“Because you asked.” His hand is still on my back, anchoring me. “And because you deserve to know what you’re getting into.”
“Getting into with what? With you?”
“With all of it.” He gestures vaguely at the ballroom—at the glittering crowd and the too-tall reflections and the world I’m only now beginning to see. “This is Bellamy Cove, Isadora. It’s been supernatural for longer than it’s been human. The monsters just learned to hide better.”
I should be afraid. I should be questioning everything I thought I knew about my life and my town and the man standing next to me. Instead, I feel something else entirely. Relief.
Because suddenly, so many things make sense. The way Nix appeared out of nowhere. The strange lights I’ve seen in the studio mirrors. The feeling I’ve had for years that something in Bellamy Cove was just slightly off, like a picture hung a degree crooked.
I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t crazy.
I was just finally seeing the truth.
“Show me more,” I hear myself say.
Mal’s eyes flash with something that might be pride. “Later. Right now, I believe you owe me a dance.”
The string quartet has shifted to an old-fashioned waltz, the kind of music that makes you want to sway in someone’s arms. Mal leads me to the dance floor with a hand on my waist, and I’m acutely aware of every eye in the room turning to follow us. Isadora and her mysterious date. The couple everyone’s been gossiping about for weeks.
Let them look, I think, surprising myself. Let them see.
“Ready?” Mal asks, his hand on my waist.
“Always.”
We begin to move.
It’s different here, in public, than it is in the studio. There’s an awareness of being watched, of being judged, that adds a layer of performance to every step. But underneath that, the connection between us is the same—that wordless communication, that sense of moving as one body.
His hand is warm and steady at my waist. My fingers curl around his shoulder. We’re closer than we need to be, closer than the dance requires, and I can feel his breath on my temple.
“People are staring,” I murmur.
“Let them.”
“They’re going to talk.”
“They’re already talking.” He spins me out, then pulls me back in, catching me against his chest. “Might as well give them something worth discussing.”
The music swells. We move through the crowd like water, weaving between other couples, and I realize with a start that we’re drawing attention not just because of the gossip but because we’re good. Really good. Weeks of practice have turned us into something seamless, something beautiful.
“You’ve improved,” I say.
“High praise from the perfectionist.” His lips brush my ear. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“That’s a lie and we both know it.”
He dips me—low, theatrical, the kind of move that shouldn’t work at a charity gala but somehow does. I’m suspended for a moment, looking up at the one hundred and thirty-seven crystals in the chandelier before he pulls me upright and back into his arms.
“Show-off,” I breathe.
“You love it.”
The problem is, I do.
I love the way he moves, confident and precise. I love the way he holds me, like I’m something precious. I love the way he looks at me—like there’s no one else in the room, like the whole world has narrowed to the space between us.
