“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For the costume idea?”
“For everything.” I lean against him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. “For being here. For fighting beside me. For making me laugh when everything is falling apart.”
His arm wraps around me. “That’s what partners do.”
Partners.
The word settles into my chest, warm and certain.
Whatever Azrael throws at us next—and I have no doubt he’ll throw something—we’ll face it together.
The recital tomorrow might be a disaster. The showcase in three days might fail spectacularly. The seventh invitation might turn out to be impossible after all.
But right now, in this moment, sitting among ruined costumes in a damp storage room with a demon who’s somehow become the most important person in my life, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
Hope.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bianca: Parent feedback on the firefly LED idea is overwhelmingly positive. Some are calling it “innovative” and “magical.” Mrs. Henderson offered to supply the clips from her craft store. WE MIGHT ACTUALLY PULL THIS OFF.
I show the message to Mal.
He smiles.
“Told you. Sometimes chaos leads somewhere better.”
I look around at the destroyed tutus, the water-stained walls, the evidence of Azrael’s sabotage littering every surface.
And I think: Bring it on.
We’re not backing down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The silence in the studio is deafening.
Everyone has gone home. The volunteers. The parents. Bianca, who I practically had to push out the door with promises that yes, I would actually sleep tonight, and no, I wasn’t going to stay here obsessively rehearsing until dawn.
Technically, I’m not rehearsing.
I’m just... sitting. On the floor of Studio A, my back against the mirror, staring at the faint water stains that still mark the hardwood despite hours of desperate mopping. The industrial fans hum in the corner, working overtime to dry the last stubborn patches of moisture before tomorrow’s showcase.
Tomorrow.
God.
In less than eighteen hours, I’ll be standing on the biggest stage of my career, performing a dance that carries the weight of centuries. A dance that could free the man I love from eternal servitude—or fail spectacularly and leave both of us shattered.
No pressure.
I pull my knees to my chest and let my head fall back against the glass. The mirror is cool through my thin practice top, a small comfort against the fever-heat of anxiety thrumming through my veins.
The man I love.
When did that happen? When did Malachi Vexis go from infuriating student to irreplaceable partner to... this? This consuming, terrifying, wonderful thing that’s taken root in my chest and refuses to be ignored?
Was it the first time he made me laugh during practice? The way he handles the children with unexpected gentleness? The kiss in my kitchen that turned my carefully ordered world upside down?
