Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Mr. Mal! Mr. Mal!”
Three small bodies launch themselves across the studio floor before I can even finish demonstrating the basic box step.
Amelia gets there first, wrapping her arms around Mal’s leg with the fierce determination of an octopus claiming a particularly interesting rock.
Behind her, Charles and Oliver skid to a halt, apparently remembering some semblance of decorum.
“You came back!” Amelia’s voice carries enough pure joy to melt glaciers.
Mal looks down at the eight-year-old attached to his leg with an expression I can only describe as delighted bewilderment. “I did come back. I do that. Coming back is something I’m known for.”
“Miss Izzie said you might not come to kids’ class again because you’re busy with grown-up dancing.”
I absolutely did not say that. I said he had other commitments, which is entirely different and also not a lie I told specifically to manage children’s expectations in case my demon dance partner decided that honesty hour meant disappearing from my life entirely.
“Miss Izzie underestimated my devotion to this particular group of tiny humans.” Mal attempts to walk toward me, Amelia still firmly attached. He manages a reasonably dignified shuffle. “I brought snacks.”
The word “snacks” acts like a summoning spell. The remaining nine children in my Junior Ballroom class abandon their positions and swarm toward him, and I watch my carefully organized lesson dissolve into chaos.
Three mothers and one grandmother are observing from the chairs along the wall. I can feel their attention shift from me to Mal and practically hear their mental calculations. Why is this ridiculously handsome man bringing my child organic fruit snacks?
Because of course they’re organic. I caught the label as he pulled them from his jacket pocket—some expensive brand I’ve seen at the fancy grocery store in town, the one where a single apple costs more than my usual lunch.
“Everyone, back to your positions,” I call out, but my heart isn’t in it.
Because Mal is currently crouched down to Amelia’s height, listening with apparent fascination as she explains her new light-up sneakers. His expression is patient and engaged in a way I wouldn’t have expected from a three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chaos demon.
“They change colors,” Amelia says earnestly. “Pink and purple and blue.”
“Remarkable. Do they help you dance better?”
“Miss Izzie says shoes don’t make the dancer.” Amelia’s tone suggests she finds this philosophy questionable.
“Miss Izzie is very wise.” Mal glances up at me, and something warm passes between us. “Though I suspect those shoes are rather magical regardless.”
Magical. The word lands differently now.
“All right, munchkins.” I clap my hands. “Back to positions. Mr. Mal can observe, but we have work to do.”
The children groan but comply. Amelia reluctantly trudges back to her spot, casting mournful looks over her shoulder as if she’s being forced into exile.
Mal straightens, brushing off his knees, and moves to stand beside the observation chairs.
Jennifer, Amelia’s mother, immediately shifts to make room for him, and he sits down with the easy grace of someone who’s had three centuries to perfect social navigation.
“You’re Isadora’s dance partner,” Jennifer says. It’s not a question.
“Guilty as charged.”
“For the showcase.”
“Among other things.”
I can hear the subtext in his voice, the layered meaning meant for me. Among other things indeed.
“Okay, let’s review what we learned last week.” I position myself in the center of the room, pushing down the awareness of Mal’s gaze on my back. “Who remembers the three rules of ballroom?”
Twelve hands shoot up. Amelia’s waves so enthusiastically she nearly loses her balance.
“Amelia?”
“Posture! Partnership! Practice!”
“Excellent. And today we’re going to focus on partnership.” I gesture for them to pair up. “Find your dance buddy, please.”
Oliver gives Mal a quick glance but takes Emmalyn’s hand with more assurance than he’s ever shown before.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of small feet and smaller attention spans.
I correct posture, demonstrate hand positions, and remind Charles for the fourth time that stepping on your partner’s toes is not, in fact, a legitimate dance move.
Through it all, I feel Mal watching.
Not in a creepy way. More like... an anchoring presence. A warmth at the edges of my awareness that makes me stand taller, enunciate clearer, smile more easily. When Amelia finally executes a passable box step with her reluctant partner, I catch Mal’s eye across the room.
He’s grinning. Not the sharp, knowing grin he uses when he’s about to say something infuriating. Something softer. Something that makes my chest tight.
This is what it could look like.
The thought unfurls in my mind like a flower opening to sunlight.
A future. A partnership that extends beyond the dance floor.
Saturday mornings with children’s classes while he sits in the corner, dispensing organic snacks and patient attention.
Evening rehearsals that end with dinner together.
Ordinary moments made extraordinary by the fact that he’s in them.
I stumble over my own feet.
“Miss Izzie, are you okay?” Emmalyn’s concern is touching.
“Fine. Just demonstrating what happens when you don’t pay attention to your footwork.”
Mal’s soft laugh reaches me from across the room, and I know he saw. I know he knows exactly why I faltered.
Three hundred and fifty years old, I remind myself. An actual demon with contract complications and an uncertain future.
But my heart doesn’t seem interested in the reminder.
Class ends at three. Parents collect their children, shower me with compliments about their babies’ progress, and shoot curious glances at Mal. He handles the attention gracefully, deflecting questions about his relationship to the studio with vague charm.
“He’s helping with the showcase,” I explain to Jennifer, who seems particularly determined to categorize him.
“The one in September?”
“Yes.”
“My sister-in-law is on the planning committee. She says there are a lot of contestants this year.” Jennifer’s eyes narrow slightly. “Must be serious, whatever you two are working on.”
“Very serious,” Mal agrees, appearing at my elbow. “Isadora is an exacting taskmaster.”
“I prefer ‘demanding perfectionist.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Jennifer looks between us with the expression of a woman who knows she’s missing something but can’t quite figure out what. Finally, she collects Amelia and heads out, leaving Mal and me alone in the suddenly quiet studio.
The silence stretches.
“You’re good with the children,” I say finally.
“Tiny humans are underrated.” He shrugs. “They haven’t learned to hide yet. Everything’s on the surface. Refreshing, after centuries of navigating adult deceptions.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Navigating deceptions?”
He meets my eyes. “Fewer than you might think, these past weeks.”
I want to ask what that means. I want to push, to understand exactly where the lines of his honesty fall.
“I was thinking about dinner,” I say instead.
“Always an excellent thing to think about.”
“At my place. Tonight.” My heart hammers against my ribs. “If you’re free.”
Something shifts in his expression. The playful mask slips, just for a moment, revealing the hope underneath.
“I’m free.”
“Good.” I turn away, busying myself with tidying the speakers. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“Isadora.”
His voice stops me. I turn back.
He’s standing in the middle of my studio, sunlight streaming through the windows and catching the edges of his hair. He looks human. Entirely, completely human. But I know better now.
“You’re a remarkable person.” He says it simply, without his usual dramatic flair. “I want you to know that. Whatever happens with the contract, whatever decisions you make, however this ends—you’re remarkable. And I’m grateful for every moment you’ve given me.”
The words settle into my chest like warm honey.
“Seven o’clock,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say. “Don’t be late.”
He’s not late. He arrives at 6:52 with wine, flowers, and an expression of careful neutrality that I’ve learned to recognize as his attempt to manage expectations.
“You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I’m three hundred and fifty years old. Certain manners are ingrained.” He holds out the flowers—a beautiful arrangement of deep purple dahlias and silvery eucalyptus. “These reminded me of you.”
“Purple flowers remind you of me?”
“The contrast. Soft petals and sharp leaves. Beautiful and a little bit dangerous.”
I take the bouquet, hiding my burning cheeks behind the blooms. “I’ll find a vase.”
As I arrange the flower, Mal wanders over to examine the row of photographs.
“This is you?” He’s studying a faded photograph of a teenage me in full competition regalia.
“National Junior Latin champion. Sixteen years old.”
“You were serious even then.”
“My mother didn’t raise quitters.”
He glances at me. “Your mother?”
“She taught me to dance. She als ran the studio before me and passed it down when she retired.” I keep my voice light. “She had... high expectations.”
“Had?”
“Still has, technically. She lives upstate. We talk occasionally.” About the studio. About my failure to live up to her standards. About why I haven’t won any major competitions in five years.
I don’t say that part out loud.
Mal, blessedly, doesn’t push. He just nods and continues his examination of my living space, pausing at the bookshelf.
“Romance novels.”
“Is that a question or an observation?”
“An observation. You have... quite a collection.”
“They’re research.”
“Research.”
“For understanding emotional dynamics and character motivation.” I’m blushing again. “They’re well-written.”