“I don’t obsessively?—”
“You do.” He shrugs on his jacket. “It’s part of your charm. But even perfectionists need rest, and I refuse to be responsible for you collapsing during the showcase because you worked yourself into the ground.”
“I don’t collapse.”
“Everyone collapses eventually.”
“Not me.”
“Especially you.” He crosses back to me, tilting my chin up with one finger. “You’re wound tighter than anyone I’ve ever met. Sooner or later, something has to give. I’d rather it wasn’t during competition.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Try to relax. I know it’s not your natural state, but consider it practice for a different kind of performance.”
“What kind?”
“Being human.” His smile is almost tender. “It’s harder than it looks, but I’m told it’s worth the effort.”
He leaves before I can respond, the studio door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
I stand there for a long moment, the water bottle clutched in trembling hands, and my heart racing at approximately one hundred and twelve beats per minute.
Being human, I think. What a strange thing to say.
But then again, everything about Malachi Vexis is strange. The bracelet with its mysterious stones. The phrases that don’t quite fit. The way he exists—like someone playing at being human rather than actually being one.
Thirty years, he’d said. Three centuries, my memory whispers.
I drain the water bottle and reach for my own bag, determined to put the thoughts out of my mind. The showcase is in three weeks. I have choreography to perfect and a reputation to rebuild and absolutely no time for mysteries or complicated feelings or the lingering memory of his lips against mine.
But as I lock up the studio and step into the sunlight, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something important. Something hiding in plain sight, just waiting for me to see it.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I can worry about mysteries. Today, I can rest.
I don’t believe it for a second.
But I try.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tiny feet scatter across the hardwood like a flock of startled pigeons.
“Miss Izzie! Miss Izzie! There’s a monster in the costume closet!”
Jilly tugs at my practice skirt with the desperate urgency of someone reporting a genuine emergency. Her tutu is askew, her ballet slippers are on the wrong feet, and her face is flushed with the particular excitement that children reserve for things that are either terrifying or absolutely wonderful.
“Jilly, we’ve talked about this.” I crouch to her level, trying to keep one eye on the rest of my tiny dancers as they cluster near the far wall. “Mrs. Patterson’s Pomeranian is not a monster, even if he does?—”
“It’s not a dog.” Jilly’s eyes are enormous. “It’s got big yellow eyes and pointy teeth and it stole my ribbon!”
A shriek from the costume closet punctuates her statement.
I straighten, every instinct on high alert. The children’s class is my favorite, but it’s also the most chaotic. Keeping track oftwelve tiny humans while teaching them basic ballet positions is challenging under normal circumstances.
These are rapidly becoming abnormal circumstances.
