By some miracle, I manage to assemble a passable teaching outfit—leggings, wrap top, hair scraped into a damp bun—whileMal dresses with considerably more grace. His horns have faded back into invisibility, his eyes returned to their deceptively human dark brown. Only the satisfied curve of his lips suggests anything unusual about the morning.
“I’ll see you at the studio,” he says, pulling me in for one last kiss. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Liar.” He nips my lower lip. “Until later, Miss Solis.”
He slips out the door before I can respond, leaving me flushed and disheveled and running very, very late.
Worth it, I decide as I grab my bag and race toward the studio. Completely and utterly worth it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The front door of the studio swings open with a sound like a coffin lid.
I know that’s dramatic—it’s just a door, the same door that’s opened a thousand times for students and parents and delivery drivers. But the temperature in the room drops ten degrees in the space between one heartbeat and the next, and every instinct I possess screams that something is wrong.
Mal goes rigid beside me.
We’re in the middle of reviewing footwork for the showcase, my hand resting casually on his shoulder, our bodies still carrying the easy intimacy of last night. One moment he’s relaxed and teasing, making a joke about my “delightfully militant” counting. The next, he’s turned to stone beneath my palm.
“Mal?”
He doesn’t answer. His attention is fixed on the figure silhouetted in the doorway.
The man who enters my studio moves like water flowing uphill—impossible, unnatural, mesmerizing. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a bespoke silver-gray suit, with hair the color of starlight and features so perfect they hurt to look at. Handsome isn’t the right word. Beautiful is closer, but still wrong.
Inhuman,my brain supplies.He looks inhuman.
“Malachi.” The voice is silk wrapped around a blade. “How... domestic.”
“Azrael.” Mal’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with a grip that’s almost painful. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.” Silver eyes sweep the studio, cataloging everything with cold precision—the mirrors, the barre, the speakers, the scattered dance shoes. They linger on me for exactly two seconds before dismissing me as irrelevant. “Though I suppose I should have anticipated this. You always did have a weakness for pretty distractions.”
The temperature drops another five degrees. Frost actually forms on the mirror nearest the door, delicate crystals spreading like frozen veins.
Azrael,I think numbly.The demon who holds Mal’s contract.
“She’s not a distraction,” Mal says quietly.
“No?” One perfect eyebrow arches. “Then what is she? A partner? A lover? A convenient means to an end?”
“She’s standing right here.” My voice comes out steadier than expected. “And she has a name.”
Those silver eyes turn to me properly for the first time. They’re beautiful and empty, like looking into a glacier—all surface brilliance concealing impossible depths of cold.
“Isadora Solis.” He pronounces my name like he’s tasting it. “Twenty-eight years old. Dance instructor. Owner of this charmingly mediocre establishment. Daughter of Carmen Solis, née Rojas, and the late Ricardo Solis.” A pause. “No siblings. Few close friends. Moderate financial assets. Unremarkable in every measurable way.”
Don’t react,I tell myself.He wants you to react.
“You forgot award-winning choreographer,” I say instead.
Something flickers in those frozen eyes.
“She has spirit,” Azrael observes to Mal. “I can see why you chose her.”
“I didn’t choose her.” Mal’s grip on my hand tightens fractionally. “It doesn’t work that way.”
