“As you wish.” He sweeps me back up in one fluid motion, and I stagger when my feet hit the floor. “See? Natural chemistry.”
“There’s nothing natural about any of this.” My voice comes out more breathless than I’d like. I step back, smoothing down my practice dress, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears. “You can’t just decide to dip someone. It’s part of a choreographed sequence. There are signals, preparations?—”
“Rules.”
“Yes! Rules! Dancing has rules!”
“And what happens when someone breaks them?”
They get hurt,I want to say.They ruin everything. They fail.
But the words stick in my throat because he’s watching me with that curious intensity again, like he can see right through my professional veneer to something rawer underneath.
“Let’s take a break,” I say instead, turning away. “Five minutes. Water’s on the table.
I busy myself with the stereo, not really doing anything, just pressing buttons and adjusting volume levels that don’t need adjusting. My hands are shaking. Adrenaline, probably, or frustration. Definitely not anything else.
In the mirror, I watch him wander toward the water station. He moves like a cat, all lazy grace and coiled power, somehow making even the act of opening a plastic bottle look elegant. As he raises the water bottle, my attention snags on the bracelet around his left wrist. Cracked black leather woven with tarnished silver, and set into it, seven stones that look like they might have been onyx once but have faded to a dull, lifeless black.
The whole thing looks ancient, crudely made, like something you’d find in an antique shop or a museum display about medieval craftsmanship. It doesn’t match the designer suit, and yet he wears it like it’s welded to his skin.
“See something interesting?”
I snap my gaze up. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read, something guarded lurking behind the easy charm.
“Just surprised,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You don’t seem like the type for costume jewelry.”
“It’s not a costume.” His smile doesn’t waver, but something in his eyes sharpens. “Family heirloom. Very sentimental value. Very uncomfortable to remove.”
Uncomfortable how?I don’t ask. I have a policy about not getting personally involved with students, and Malachi Vexis is already testing that boundary without me giving him any additional openings. But something about the bracelet keeps drawing my eyes back to it.
“You’re staring again.” His voice is back to its usual amusement, and I jerk my gaze away.
“I’m assessing your posture.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “And what’s your assessment?”
“Terrible. You walk like you’ve never had a spine.”
“Bold words from a woman wound tighter than a clock spring.”
My shoulders stiffen reflexively, which only proves his point.Damn him.
“Five minutes are up.” I stride back to the center of the floor. “We’re trying the waltz again. This time stop trying to guess where you’re going and just go where I tell you.”
“But I know where I’m going.”
“You don’t. That’s the point. You’re just... chaos in human form.”
He laughs at that, a genuine sound that transforms his face from handsome to something more dangerous. “You have no idea how accurate that is.”
I ignore the comment. I ignore a lot of things about Malachi Vexis—the way his hand feels against my back when we attempt a practice hold, warmer than it should be through the thin fabric of my practice top. The way his eyes track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The way he smells like something burning in the best possible way.
Focus. I’m a professional.
I queue up a slow, simple piece, something I use for absolute beginners who’ve never heard a three-count in their lives. “Remember: one-two-three, one-two-three. The emphasis is on the one. You step forward on one, side on two, close on three.”
The music starts, and Malachi immediately does... something. Not a waltz. Not a foxtrot. Not any dance I’ve ever seen. He’s moving to the music, yes, but in a way that seems to actively defy the rhythm, his feet finding beats that don’t exist, his body swaying in patterns that belong to no choreographed form.
