magical binding keeping me here. Just... choice.”
“Your choice?”
“Yours.” He lifts our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Always yours.”
I think about that. About what it would mean to choose him without magic or contracts or supernatural compulsion. Just two people, deciding to be together. It should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing I’ve wanted in years.
“The floor is going to take a week to repair,” I say, because apparently that’s what comes out of my mouth when I’m overwhelmed with emotion. “I’ll need to reschedule three classes and move two others to Studio B.”
Mal’s lips twitch. “Very romantic.”
“I’m being practical.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Same thing.”
He gives that warm, genuine laugh I’ve come to love and pulls me into his arms.
“Deflect all you want,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I close my eyes and let myself believe him. Just for now. Just for this moment.
Tomorrow there will be contractors and insurance claims and a dozen other problems to solve. But right now, standing in my damaged studio with a chaos demon’s arms around me, I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time. Contentment.