“What happens if I don’t give you the rest?” I ask. “If we stop here?”
“The contract remains in place.” His voice is casual, but there’s something raw beneath it.
I think about that. About three hundred and fifty years of existence, three hundred of them spent bound and desperate. About failed attempts at freedom and the slow erosion of hope. Then I think about the way he looked at me tonight. The way he held me on the dance floor. The way he’s sitting here now, utterly exposed, waiting for my judgment.
This could all be a lie,some part of me whispers.A more sophisticated manipulation.
But I look at his face—the fear there, the hope, the raw vulnerability—and I don’t believe it. I don’t know if that makes me brave or stupid. Probably both.
“Okay,” I say.
He blinks. “Okay?”
“I believe you.” I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I don’t understand everything yet. I have about a hundred more questions. But I believe that what you’re feeling is real. And I believe what I’m feeling is real. So... okay.”
“Isadora—”
“I’m not saying I’ll give you the other four invitations.” My grip tightens on his hand. “That’s not something I can promise. If this is going to work—whatever this is—it has to happen naturally. Not because you need it to.”
“I know.”
“And you have to keep being honest with me. No more secrets. No more ‘I’ll tell you later.’ If I ask a question, you answer it.”
“I will.”
“And if I ever find out you’ve manipulated me, even once?—”
“You won’t.” He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “I swear it. On whatever’s left of my soul.”
I don’t know what that means, exactly. I’m not sure I want to know. But when he looks at me over our joined hands, his eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light, I feel something click into place.
This is insane,I think.Absolutely certifiably insane.
But then again, I’ve spent my whole life being careful. Being controlled. Maybe it’s time to try something different.
Maybe it’s time to dance with the demon.
“It’s late,” I say. “You should go.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move.
“Early class tomorrow.”
“I remember.”
“So...”
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t.
The kiss is different from the first ones—softer, sweeter, more deliberate. It tastes like whiskey and promises. Like the beginning of something that might destroy us both.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are very bright.
“Goodnight, Isadora.”
“Goodnight, Mal.”
He lets himself out. I sit on the couch for a long time after, staring at the door, wondering what I’ve just agreed to.
