Page 12

Chapter 12

Attalus II, the Perfect Wingman

Dmitri

M anhattan gleams under the midday sun, all slick glass and cold steel, too polished to touch. The Range Rover glides down Park Avenue, each stoplight ticking away the seconds.

Beside me, Erin is a bundle of restless energy, half turned in her seat, tossing out directions.

“Right here—no, next one.” She points, excitement slipping into her voice. “The white building with the green awning.”

I ease the car up to the curb in front of a fortress of old money—limestone facade, gleaming brass fixtures, and a doorman in pristine white gloves. Erin lets out a low whistle, tilting her head back to take it all in.

“Wow.” A half smile tugs at her lips. “Imagine living here.”

There’s something wistful in her tone, like she’s only half joking.

“You’d like that?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Oh yeah. When I’m a real grown-up musician? Sign me up.”

The elevator swallows us up in a hush of polished steel, its mirrored walls reflecting back the space between us. We don’t touch, but I can feel her heat and presence and quiet anticipation.

Twelfth floor, the doors slide open.

A distinguished-looking man greets us, all Brooks Brothers and well-practiced charm. “Ah, Miss O’Connor! Thank you for coming so quickly, we have an afternoon engagement and?—”

His words trail off the second he looks past Erin and lands on me.

He freezes. Blinks. Then does a double take. A triple take. His entire composure unravels in real time.

“Holy—Jack! JACK! Get out here now!”

Ris flinches at the sudden noise, pressing instinctively into my side. I settle a hand on her shoulder, grounding her, my own muscles tightening in preparation for…whatever the hell we just walked into.

Footsteps thunder toward us.

A teenage boy skids into view, still gripping an Xbox controller like he forgot he was holding it. His jaw drops.

“You’re—you’re Dmitri Sokolov!”

“ Da .” I squeeze Ris’s shoulder, steadying her. “We are here for the cello.”

The father startles, as if remembering this is supposed to be a business transaction. “Right! Of course!” He turns toward the hallway. “Emma, sweetheart, bring out your old cello!”

A girl appears, maybe thirteen or fourteen, all chestnut curls and casual weekend wear—graphic tee, worn jeans. She cradles the cello like an afterthought, but when her gaze lands on me, her grip tightens.

“Dad, is that really?—”

“The Defenders’ star defenseman? Yes!” He’s practically vibrating. “Jack, go get your stick!”

“Papa,” Ris stage-whispers, tugging at my sleeve with an exasperated expression. “You’re being famous again.”

Beside me, Erin snorts, barely covering it with a cough. When I glance her way, her eyes dance with amusement.

Jack returns at a dead sprint, hockey stick clutched like a holy relic. “Would you… I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“It’s no trouble.” I take the marker he thrusts at me, signing with the ease of muscle memory while Ris circles the cello, whispering to herself.

I glance at Erin. “Will this work for her?”

She grins. “Oh yeah. This will be perfect. Excited for your first lesson, sweet girl?” she teases, then adds, “After lunch.”

I ignore the warmth curling low in my gut and turn to the father. “How much?”

“Two thousand,” he says, patting the cello’s polished wood. “Originally paid thirty-five, but Emma’s outgrown it. We got her a new one a few weeks ago.”

“Deal.” I’m already pulling out my phone. “Venmo okay?”

The man lights up like I just handed him season tickets. “Of course! Let me just—” He fumbles for his phone, stalling for an extra moment. I recognize that look.

And sure enough?—

“Would you mind—?” He gestures toward Jack, already holding up his phone. “Just one picture?”

I stifle a sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. This comes with the territory.

“Sure.” I crouch slightly so Jack doesn’t have to strain to fit in the frame, resting one hand on his shoulder. The kid beams like it’s Christmas morning as the shutter clicks.

Ris, still hovering over the cello, presses her fingertips just above the strings, reverent. “Papa…it’s so pretty.”

I send the payment through. Both our phones buzz in confirmation.

“Done.”

Emma’s father beams. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I nod, then glance down at my daughter practically vibrating with excitement.

“You can try it as soon as we get home,” I tell her, then add, “But first, food.”

* * *

By the time we step into Neue Galerie, the cello is safely stashed in the car. The café drips with Old World charm—gleaming wood paneling, polished brass fixtures, and velvet-upholstered chairs that feel like they belong in a Viennese salon rather than the heart of Manhattan. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries weaves through the air, rich and indulgent.

The pastry case alone could break a man.

“Papa, look at all the cakes!”

Ris presses her nose to the glass, her breath fogging the surface. A sharp tsk comes from behind the counter—one of the waiters, dressed in a crisp white apron, looks at my daughter like she’s committed an actual crime.

I should tell her to stop. Something about manners, fingerprints, respect for glass surfaces. But the sheer joy on her face? Worth it.

“Lunch first,” I remind her, though my voice lacks conviction. Especially when I catch Erin eyeing the pastry case like she’s mentally drafting a ranked list of which desserts she’s willing to fight a stranger for.

We settle into a corner booth, and Ris bounces so much the leather groans beneath her, earning us another disapproving glance from a passing waiter.

“And this is before sugar,” Erin stage-whispers to me, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Imagine the power level after the Sachertorte.”

Her smile slams into me like a freight train.

Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching the copper strands of her hair, making them glow. I stare too long. Think too much. Like how it would feel if I fisted her ponytail, how easily I could tip her head back just the way I wanted.

Der’mo.

“So,” she says, oblivious to my internal destruction, turning to Ris with effortless warmth. “Do you know your notes yet?”

“A B C D E F G!” Ris sings, still bouncing.

The waiter sighs as he sets down a water glass with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who demand substitutions.

“Perfect. That’s exactly where we’ll start.” Erin leans in, and the subtle scent of her shampoo—citrus and something warm, vanilla maybe—short-circuits my already fragile grip on composure. “You’ll need to practice every day, though. Even just for a little bit. Ten minutes. What do you say?”

“I will! I promise!”

“Thirty minutes is plenty for a lesson for now,” Erin adds, more to me than Ris, her fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm on the table. The movement is effortless, natural. I track it, mesmerized. “Any longer, and it’s too much for small hands.”

A different waiter appears, this one somehow grumpier than the last, sliding our plates onto the table with the detached efficiency of a man who has been dealing with insufferable patrons all day.

But watching Erin cut Ris’s schnitzel into perfect, bite-sized pieces? Explaining how to hold utensils like she’s teaching bow technique? It ruins me in the best possible way.

“I can give her lessons while I’m with you,” she continues, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement is innocent. And yet, I feel it like a physical touch. “But for summer, you’ll want someone closer. The commute from the city would be too much for half-hour sessions. Besides…” She hesitates, then adds, “I might not even be here, if things go my way.”

If things go her way.

The casual reminder that her being with us is only temporary shouldn’t hit like a gut punch. But it does.

Three weeks. That’s all we have before she goes back to her real life—her bright future with no space for a serious relationship and the obligations that come with parenting a six-year-old.

“Papa?”

Ris’s voice tugs me back to reality. “Can we get the chocolate cake now?”

“After you finish lunch, Amnushka.”

“But Erin hasn’t even tried her soup yet!”

“She’s got you there.” Erin laughs, and the sound wraps around me like a caress. “I’ll hurry, okay?”

She leans over to grab the pepper, her arm grazing mine, and suddenly, my whole body is an inferno. Every nerve, every cell, tuned into that single, fleeting touch.

She inhales sharply. Not much. Just enough to tell me she’s unraveling too.

If only she didn’t. It would make this so much easier.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, retreating swiftly, a delicate flush blooming across her cheeks. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out and tracing the color down her throat.

“Papa! I’m done!”

Thank God for six-year-olds and their impeccable timing.

Because three more weeks of this—fighting gravity, pretending this magnetic pull between us doesn’t exist—might actually kill me.

And yet, watching Erin’s face light up as she helps Ris pick a pastry, the two of them fitting together so effortlessly, I can’t help but think…

Maybe I’m already dead.

And this is just the most exquisite kind of purgatory.

* * *

After Ris and Erin drown themselves in Viennese decadence, we step back onto Fifth Avenue, the city alive with motion. Traffic hums, a saxophonist on the corner croons something bluesy, and the late afternoon sun paints long shadows across the pavement.

I can still taste the faint trace of chocolate on my tongue—just a single bite of Sachertorte, nothing more. Enough to satisfy Ris’s pleading eyes, enough to stop Erin from smirking like I’m some joyless brute. But no more than that.

Discipline. Control. Playoffs are too important.

Ris had devoured every crumb with unfiltered delight, humming in happiness. And Erin—God help me—had taken her time. Letting the fork drag through layers of cake and apricot, pressing it between her lips with an indulgence that had nothing to do with dessert.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And I was barely holding it together, my cock turned to stone, imagining those lips swallowing me with the same kind of abandon.

We’re halfway to the car when Erin slows, her gaze snagging on something across the street.

The Met’s banners ripple in the breeze, announcing their latest exhibition.

“We have time,” I hear myself say, already shifting direction, already deciding for her. “Just a quick visit, yes?”

“I should squeeze in some practice today,” Erin starts, but I catch her hand before she can protest.

“Let’s live dangerously for a day, solnyshko. ”

She arches a brow. “Like you did with the cake?”

The memory of her licking chocolate from her lips hits like a punch, heat curling in my gut and my cock stirring. Again.

“Fine,” she says, smirking as she turns toward the museum. “A quick visit.”

Ris cheers, tugging us toward the crosswalk.

Without thinking, my fingers find hers. It’s instinct. As natural as breath, as if my body knows her already. And for a perfect, fleeting moment, she lets me.

Her hand melts into mine, soft and warm, fitting so seamlessly that it feels like the spaces between my fingers were carved precisely to hold hers.

I savor it. The way she doesn’t flinch. The quiet, unspoken ease of it.

Then, suddenly, she realizes.

She pulls away—not harshly, not in rejection, but in slow, sharp awareness. Like waking from a dream she wasn’t ready to leave.

The air rushes in, cold where her warmth was. My fingers close on nothing.

And for the first time, I understand what it means to miss something you never really had.

We climb the museum steps in silence, but my insides are churning. I don’t want this day to end. I don’t want to let her go.

Even though I promised her brother.

Not when Erin looks at art the way she looks at music, like she’s hearing something the rest of us can’t. Not when her hand fit so perfectly in mine. Not when everything about this feels right.

The Met’s grand lobby hums with weekend energy—families corralling sugar-fueled children, elderly couples moving at their own unhurried pace, young lovers sneaking kisses in quiet corners.

A place where we could disappear into normalcy.

Where, just for today, I can pretend.

Ris bounces between us as we ascend the grand staircase, her small hands clasping ours, binding us together like an anchor.

We move through the galleries, pausing without purpose, letting the museum pull us where it wants. Until we reach the Greek and Roman hall.

Sunlight filters through the high windows, striking burnished bronze.

Erin slows in front of a statue—a man cast in motion, shoulders squared, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Strength and dignity sculpted into permanence, a remnant of a kingdom long gone. Scholars believe he could be one of the rulers of Pergamon—Attalus II, perhaps—his form preserved to outlast time itself.

She tilts her head slightly, studying him with the same quiet reverence she reserves for music.

My gaze drifts over the statue’s stance, the impossible balance of strength and grace.

I watch her.

Her expression shifts, academic interest giving way to something else entirely. A flicker of heat. A flush creeping along the line of her throat. Her breath, just a little too measured.

Ah.

I follow her gaze, tracing the ridges and planes of the bronze body—the broad sweep of his shoulders, the sculpted definition of his abdomen, the powerful thighs balanced in a contrapposto stance. One hand is raised to the sky, the other resting at his hip—a warrior frozen mid-command, as if he once held a sword now lost to time.

But that’s not where her eyes are.

She’s looking lower, her gaze lingering, her breath just a little too controlled.

“The Greeks really understood anatomy,” she murmurs, her voice even—too even. But the sharp inhale that follows betrays her completely.

“ Da .” I bite back a smirk. “A very…accurate representation of the male physique.”

Her flush deepens, but she doesn’t look away.

“From an artistic perspective,” she clarifies, clearing her throat. “The proportions are—” She stops abruptly, realizing she’s only making it worse.

“Classical ideal,” I supply, amused at where this is going.

She turns, a challenge in her eyes. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I appreciate beauty, solnyshko. ” My gaze drags over her, unhurried and deliberate, leaving no doubt about whose beauty I mean. “Don’t you?”

Her lips part, just slightly. But she recovers fast.

“Look at that stance,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “So powerful. The way he’s positioned, like he’s about to pounce…” She drags her teeth over her bottom lip. “It’s like watching…an athlete in motion. The control they have over their physical bodies.”

My pulse kicks. Without thinking, I step forward.

Close enough to breathe her in. Close enough that the heat rolling off her skin is something tangible, something I could reach for. Close enough that if she leans back even an inch, she’ll find herself against my chest.

“It pleases you that he has…control?” My voice is low, a hushed murmur threading through the charged air.

She exhales, sharp and unsteady, and the vein in her neck throbs visibly. Tempting. An invitation. Just a tilt of my head, and I could brush my lips over that delicate point. Bite her. Mark her. Feel her unravel beneath me.

“Mmhmm.” Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to reach for something, maybe me. “The way he holds himself. All that strength is…”

She doesn’t finish the thought. But I feel the rest of the sentence like a brand against my skin.

Overwhelming. Unyielding. Capable of ruining me.

I should step back and put space between us. Be smarter than this.

But then again, fuck it.

I lean in. Not touching. Just letting her feel me there, close enough that my heat mingles with hers, close enough that the shallow hitch in her breath is a song I suddenly need to memorize.

Letting her know exactly how close she is to making me forget every rule I swore I’d follow.

“Control. Strength.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper, meant only for her. “Anything else that’s pulling you in?”

We both know we’re not talking about Attalus anymore.

She hums, feigning nonchalance, but her fingers tighten around the strap of her purse like she needs something to hold onto and anchor herself.

“Oh, you know.” A lazy flick of her hand. “His posture. Kind of like…” Her voice dips, turning downright sinful. “A hockey player.”

Heat licks up my spine.

“Is this how you see me?” My restraint frays, snapping just enough to let the words slip free, low and teasing, dark with intent. “Naked?”

Her breath catches.

But then—then she smirks.

And I know.

She’s about to ruin me.

“With those proportions?” Her gaze drags from the statue, slow and deliberate, back to me. “I don’t know. Do they match?”

A thrumming coils low in my belly, her words rocketing through my bloodstream like a supernova. I shift even closer, the heat rolling off her skin fusing with mine. A live wire hums between us, crackling with everything we shouldn’t do.

And just like that, I break.

“Is that something you’d like to verify?” My voice is a lazy rumble, my breath stirring the loose strands of her hair.

She inhales sharply, fire painting her cheeks. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, visible and frantic.

Then she leans in.

A fraction of a second. A slip in this game between us. A moment where the air between us ceases to exist.

Where there is nothing separating us.

And then?—

“Papa!”

The word crashes between us like a gunshot.

I jerk back, pulse pounding, chest tight.

Ris tugs my hand, oblivious to the inferno simmering between us. “What does this say?”

I exhale sharply, forcing my focus back.

But I feel Erin beside me. Still close. Still scorching, coursing through my blood.

I lean down to read the plaque with Ris, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Erin’s reflection in the glass.

Her gaze flicks between the statue and me.

And then—so quick I almost miss it—she bites her lip.

A slow, deep ache rolls through my center.

Ris tugs at Erin’s hand, shaking her from her daze. “Look, the statue is so serious. Just like Papa.”

Erin’s laugh comes out a little too breathy. “Yes, exactly like Papa. Always scowling.”

But when her eyes meet mine, they aren’t teasing. They’re fire and ruin. A storm that’s already hit shore.

And that’s when I know.

She thinks she’s still waiting for me to break.

She doesn’t realize I already have.