When Isaac said we were going out, he meant it.

The dive bar was charmingly dingy, full of poky corners and threadbare booths for the crowd oozing from the dance floor to fill. Speakers crackled with the low hum of feedback as the previous band carted all their gear off stage, overlaid by the idle chatter of the audience. I was surprised by how little they cared for our extravagant attire, though I did have Isaac's cloak wrapped around my shoulders, to conceal the many knives buckled against my wrists and thighs. He'd put it there as we were leaving, his thumb accidentally grazing the hollow of my throat as he worked the clasp. My mouth had gone traitorously dry at that chaste contact, and I had to fight the urge to swallow as I watched him work, refusing to give away how nervous he made me feel.

Thankfully, Jedda had barged into the room shortly after, throwing her arms around Isaac's waist.

"Don't go," she'd begged, digging her fingers into his hips so hard they must have bruised. "Stay here, where it's safe."

"I have to go, little one," Isaac replied, but he reciprocated the hug, holding her tightly and rocking gently in place. I caught a hint of iron on my tongue and frowned as the calm he emanated rippled through that embrace, soothing Jedda's frown and deepening her breaths. "To keep everyone here safe. To help the friends you haven't met yet."

"Then I'll come with you," she said stubbornly, jutting out her chin.

"I need you here," he admonished gently. "Mason might be calling the shots, but you know he struggles to hold his own in battle. He's going to need your insight if something happens while we're gone."

Jedda's answering silence was sullen. I wasn't surprised when she turned her baleful eyes on me, but it was shocking when she demanded that I keep Isaac safe. At some point over the last twenty four hours, I'd been promoted from enemy to bodyguard.

"Can I get you a drink?" Isaac asked, pulling my mind back to the present. He was walking backwards alongside the bar, moving slowly but surely towards the dance floor. The woman behind him pouted when Isaac edged around her with supernatural grace, not once taking his eyes off me.

"I've never had a drink before," I admitted. "I probably shouldn't before a fight."

"Your system will burn through one in no time," he reassured me, slotting into an empty space at the far end of the bar. I joined him, leaning on my elbows as I eyed the rows of curiously shaped bottles, the glass lit from behind by a purple LED strip. Isaac's hair glowed in the faux darkness, the lavender sheen bringing out the hint of colour in his eyes. "Though I could get you a mock-tail instead, if you prefer."

"I wouldn't even know where to start," I mumbled, feeling a little overwhelmed by the heat and presence of so many people in such a small space. And I didn't want to take money from someone who so obviously needed it.

"What do you like? Sweet, sour, bitter?"

"Not too much of either."

"I have something in mind," he said, turning around to face the bartender. "I'll grab a pina colada and a mojito, please."

The bartender smiled, but her expression faltered when Isaac turned to face me again. She was a striking blonde, and her attention was supposed to be coveted when this many people were clamouring for service, but it seemed the striking figure in black was intent on ignoring her.

"You cosplaying?" she asked, trying to regain Isaac's attention as she worked. "That trident looks cool."

"Yeah, you could say that," he said, stormy eyes twinkling as they met mine.

When she left to get liquor from out the back, he leaned forward to whisper in my ear. "You can say it now."

His breath was warm on my neck. "Say what?" I asked innocently.

"You're biting the inside of your cheek again. Like you do whenever somebody says something you disagree with. It's quite adorable, actually."

"It's not a trident." The words rushed out in a single breath, and the next thing I knew we were laughing, leaning into each other and grabbing the bar for support.

"It's even in the name," he said, wiping away a tear. "Bi means two. Tri means three!"

I shook my head, ending the laugh with a sigh. "How did you know I was holding something back? Even my closest friends say I'm impossible to read."

The plural was admittedly a stretch nowadays. Sail was a sore spot in my memory, one I tried not to linger on, or I would find myself despondent for hours. I supposed Lawrence qualified as a true friend now, after he'd proven himself recently, but oddly enough it was Isaac's sister Ivy who knew me best, even though we hadn't known each other long.

It was funny; even though they had identical features, he had a way of making me forget all about her. I felt a pang of worry, a sordid reminder of the duality of meaningful connections.

"And now you're worried about something," he guessed, sobering a little. "Sorry, I know it must seem weird considering you only just met me properly. But I spent a lot of time hanging out in Ivy's mind whenever things at home got... difficult. She thought about you a lot."

I winced. "I wasn't as kind as I could have been." I'd tried to make up for it since then, but I couldn't change what had already happened. To this day I still wasn't sure how much of my paranoia and cruelty was mine, and how much should be attributed to my mother. At the end of the day, I was the one that acted on it, though. "And you should probably know she isn't well."

"I know," he said quietly. "We've been in contact since I moved to the city, though I haven't been able to get through to her for a couple of days now."

Of course she'd collude with a fugitive, I thought, shaking my head ruefully. She'd probably known the whereabouts of the hybrid pack for months. "The task force got stuck in the Incantum when they locked the place down."

He frowned. "That explains a lot."

"On the house," the bartender said dryly, shoving two glasses between us before turning to serve somebody else.

"Ivy definitely found you intimidating," Isaac said, picking up the original thread of our conversation. "But more than anything she had a lot of respect for you. I think she wanted to be like you, sometimes."

I let out a low bark of laughter. "You must be joking." Part of the reason I'd been so cruel to her was because I felt threatened by how unconditionally lovely she was.

"Oh contraire," he said, pushing a pineapple shaped glass into the circle of my hands. "And I agree, for the record. Now take a sip."

I eyed the liquid within, poking at the foamy yellow top with the curly straw. The old me would have refused; Corrine would have rebuked me for not watching every step of the drink being made. She would have made me question Isaac's intentions, convinced me that he'd spiked it. People were cruel and conniving, and men in particular were always trying to press some advantage, threatened by the premise of a woman in command of herself.

Colden had drugged me, and I'd trusted him more than anyone in the world. What was to stop it all from happening again?

Nothing, I thought viciously, so I might as well enjoy life in the meantime. A burst of hatred pushed me over the edge, and I took a long draught, to Isaac's great amusement. He found even greater amusement in my bewildered expression as every muscle in my face was sucked towards the point of my mouth.

"Too sour," I said, pushing it back. The pineapple juice was only barely offset by the coconut cream, making my lips tingle and burn.

"How about this one?" Isaac asked, passing me the mojito.

I was pleasantly surprised by how balanced the flavours were. It was a fizzy concoction of mint and lime, with a hint of sweetness that tied it all together. I hummed my approval and Isaac's smile turned smug, as if he was pleased to have guessed correctly.

"Don't get me wrong: this is lovely," I said, talking about the drink and the evening in general. "But what are we doing here? I know we have a few hours to kill before the fight, but don't you want to practice?" His cello case was still back at the warehouse, waiting by the despatch roller door.

"We should have enough time for both," he said cryptically, taking a sip from the same straw I'd used before setting the glass down on the bar. It was a simple act of sharing, so why the hell was it making my heart flutter?

He's a siren, I reminded myself, controlling my breathing so my heart rate would follow. It's not your fault, and it's nothing personal. He's treating you the same way he treats everybody else.

It was a surprisingly painful thought, but I chalked my reaction up to his magic and accepted it for what it was. He seemed to share my train of thought, for after rummaging around in the hidden pockets of his battle suit, Isaac pulled out two little wads of foam. Earplugs.

"May I?" he asked.

I nodded and he leaned in, pressing the foam snugly into my ears. It felt like dunking my head under water; everything was swallowed by sponge, muffled and warped, just barely discernible. I resisted the urge to yank them out and allowed Isaac to pull me onto the dance floor and through the crowd, right up to the front row. The band was ready and waiting, but for what? I didn't like the way their eyes were trained on us, and I was about to elbow Isaac in warning when he pressed his lips to my knuckles. The snake bite piercings singed my skin and I flinched, meeting his lavender eyes.

"I'll be back in a second," he mouthed. And then his fingers were slipping through mine and he was hoisting himself up onto the stage, accepting a guitar from the bassist and stepping into the strap. The body rippled with holographic stickers, some peeling at the edges, others flecked with dried blood. I shuddered to think of how violently one had to play in order to flay open their cuticles.

The other musicians were human, as far as I could tell, but there was a restless quality about them that reminded me of the haggard people who were always first in the pub after work. Their tangy adrenaline mixed with the salty sweat and saccharine clouds of smoke, creating a balance of scents not unlike the flavours in my mojito.

I took another sip for want of something else to do, wondering why I wasn't angrier about a detour mere hours before our first fight — a fight that could potentially be my last. I should have been practicing with my new weapons, getting used to the weight of the blades and compensating for the distance needed to make my mark. I should have been running Isaac through a series of drills so we could move as a coordinated unit.

Instead I let the crowd swallow me. Men and women surged forward the moment he stirred the strings, plucking a jaunty melody to check if they were in tune. Maybe this was Isaac's version of sitting on the roof to collect his thoughts; it could have been part of his pre-match routine, for all I knew.

I also couldn't deny that I was curious to see his power in action. I wasn't a fool; the earplugs were there to diminish the spell of his voice, though I could still make out the gist of the loudest noises in the room. People were already screaming his name, throwing up their arms in excitement, reaching over the lip of the stage for the chance to brush his shoes. He tossed smiles and glances like breadcrumbs, a benevolent god endeared by the ducks gobbling them up at his feet.

Firmly entrenched in the middle of the crowd, I pulled up my hood, crossed my arms and dug in my heels.

"How's it going, Fitzroy?" Isaac asked, the mic catching his voice and throwing it wide.

The answering roar was almost deafening. People started pouring in from the street, drawn by the uncanny lure of his voice. Wads of cash were thrust into the bouncer's chest, so quickly they could barely keep up.

No wonder he drinks on the house, I thought. Isaac probably tripled their profits with a single set.

"I'm glad you're as stoked as I am to be here. It's been an absolute privilege to step in while the vocalist recovers from having his wisdom teeth removed. But I also have some sad news," Isaac said, his voice dropping so low I almost couldn't make out the words. "This could be my last night."

The crowd let out a collective sound of dismay.

"So let's make it special, hey? This is your chance to let go. Dance like nobody's watching."

It was the title of the song, one of the band's originals. They struck up the intro without warning and the crowd exploded into motion, writhing on command like rats enchanted by the pied piper. The band members played in perfect synchrony, eyes closed and mouths slack, lost in the sublime ecstasy of contributing to something greater than the sum of its parts.

The next few songs were much the same, an upbeat, alternative rock that was easy enough to move to – though I did no such thing. It wasn't until Isaac's original played that I was truly tempted to let go. He introduced it to the set without warning, and while the band members looked puzzled at first, their frowns smoothed with every honeyed word that dripped from his tongue, every syllable rolling sensuously into the next.

A shiver took me as they eased into ambient noise, the kind that soughed like the wind and keened like a bird that had lost its mate for life. Magic, I thought, wondering how much more intense it would be without the earplugs. I could already feel my heart in my throat, an uncomfortably full sensation after so many years of training my body to lock down physical manifestations of emotion.

I'd never really listened to music of my own volition; never liked having my senses muffled in any capacity, be it via sunglasses, headphones or gloves. It was part of why I wanted to rip out the earplugs even now, though the temptation ran deeper than that. I was fascinated by the way Isaac worked the crowd, coaxing them to complement his melody with harmonies, to wave their phone screens and torches and sway in time with the beat. Rooted to the spot, I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to join them, to sacrifice my excruciating awareness of everyone and everything, and all the myriad ways it could kill me.

The spell wove itself tighter as the crowd formed intricate, swirling patterns on the dance floor they couldn't possibly have practiced ahead of time. He's compelling them, I realised, turning slowly to assess them, surrounded on all sides. The last time I'd seen something like this, Colden was using dominance to control every single fighter in the battle for Ridgeview, incapacitating the hybrids and driving our students to dispatch them. It would have been a merciless slaughter if Damian hadn't stuck a knife in his back.

And I'd killed him for it.

For the first time in a long time, I felt winded by guilt. What if he was just trying to protect his own? I thought, feeling the blood drain from my face. Kids like Jedda? Kids like Ethan?

Before that moment, I'd held Damian in the highest regard. I'd thought myself the victim, but now I wondered if I was the villain in someone else's tale. It pained me to think that I'd robbed the hybrids of another father figure like the one on the stage. Had Damian and Isaac been friends?

To my surprise, Isaac was watching me as he sang, one hand wrapped around the top of the mic. Sweat curled the hair at the back of his neck, the glistening beads collecting at his temple and below his chin, rolling down the knell of his Adam's apple. For a split second, I was struck dumb by his beauty. How could eyelashes be so white and so long?

Slowly, inexorably, my hands came up to my ears. Isaac's eyes narrowed in warning, but he kept playing, letting me make the decision for myself.

Torn between logic and desire as my fingertips found purchase on foam, I looked for guidance where there was no longer any to be found. My mother would have whispered that I was a fool for being here. That I was risking my life and my pride when I ought to be practicing for the tournament.

But for what? I suddenly asked myself. I'd been training my whole life just to survive, and I realised abruptly that it wasn't enough. I wanted a life worth fighting for. To experience joy and hate and even fear, for that made the bright things all the brighter.

I wasn't ready to let go completely, but I could relax my grip — just a little.

Easing out the earbuds did little to stop the music flooding in. It rocked me to my core; lit up every nerve in my body like a Christmas tree; made my blood fizz as it rushed to places I'd never truly allowed myself to consider overlong. My lips parted and my tongue darted out to wet them. My nostrils flared and my eyes widened as if to take in more of the man on the stage, working that guitar like it was my soul in his hands, making every part of me sing.

There was an undeniable triumph in his gaze. A purely male satisfaction that he could wring such an intense reaction from my body, but it was tempered by guilt and a little bit of fear. A haunting, dissonant note jarred me from the full force of the revery and I resurfaced for air, tearing my eyes away from the fallen angel on the stage. His glory was too intense for my lowly senses to perceive all at once.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the drink in my hands, the liquid rippling with every thump of the bass. I didn't want to be consumed by his art; I wanted to appreciate it in full, to savour and remember it later. Anchored in my body, looking within for satisfaction instead of without, I found wonder in the music reverberating in my bones, loss and longing in the drink in my cup. When I took a sip, I savoured the balance and felt it in every part of me.

I was still watching the last note ring out in the ripples when meaty hands gripped my hips. They were too rough, too cruel to belong to Isaac. To be touched again against my will — to be caught by surprise —

A knife found its way into my hand and I whipped it up towards the man's throat, not even registering his face. In my mind, he was already dead.

A pale fist connected with his jaw before my blade could, sending ivory teeth flying into the crowd.

"My girl didn't ask to be touched," Isaac snarled, rising to his full height. I hadn't realised how much he softened his posture until now, when he abandoned all pretence of idleness and followed through on the threat of his physique.

The man dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"He's out cold," a woman said, kneeling down beside him. When another man reached out to test his pulse, she slapped his hand away. "Not dead, you idiot."

The knife in my hand surreptitiously found its sheathe. "I think you punched him a little too hard," I said dryly. The music was gone, and every feeling I'd wallowed in was fading with it. It left me feeling pleasantly satiated.

"Better a concussion than a severed artery," Isaac murmured, offering his arm. "Shall we?"

It was the offer that won me over; the opportunity to decline. Where the other man had assumed my consent, Isaac asked for it explicitly, and I gave it readily. The muscle in his forearm was hard to the touch, clearly defined even through his leather vambraces.

"Your girl, huh?" I peeked at him through the corner of my lashes. It was a possessive term, but the way he used it made me feel more like a partner than a possession.

Perhaps it was the performance that made his skin flush. I smirked all the same.

"Didn't they tell you?" Isaac asked, feigning innocence as he bumped my hip. "We're a matching set."

"I knew it the first day I saw you," I said softly. It was why I'd tried to kill him.

Which was why it was so surprising now, as we walked out of the bar arm in arm, to realise I didn't hate myself the way I used to.