“No. Don’t.” I lean forward, studying him with the same analytical eye I use to assess a student’s technique. “The horns. Are they always there?”
“Always. The glamour just makes them invisible to human eyes.”
“And the tail?”
It flicks, seemingly of its own accord. “Unfortunately persistent.”
I should be screaming. I should be running. I should be doing something other than cataloguing his demonic features like I’m reviewing a new routine.
But here’s the thing: it’s still him.
The same crooked smile. The same intelligent eyes, even if they’re now the color of fresh blood. The same slightly too-long hair, now with horns peeking through. He’s different and he’s the same, and somehow that paradox makes it easier to process.
“Can I...?” I gesture vaguely at the horns.
His eyes widen. “You want to touch them?”
“I want to know if they’re real.”
“They’re real.”
“Then I want to touch them.”
He leans forward, lowering his head. My hand trembles slightly as I reach out.
The horns are warm. Smooth, like polished stone, with a subtle texture I can feel when I run my thumb along the curve. They’re real. This is real. All of it.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my hand back. “Okay. You’re a demon.”
“I am.”
“I am.”
“And you’ve been taking ballroom lessons from me because...?”
Here his expression shifts. Something complicated passes across his features—guilt, maybe. Or fear.
“That’s a longer story.”
“I have time.”
“It involves the bracelet.”
I look at his wrist. The leather-and-silver band looks slightly different now, I realize. Shinier. Less crude. As if it’s transforming alongside its wearer.
“What is it?”
“A contract.” He rotates his wrist, letting the lamplight catch the stones. “Nearly three hundred years ago, I made a deal with another demon. A powerful one. I was young and arrogant and convinced I could outsmart anyone.” A bitter laugh. “I was wrong.”
“What kind of deal?”
“The kind with very specific terms and very dire consequences if those terms aren’t met.” He meets my eyes. “The bracelet is the physical manifestation of the contract. It tracks my progress toward fulfilling certain conditions.”
I take a large sip of whiskey. “Go on.”
“Seven invitations, freely given, from a human who—” He hesitates. “From a human who develops genuine feelings for me. No coercion, no deals, no manipulation. Just... real. When all seven turn, the binding breaks.”
I process this slowly. “You’re saying... this contract requires someone to fall in love with you?”
