CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Hold still.” Bianca jabs another pin into my updo with the precision of a battlefield surgeon. “If you keep fidgeting, you’re going to look like you fought a rosebush.”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’re vibrating.”
She’s not wrong. Every muscle in my body is wound tight enough to snap, humming with a frequency that probably registers on seismographs three towns over. I’ve competed in dozens of showcases. Performed in front of panels of stone-faced judges who could destroy a career with a single raised eyebrow. Danced through twisted ankles, broken ribs, and one memorable performance where I had food poisoning but refused to forfeit.
None of that prepared me for this.
“There.” Bianca steps back, admiring her handiwork. “Perfect. You look like a goddess of dance who also happens to be about to throw up.”
“Helpful.”
“I do what I can.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve got this, Iz. I’ve seen you rehearse. The dance is flawless.”
The dance isn’t the problem, I want to say. But I can’t explain the real stakes to her—not without sounding clinically insane or revealing secrets that aren’t mine to share. So I just nod and try to remember how to breathe.
Through the thin walls of the dressing room, I can hear the murmur of the crowd. The showcase has been running for two hours now, a parade of ballroom couples and contemporary soloists and one truly inspired jazz ensemble that had the audience cheering. We’d won the tango contest, but I’d been too busy worrying about the Dance of Accord to really appreciate it.
It’s the final performance of the evening. The grand finale.
No pressure.
The door opens and Mal slips inside, and for a moment I forget how to be nervous because I’m too busy forgetting how to think.
He’s wearing the costume we picked out together—a perfectly tailored black suit with subtle crimson accents that catch the light when he moves. His hair is styled back from his face, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He looks like he stepped out of a gothic romance novel, all dark elegance and dangerous charm.
But it’s his eyes that stop me.
They’re glowing faintly red, visible even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the dressing room, and there’s something in them I’ve never seen before. Not fear, exactly. Something deeper. Something that makes my chest ache.
“Bianca.” His voice is calm, controlled. “Could you give us a moment?”
She looks between us, clearly sensing the undercurrent of tension, but she doesn’t push. “I’ll be right outside. Don’t mess up her hair.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
He crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into his arms. I go willingly, pressing my face against the crisp fabric of his jacket and breathing in his smoky, spicy scent.
“He’s here.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them.
My blood goes cold. “Azrael?”
“Third row, center section. He’s wearing a grey suit and a smile that makes me want to commit violence.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “Can he do anything? During the dance, I mean. Can he interfere?”
“He shouldn’t be able to. The Dance of Accord is protected by ancient law—even demons can’t directly interrupt it once it begins.” His jaw tightens. “But Azrael has never been one to follow rules he finds inconvenient.”
“Then we’ll just have to be faster than whatever he’s planning.”
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “I love that about you. The complete refusal to accept reality.”
“I’m a small business owner in a dying industry. Refusing to accept reality is the only reason I’m still standing.”
