Page 113 of Teach Me to Fly

“I’ll try.”

And then he’s gone, striding off toward Terry, leaving me alone with Reign and my suddenly stuttering pulse. Reign steps forward slowly, like he has all the time in the world. His eyes sweep down my body, his expression darkening just slightly when they land on my costume, on the bruises blooming from rehearsal, the ones he kissed just last night.

He lifts a hand to my face, brushing his knuckles down my cheek, and then—without warning—his lips are on mine. He kisses me like there’s no one else around, like this moment matters just as much as the one we’re about to perform. His mouth moves against mine with the kind of focus that makes my knees feel like liquid, and when he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, my skin buzzing like it’s been charged.

“Ready for a performance of a lifetime?” he murmurs, still cupping my cheek.

I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “With you by my side, I’m ready for anything.”

The stage manager signals us with a soft clap and a thumbs-up, and just like that, we step into the wings together.

The theatre issilent and pitch black, except for the faint outlines of the set. My feet rest in fifth position, my arms held high, spine lifted like a string is pulling me from the stars. I keep my breathing measured as I stare into the blackness, eyes adjusting slowly. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears and the tremble in my limbs.

I glance across the stage, knowing Reign is there, and he lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes and wink, making my stomach flutter even now—on one of the most important nights of my life. I huff out a breath, barely a smile, and then I watch him look away, bowing his head just as the first chord of his composition begins.

The lights blink on, and we start. Terry’s choreography pulses in my muscles, and each step, each turn, feels like a confession. I dance to the story of grief, of betrayal, of pain buried so deep I nearly drowned in it, like Odette. But I also tell the story of love, of being held, of being seen, and of healing.

Reign’s hand touches my waist, and I don’t flinch. He lifts me and I rise, feeling more alive than I’ve felt in years because in his arms, I’m not broken. I’m free. For a few perfect seconds, I’m flying, like I used to when I was little, leaping through the living room in my socks while my dad clapped along to Tchaikovsky, telling me I’d be a principal dancer someday.

When he sets me down, I spin into him, letting my head fall against his chest for a beat before we separate again,dancing like our souls are tied together. And maybe they always have been.

The music builds, and I close my eyes as my body bends and glides and soars. I think of my father, watching from wherever he is, and I think of the little girl he used to twirl around the garden, the one who believed she could fly just because he told her she could.

And I think of Reign, and Lando. Of the boy who kissed my scars like they were sacred and the best friend who never let go of my hand, even when I was ready to let go of everything else. The final crescendo builds like thunder and I push through the last movement with everything I have. Reign lifts me once more and I soar—arms out, eyes to the heavens—before he lowers me gently to the ground as the last note fades.

Applause erupts, loud and fierce. It crashes over me like a wave, and I blink hard against the tears rising in my eyes. Reign’s hand slides into mine and squeezes. I turn to him, and he’s already looking at me like I’m the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

“You did it,” he whispers.

My chest heaves, tears trailing down my cheeks. I look at him—the man who helped stitch every broken piece back together. The one who never walked away and who taught me how to fly.

“No,” I say.“We did.”

Epilogue

ANGELIQUE

The city is quiet today. Maybe it’s just the early hour or the weight in my chest muting everything. I stand in front of the mirror inside our New York hotel room, smoothing down the front of my slate-grey pantsuit. The fabric’s soft and expensive, but inside I feel like the seams of me are barely holding.

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since I saw my mother. Since I saw Alec. Since I stood on a bridge and thought there was nothing left for me. And now, here I am, on the other side of survival.

“You look gorgeous.”

I blink, meeting Reign’s gaze in the mirror. He’s buttoning his jacket, a deep navy tailored within an inch of his life. His platinum hair is neatly styled, his Patek watch catching the light as he adjusts it. He’s calm and composed, as usual. He walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, planting a kiss on the back of my head.

“You always do,” he murmurs.

I offer him a weak smile, but the moment I do, my lip trembles. Reign turns me to face him without hesitation,arms caging me in with a kind of devotion I never get used to. I let my forehead fall against his chest, and he holds me tight.

“We should go get matching tattoos after this,” he says suddenly, voice teasing. “To celebrate.”

I laugh through the nerves, the sound watery. “You make it sound like winning’s a sure thing.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze unwavering. “You’re winning, Angel. Because if you don’t…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll burn this city to the ground.”

I snort, wiping under my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “And you love me.”

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