Page 92 of Discordant Cultivation

“Sweetheart,” Vale purred, kissing his forehead, “you’re shaking.”

Kieran’s laugh came out strangled. “I’m t-terrified.”

“Of what, specifically?”

Everything. The people who’ll see through whatever façade we’re presenting. The possibility that someone might recognize what you’ve done to me.

“I don’t belong in there,” Kieran said instead. “I’m a st-street performer who got l-lucky with a few viral videos.”

Vale’s hand found his fingers tracing over his gauze-wrapped knuckles. “You are a real artist, Kier. You belong in there.”

Through the window, Kieran watched another group enter the venue—women in designer dresses, men in suits that probably cost more than most cars, all of them carrying themselves like they’d never doubted their right to occupy space.

They’re going to know. They’ll take one look at me and they’ll know something’s wrong.

But underneath the terror was the possibility of being seen as legitimate. The chance to exist in professional spaces as something other than charity case or curiosity.

I want this.

His stomach churned with something between desire and nausea. He wanted to meet other artists, to discuss creative processes and lyrics and the technical aspects of performance he’d never had educated conversations about. But the wanting felt like betrayal—of his former self, of whatever remaining sanity insisted this entire situation was fundamentally wrong.

If I go in there, I’m accepting this. Accepting what he’s made me into.

“I can’t de-decide,” Kieran whispered, “if I should r-run as fast as I c-can while screaming for help, or if I should n-never leave your side again.”

“The choice feels overwhelming because you’re trying to make it from a place of fear instead of trust.” Vale’s grip on his hand tightened. “You don’t have to decide anything except whether you want to walk into that building with me tonight.”

“What if I have a s-s-seizure in there?” Kieran asked, grasping for concrete concerns that felt safer than examining why Vale’s hand holding his made him feel better. “What if someone asks questions I c-can’t answer?”

“Then I’ll take care of you, just like I always do.” Vale leaned closer, his lips ghosting over Kieran’s ear. “You just have to trust me.”

For some reason I do…

The outside world felt dangerous, unpredictable, full of people who might hurt him in ways Vale hadn’t thought of yet.

At least I know what Vale wants from me.

“Will you st-stay close?” Kieran asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

Vale kissed his forehead again. “I’ll stay by your side, beautiful boy. Tonight, you’re going to know exactly what it feels like to be recognized as the artist you’ve always been meant to be.”

Kieran nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. The door handle was cold under his gauze-wrapped fingers, but Vale’s hand on his back felt warm and steady—his barbed anchor in a storm that raged so long he’d forgotten what calm weather felt like.

I can do this. Vale doesn’t lie to me. If he says I belong in there, then he has to be right.

They stepped out into the evening air and Kieran’s bare feet found the cold pavement—it was solid, real, connected to a world beyond a place he called home in his head beforehe reminded himself it was his prison. But instead of moving toward the entrance, Vale guided him toward the back of the limo.

“One more thing,” Vale said, retrieving a key from his jacket pocket.

The trunk opened to reveal a guitar case. Vale opened the clasps to display a Martin D-41 that caught the streetlight like polished amber.

Holy shit.

Kieran’s breath caught in his throat. The wood grain was perfect, intricate patterns showing decades of careful craftsmanship. An abalone inlay traced the rosette in delicate patterns and the strings looked like they’d never been touched, pristine and waiting.

“It’s yours.”

Kieran’s hands shook as he reached for the instrument, his fingers barely grazing the fretboard before pulling back like he’d been burned.