Page 12

Chapter Twelve

BLAKE

I t’s a full circus backstage.

Costumes I personally tagged as “DO NOT TOUCH” have managed to defy the laws of gravity and common sense, migrating across three dressing stalls like haunted taffeta. The glue gun cart is missing—which is honestly alarming—and someone smuggled coconut oil into the green room, even though the floor crew specifically banned it after a debacle Carla is calling the Slip-and-Fall Duo.

Also, the spotlight tech is still misfiring like it’s possessed by a poltergeist with a diva complex.

And to add icing on the gastrointestinal cake, I just helped mop up the chunked remnants of what Carla swears was a shrimp Caesar wrap—one violently rejected by a dancer who should not have eaten seafood from a gas station that shares real estate with an adult toy dispenser.

All before noon.

I shove the mop bucket aside, stepping around a roll of zebra print duct tape that's been kicked into a forgotten corner and isn’t adhering to anything helpful. “I swear to God, if I find glitter in the coffee machine again, I’m locking this place down like it’s goddamn Area 51,” I mutter to myself.

When I applied to be the stage producer here, this isn't even close to what I was expecting.

The music pulses deep inside my chest—today’s soundtrack is a sultry French horn rendition of “Toxic” that sounds like Mardi Gras and a striptease had a baby raised on dark chocolate and revenge. It thumps from the sound system overhead like a heartbeat with a vendetta.

To my left, two dancers are arguing over mid-routine positioning. To my right, one of the interns is trying to staple a torn bustle instead of sewing it, because life is pain, apparently. Someone I can’t see airdrops a burst of perfume that smells like cherries and despair.

It’s beautiful and exhausting and chaos. Immense, glorious chaos.

And underneath it all, I’m barely keeping it together.

My clipboard is digging into my side, and the pen tucked behind my ear keeps stabbing my temple every time I glance down to check who still hasn’t signed the safety waiver.

But none of that matters.

Because every time Malachi walks past me—commanding and silent and so effortlessly dominant he might as well trail thunder in his wake—my stomach does this low, traitorous clench. And every time, it gets worse.

He doesn’t even have to touch me. Not this time.

All it takes is the smell of him in the air—sandalwood and something musky, dark, and rich. All it takes is the memory of his low growl, the one that rumbled from his chest as he?—

Nope.

No. This is a workplace. I am a professional. I have one job here and it’s not to relive the goddamn best night of my life like a horny teenager under a weighted blanket.

It was just one time.

One night.

One oh my god yes night.

Done. Dust it off. Refile it under “What Was I Thinking?”—which in my brain is its own section.

He doesn't know it was my first. And he never will.

That little tidbit is going to the grave with me. Probably nestled next to my dignity, which limped off somewhere around the moment he looked me dead in the eye and said, “Now I’m going to fuck you,” like he was making a sacred vow and tearing my soul apart with his voice alone.

A shout from the tech balcony snaps me out of the spiral spiraling way too low.

“Spot three’s dead again!” Perry bellows, his frustration ricocheting through the rafters.

“I know!” I call back, too exhausted to add the silent scream of “and so is my will to live.”

I scribble it down in my ever-growing list of problems that will inevitably age me five years before opening night. I’ve already accepted that I’ll walk into curtain call looking like I’ve been on a four-month hike through Narnia.

I don't have time for the aftermath of a night with a moody vampire.

I’ve got too much to juggle—too many things that need fixing yesterday.

And yet, no matter how neat my call sheets, no matter how firmly I lock the steamer trunks and costume bins and emotional compartments of my brain…

Malachi still lingers like smoke under my skin.

Get over it, lady.

He probably doesn’t even remember what color your eyes are.

Penny, drenched in sweat and glowing with post-routine pride, gives me a wave as she crosses the rehearsal floor to the costume rack. I wave back—and nearly drop my clipboard when I see Perry jogging toward me, brows slightly raised and a small box in hand.

It’s the size of a vintage handkerchief kit, wrapped in a velvet ribbon the color of stormy dusk. Elegant. Purposeful. Too much for backstage chaos.

“Hey,” he calls. “Front of house got this for you. No return label. No receipt. Just your name on the card.”

Just ‘Blake.’ That’s it. No title. No last name.

My stomach turns.

Perry looks like he wants to ask more questions, but to his credit, decides to let it go. He hands me the box.

The paper is thick. Iridescent blue-green. Slightly off from Tiffany’s signature robin’s egg, but close enough to make me wary. The kind of off-brand expensive that screams custom—meaning intentional.

This wasn’t bought during a grocery run.

I loosen the velvet ribbon with slow, wary fingers. My skin prickles.

Inside, nestled in silk tissue: a silver bracelet. Lightweight. Oval chain links. And one charm—the unmistakable shape of a stage fan, the tiny ridges encrusted with mother-of-pearl chips.

My fingers tremble.

My lungs stop working entirely.

I know this bracelet. Not because it’s the same—it isn’t—but it’s so close that it punches through my memories like sunrise through blackout curtains.

It’s nearly an exact replica of the one Tonya gave me the night of my first solo spotlight. Velvet Nights Showcase at The Gentleman’s Study. My debut.

Sounds trashy to anyone outside the life, but to me? It was sacred. I worked two solid years just for the chance. Practiced routines every night with weights on my arms to keep my extensions fluid. Memorized every mistake a dancer could make and beat stage fright into submission like it owed me money.

And when it was over? I walked off that stage with more money than I'd made in an entire month, and Tonya took my wrist in one soft, practiced hand and slipped that bracelet on.

"Now you know how powerful you are,” she whispered.

I wore it every shift until the clasp broke and the last charm—a little high heel—fell off and disappeared behind a couch.

No one outside of Tonya and Charlie knew about that bracelet. My best friend and mentor. My daughter. Who else could it be from?

A hollow laugh escapes me. It feels brittle and dusty, coated in a kind of dread that’s darker than anything I expected from my Monday.

If this is some kind of post-hookup gesture from Malachi, I can’t. I just can’t.

That night was supposed to be it. A single chapter in the locked file cabinet of Wild Choices, sealed shut and buried under résumés and rent receipts and leftover guilt.

And now gifts?

I close the box, snap it shut with more force than necessary. My fingers want to shake, but I clench them hard.

I spot Perry. He’s coordinating with the floor lights tech now.

“Can you cover for me for twenty?” I ask, voice level. Already stepping toward the front hallway.

He nods without even asking. One more reason why I like him.

The stairwell to the second floor is quiet and somehow darker than before.

I march up two at a time, the wood creaking beneath my sneakers. His voice filters down before I see him—low, clipped, speaking some language I can't make out. It tumbles from sharp to fluid like rain over steel.

I reach the landing.

The door to his office is open. He’s stepping into the corridor, buttoning his shirt at the cuff with precise efficiency like he’s performing for a slow-motion cologne ad. Rolled sleeves. Collar slightly open. Hair unruly from rehearsal oversight.

My heart stutters despite everything in me that resists.

I plant myself directly in his path.

“Is this part of the package now?” I say, holding up the bracelet so the charm swings, catching the weak light. “One night together and suddenly we’re doing gifts? What’s next? Monogrammed lingerie and matching gravestones?”

He turns. Slowly.

His golden eyes land on the bracelet—then on me.

The phone slides into his pocket, forgotten.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bravado’s the only thing keeping me on this stupid landing.

“You left in the middle of the night without a word,” I remind him, my voice flat. No inflection. No invitation. “I figured that was the end of it. Which was the deal, by the way. No strings. No notes. No bouquets and charm bracelets delivered to my job.”

His gaze narrows, but he hasn’t looked away from the piece dangling from my hand.

“I didn’t send that.”

Everything in him shifts.

The warmth drains from his features, replaced with that silent, terrifying stillness vampires pull from some ancient grave.

His voice ticks lower. Denser.

Ice and command in equal measure.

I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

Then he moves.

In a blink, he closes the distance between us and his hand wraps around my wrist—firm but not painful. My whole body tenses. First with alarm, then with, damn it, awareness.

His touch snatches all the air from the stairway.

He plucks the bracelet from my fingers and turns it over, inspecting the metal and clasp like it’s evidence in a murder case. His jaw tightens as his eyes roam the pale blue tinge of the inner box lid.

I wait for him to explain.

To apologize. To do anything.

Finally, he shakes his head and looks at me.

There is nothing in his gaze now but the cold, sharp calculation of a man with centuries of secrets behind him.

My stomach twists.

A strange sense of disappointment wells inside my chest.

Why did I expect more? Why did I think this was different?

I don't know if he notices, but Malachi's lips press into a thin line. "If I'd known you were looking for a gift, I would've asked what you wanted."

The joke falls flat, but a corner of his mouth quirks up.

It doesn't reach his eyes.

"Right." I clear my throat.

This time, I don't meet his gaze. Instead, I turn and head down the stairs, the bracelet box still clutched in my hand.

"Blake?"

I turn back, staying silent. Malachi is still—too still. He’s drawing in deep breaths, slow and measured.

“Was there a note?” he asks, voice like the pause between thunder and lightning.

“Just ‘To Blake.’ That’s all.”

“Show me.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He lifts his hand.

I take too long responding, and his eyes flash that warning look, no hesitation in the gleam.

A chill dances down my spine.

“I’m not being dramatic when I say this, Blake. If someone’s sending you strange gifts here, I should know.”

My heart thunders.

“What, exactly, do you plan to do if that’s true?” I shoot back, needing something to steel myself against the look in his face. “We were never anything. You might have said we were the night you helped me but—" I cut myself off and renew my resolve. "You said one night. One night. You don’t get to play mafia bodyguard now just because you—because we?—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “If someone’s trying to get to you,” he repeats, stepping even closer, “then they’re going to have to crawl through me first.”

The air between us sharpens. I breathe it like static.

I want to say it’s romantic.

It’s not.

It’s a threat to the dark.

I step back, flinching only a little.

“You don’t have to defend me,” I murmur. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“It means something,” he says quietly but with enough heat to make my throat dry.

His gaze burns into me. Not heated like before. Not leading to anything we can’t take back again.

Protective. Territorial. Furious.

And under it all? Something I don’t dare name.

“You don’t even know me,” I say one last time.

He answers without blinking. “Which is what worries me.”

I step around him, throat working. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to worry about me again. You're my boss, that's all.”

I lie through my teeth. It's the only thing between me and breaking.

I don’t stop walking even though my knees wobble. I don’t look up even though he’s probably watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

Professional.

Unbothered.

Cool under pressure.

That’s the plan.