Page 15

Chapter 15

Seeing Red

Dmitri

T he kitchen counter looks like a crime scene—casualties of rejected princess dresses strewn across it. Pink tulle. Purple sequins. Enough glitter to blind a man.

And my daughter?

My tiny tyrant stands among the wreckage, finally pleased with her dress. A sharp contrast to her feelings earlier in the day.

“No, Papa.” Ris had planted her hands on her hips, her expression an exact replica of Elena’s when she was not to be argued with. “It has to be the exact same color as Erin’s dress.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Amnushka?—”

“I told you this morning,” she had declared, her eyes gleaming with the confidence of a child who knows she’s already won. “She’s wearing red.” A dramatic wave toward the discarded pile. “These are all wrong.”

Of course she told me. And of course, I had to hunt for a specific shade of red while trying—and failing—not to think about Erin in said red.

Which is exactly why I spent my so-called nap calling in favors at three different children’s boutiques, explaining to several very amused store clerks that we needed an array of dresses in shades of red delivered this very afternoon.

The winner now hangs on the pantry door—a deep crimson confection that made Ris shriek with delight. Now she twirls in front of the fridge, the skirt billowing around her like falling rose petals.

“A perfect match?” I adjust my tie, needing something to do with my hands.

“Perfect!” She beams. “Now we just need?—”

“Erin?” The word comes out rougher than I mean it to. “We should leave soon.”

“Five minutes!”

Her voice drifts down the stairs, light and unconcerned, while my pulse hammers like I’m about to take a faceoff in overtime. I haven’t seen her since this morning. Since watching her play by the pool in the sunlight unraveled me.

I adjust Ris’s bow once more, ignoring the way my fingers aren’t quite steady. “Stay still, Amnushka.”

“But I’m so excited!” She practically vibrates. “Do you think Erin will let me help backstage? Can I hand her the music? Can I?—”

Footsteps on the stairs, and my hands freeze mid-bow. Fucking hell. I’m not prepared for this. The dress is ruinous.

A deep, sinful crimson that molds to her torso, sculpting every dip and curve before cascading in liquid silk down her legs. And the slit—fuck. It’s criminal. A scandalous slash up her thigh, indecently high, teasing me with every step. The fabric moves like smoke and sin, parting just enough to flash glimpses of bare skin, of long, toned legs that have no business being this exposed.

And judging by the slight tilt of her head, the smirk playing at her lips—she knows it.

One bare shoulder, the other wrapped in delicate fabric that begs to be nudged aside. Her hair swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck—that fucking neck.

The one that’s been haunting me since the museum. Since the first time I caught the faintest whiff of vanilla and wondered.

Wondered how she’d taste there, right where her pulse flutters.

Wondered what sounds she’d make if I tilted her head back, traced my mouth down the slope of her throat, tasted every inch of soft, heated skin until she gasped.

Then I make the mistake of looking down.

Her shoes—fuck me, her shoes.

Four-inch heels, delicate red straps winding around her ankles, showcasing the graceful cut of bone, the impossible slenderness of her legs. They bring her high enough that if I were to lean down just a little, her lips would be right there.

I swallow hard, my fingers twitching with the need to wrap around her ankle, to slide up the soft curve of her calf, feel the tension in her thigh as I press her back against the nearest surface.

Jesus Christ.

I force my hands to stay at my sides. Force my breath to stay even. Force my body to remember that my daughter is standing between us, blissfully unaware of the war raging inside me.

“Papa!” Ris tugs at my sleeve, spinning in her own dress—deep red, just like Erin’s. “We match!”

Erin finally speaks, her voice smooth, teasing, wrapping around my already frayed control. “Perfectly.”

I’m a dead man walking.

Ris squeals, launching herself at Erin.

Erin catches her, twirling them both, their skirts tangling together. “We really do!” She presses a kiss to Ris’s temple. “You look beautiful, sweet girl.”

I should say something. Acknowledge her dress. Compliment her. But my throat is too tight. And it turns out my little daughter has better game than me,

“Papa?” Ris tugs my sleeve again, yanking me back from the brink. “Doesn’t Erin look pretty?”

I nod like an idiot.

Because pretty doesn’t begin to fucking cover it.

Erin holds my gaze, a slow, knowing smile curling at the edges of her lips. “Ready?”

My fingers flex at my sides, desperate to grab, to feel, to memorize the way that silk clings to her skin. Instead, I reach for her cello case before she can. Something to hold that isn’t her.

“Car’s outside.”

She arches a brow. “Such a gentleman.”

But her voice catches when I step closer, lifting her wrap and draping it over her shoulders.

The fabric is weightless. Barely there. Like my fucking control.

I could so easily let my hands linger. Let my knuckles graze the delicate slope of her bare skin. Feel the warmth that calls to me like a siren.

Instead, I let the brush of my fingers be light. A whisper.

Just enough to make her shiver.

“Cold?” My voice is low, right at her ear.

“No.”

Her gaze lifts to the mirror by the door, locking onto mine.

And fuck. That look?—

It’s hunger and challenge and fear.

A taunt, a promise, and a plea all at once.

“Not cold at all,” she murmurs.

“Papa!” Ris calls from the driveway. “We’re going to be late!”

Erin steps away, but not before I catch the slight tremor in her hands.

Good. Because after that dress?

It’s her turn to suffer.

* * *

Le Poisson Rouge glows like a jewel box—exposed brick, vintage chandeliers dripping amber light, polished tables crowded with patrons dressed in the effortless elegance of people who appreciate the arts.

It’s intimate but electric.

The low hum of conversation. The clinking of crystal against polished wood.

Ris tugs my hand, her eyes going wide as she spots a poster near the entrance, the elegant text gleaming under the dim light:

AN EVENING OF CLASSICAL CROSSOVER

Featuring:

Bach Cello Suite No. 3 in C Major – Erin O’Connor

Shostakovich Sonata in D Minor – Erin O’Connor

Special Guest Luka Havran performing his viral arrangement of “Creep”

Closing with Bach Double Cello Suite (Luka Havran & Erin O’Connor)

“You’re playing a duet?” The words come out sharp, more accusation than question.

Erin’s gaze flicks to mine. “Last minute addition,” she says, leading us backstage, voice laced with exhilaration. “Luka reached out after seeing my channel and?—”

“Erin!”

A smooth and confident voice cuts through the corridor, and a man steps from the shadows—tall, dark, and entirely too fucking pretty. Precisely styled, not a hair out of place. The kind of effortless, calculated charm that makes women swoon and men suspicious .

And when he smiles?

Fucking dimples.

Dimples.

“Luka!” Erin’s face lights up, and something inside me twists—hard. “So glad we’re doing this!”

“How could I resist?” His accent—Czech? Croatian?—wraps around the words as he takes her hand. Takes her fucking hand. “Your Bach interpretation is revolutionary. When I saw your Vivaldi cover last month, I knew we had to collaborate.”

I clear my throat, and Erin starts, like she forgot I was standing right here.

“Oh! Luka, this is Dmitri Sokolov and his daughter, Ris. I’m temporarily sitting for Ris until her grandmother arrives.”

Luka’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing and calculating.

“The famous hockey player?” His expression shifts smoothly. “I saw your crossover video. Brilliant concept.”

I grunt something noncommittal, barely listening, because I’m watching Erin, who’s still buzzing from adrenaline, glowing under the stage lights.

I already know she’ll glow even more when I have her beneath me later tonight.

A stagehand appears. “Fifteen minutes to warm-up!”

Erin moves instantly, reaching for her cello case, but I beat her to it.

“Where do you want it?”

Her fingers freeze midair, her breath hitching just slightly. “The green room’s through there,” she says, voice quieter now. Almost hesitant. “I need to change strings, tune, warm up...”

“I’ll help!” Ris bounces beside us, curls flying. “Can I help, Erin? Please?”

“Actually,” Luka cuts in smoothly, stepping forward, “I could use an assistant too. Want to help me organize my sheet music while Erin gets ready?”

Ris looks torn, glancing between them, then at me.

Erin laughs, patting Ris’s shoulder before glancing at me for permission. I nod, and she smiles. “Go with Luka. I’m boring when I warm up—just scales and meditation.”

I follow her to the green room, setting her cello case carefully on the stand. The space is small and intimate, lit only by a warm lamp in the corner.

When I turn, she’s already close. Close enough that I can hear the unsteady rhythm of her breath. See the way her pupils expand, lit with pre-show nerves.

“The balcony really does have the best view,” she murmurs. “And the acoustics are incredible. You’ll be able to hear every note.”

Her perfume wraps around me, warm and heady, and fuck, I want to drag my knuckles down her arm, feel the tremor I know is there. But now is not the time.

Now all I have to do…is wait until we get home.

“Enjoy the show,” she whispers, then turns to her instrument, leaving behind the phantom scent of vanilla and temptation.

I step out of the room to retrieve Ris and find our seats. But before I do that—just for research purposes, obviously—I pull out my phone and check exactly how many followers this Luka asshole has.

* * *

The balcony hums with anticipation, a sea of murmured conversations and the occasional clink of crystal against polished wood. We weave through the crowd, finding our seats near the front.

Liam spots us first, his arm draped around Sophie, who leans comfortably into him. They look effortlessly at ease—Liam in a crisp, tailored jacket, Sophie shimmering in sequins that catch the dim light like scattered stars.

“Uncle Liam!” Ris stage-whispers, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you see? Erin’s dress matches mine!”

Liam glances at her, then at Erin, his expression unreadable. “Very fancy,” he concedes, smiling and ruffling her hair. But his gaze doesn’t stay on Ris.

It stays on me.

Watching me watch her.

“Excited for the show?” he asks, voice smooth. Too smooth.

If I didn’t know him like the back of my hand, I might miss the razor-sharp tension beneath his words, the careful edge honed just for me.

I won’t touch her.

The promise I made him echoes in my head. The promise I broke today.

I grunt something noncommittal, tearing my gaze away, pretending to study the program.

It’s a lost cause.

Below, Erin steps onto the stage, cello in hand, and my entire body locks up. She moves with the same quiet confidence I’ve seen before, but here—under the glow of the lights, the weight of the audience’s attention pressing in—she is transcendent.

Regal. Untouchable. Devastating .

She lowers herself into the chair with a grace that makes my pulse hammer, the silk of her dress cascading like liquid fire around her legs. And that fucking slit parts as she shifts, unveiling a stretch of smooth, toned thigh, a flash of muscle flexing beneath flawless skin.

My lungs forget how to work.

Then my gaze drops lower, to those fucking heels.

The delicate red straps wind around her ankles, hugging soft skin, flexing with every movement. They elongate her legs, sharpen every line, showcase the sheer power hidden beneath all that blasted temptation.

I clench my jaw so tightly it’s a miracle I don’t crack a molar.

“Papa.” A small hand tugs at my sleeve.

I don’t move.

“Why is your face doing that thing?”

“What thing?” My voice comes out like gravel.

“The angry thing,” she explains solemnly. “Like when someone checks you too hard.”

Sophie chokes on her drink.

Liam, though, remains still. And then he leans in. His voice is soft. Low. Lethal.

“She’s my sister , Dima.”

A sharp blade of guilt slices through me. But it’s too late for guilt.

I grip the balcony rail, fingers aching from the pressure. “I know,” I grind out.

Liam doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“Do you?” His voice is deceptively calm, masking something dark. “Because you look like you’re a heartbeat away from vaulting over this ledge and hauling her off the stage like a caveman.”

I exhale slowly, my grip tightening.

I could deny it.

I could lie.

But I won’t.

Because he’s right.

Because I have to have her.

And nothing—not even Liam—is going to stop me.

Below, Erin lifts her bow. The first notes spill from her like honey—rich, fluid, sinking into my bones. She sways with the music, lost in it. The way she commands that instrument does things to me. Her fingers glide over the strings, impossibly precise yet devastatingly tender, coaxing out sounds so pure they leave the room breathless. Every movement radiates control. Mastery. A strength that knots something tight and unrelenting in my chest.

The red silk shifts as she moves, catching the stage lights, clinging to every contour. She leans into a particularly passionate phrase, and the muscle in her forearm flexes.

I tighten my grip on the railing.

Those hands.

Those delicate, powerful hands that make wood and string submit to her will. That wring impossible beauty from mere pressure and friction.

My pulse pounds.

Her left hand flies up the fingerboard in a blur of motion, her right arm driving the bow. Every flick of her wrist, every shift of her thigh as she adjusts, sends a fresh surge of heat through me.

Then comes the run—fast, aggressive, fingers attacking the strings in a relentless storm.

My breath stops.

Because this isn’t just playing.

This is possession.

She owns every inch of that cello, bending it to her touch, making it sing for her.

The red silk slips lower on her shoulder as she throws herself into the crescendo.

A slow, blistering burn seeps into my muscles, locking me in place.

This is Erin in her zone.

Powerful. Untouchable.

And I want her so badly I can’t fucking breathe.

Then I notice movement in the wings.

Luka.

Watching her with a hunger that makes my blood turn to ice.

My grip on the railing tightens, my knuckles aching from the pressure.

“Breathe,” Sophie murmurs, amused. “He’s not the guy she has her eye on.”

I barely hear her.

Liam, though—Liam is still looking at me and the way my gaze is glued to her.

“Watch it, man,” he snarls, low and threatening.

I blow out a slow, rough breath, dragging a hand through my hair.

I know.

That’s the fucking problem.

But none of it matters.

Not the fact that her brother is my best friend.

Not the decade between us.

Not the inevitable fallout.

Because I don’t give a fuck.

I’ll claim her anyway.

ERIN

Bach flows through me, each note exactly where it should be. My nerves fade with the first phrase, replaced by that perfect performance high that makes everything sharper and brighter.

I can feel his eyes on me.

Even with the stage lights in my eyes, even with the packed house, I know exactly where Dmitri is. His presence pulls at me like gravity, making my skin buzz, making everything more intense.

The suite builds to its peak, and I let myself get lost in it. Let the music take me places.

Movement in my peripheral vision reveals Luka, waiting for our duet.

Focus.

The final notes fade. Applause washes over me, but I’m already preparing for Shostakovich. This is the one that matters. The one that shows what I’m made of.

I catch Dmitri’s eye just before I start.

And oh , the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch.

Watch this, Papa Bear.

The first notes tear out of me like a storm.

DMITRI

Shostakovich is a wrecking ball. Gone is the soothing warmth of Bach, the familiar elegance. In its place—violence. Frenzy. Music that slashes through the air like a blade. Erin doesn’t just play it, she wages war. Her bow strikes and shoves, her body a live wire of barely contained chaos, pouring every ounce of herself into the fight.

Der’mo. I exhale sharply, gripping the railing.

“Language,” Sophie murmurs. “There are children present.”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Because Erin is fire.

Uncontrolled, untouchable, burning too hot for anyone who dares get too close. Her hair is losing its battle with its pins, dark strands slipping free, clinging to the curve of her neck, damp with effort. The slit in her dress climbs higher with every impassioned shift, revealing scandalous glimpses of toned thigh that send heat straight through my veins.

“Papa?” Ris whispers. “Are you okay?”

No. No, I’m absolutely not okay.

Because Erin is wrecking me. Destroying me with every bow stroke, every sharp breath, every roll of her shoulder as she bends the music to her will. I’ve never seen anyone play like this, like she’s unraveling herself on stage, giving pieces of her soul away note by note.

And then Luka steps out of the wings, cello in hand.

My vision tunnels.

Erin barely acknowledges him as she lowers her bow, her chest rising and falling, scarlet lips parted from the effort. But Luka’s gaze devours her, drinking in the flush on her cheeks, the wild disarray of her hair. As Erin leaves the stage, he turns to the audience, flashing a devastatingly charming grin.

The crowd eats it up.

Luka Havran is built for the stage. Tall, broad-shouldered, naturally magnetic. The kind of good-looking that makes women swoon and men resent him on principle. Dark hair falls just past his ears, perfectly disheveled, and his sharp cheekbones only emphasize the cocky smirk that seems permanently etched onto his face. He’s shed his jacket, leaving just a fitted vest that tapers to a slim waist—enough to make half the audience smitten before he plays even a single note.

The lights shift, drenching the stage in cool blues as he lifts his bow.

Then the first low, aching strains of “Creep” hum through the theater.

A hush falls over the crowd, and fuck, I have to admit—it’s brilliant. Stripped down to nothing but raw strings, the song takes on a whole new life. Dark, haunting, a confession in every note. Luka doesn’t just play it—he bleeds it, bending each phrase until it shatters. The melody builds, and when he reaches that tortured climax, the bow digs in, growling against the strings in a way that raises every hair on my arms.

The applause is deafening, roaring through the theater like a standing ovation at the Stanley Cup Finals.

And then Erin steps back onto the stage.

The audience barely has a moment to settle before she takes her seat next to Luka, her cello settling between her parted knees. No words are exchanged, no glance spared. Just a shared breath before they lift their bows in perfect sync.

Bach.

Their cellos intertwine. Where Shostakovich was a battle, this is something intimate and fluid.

They push and pull, they give and take. Every shift of Luka’s bow is met with an answering flick of Erin’s wrist, their bodies swaying in tandem, mirroring each other’s movement. When she smiles—just the faintest curve of her lips—he grins back like he’s won something.

My grip tightens on the railing.

I should be focused on the music. On the fact that this is one of the most technically difficult duets ever written, played flawlessly by two undeniable talents.

Instead, all I see is Luka leaning in. Smirking. Devouring her with his eyes while their bows glide through the final phrase. When she smiles at him, his answering grin is the last fucking straw.

My grip on the railing tightens. I could snap it in half. I want to snap it in half.

Sophie’s hand lands on my arm. “Easy, tiger. Save the checking for the ice.”

The applause still echoes in my ears as we weave through the crowd backstage. Ris bounces ahead, clutching the bouquet of roses I picked up before the show, practically vibrating with excitement. I try—and fail—not to focus on the way Erin’s dress clings to her back, damp with the effort of her performance.

She’s glowing. Flushed from the stage, breathless from the music, the aftershocks of Shostakovich still humming through her body.

Fucking hell.

“Papa, hurry!”

But we’re not the first ones there.

Luka’s already in the green room, draped against the piano like it was placed there for him.

“Incredible performance,” he’s saying, voice warm and dripping with admiration. “Shostakovich was fire.”

Erin’s still catching her breath, loose tendrils of hair clinging to her temples. She looks wrecked in the best way, like she gave herself to the music completely, like she’s still half in another world.

And this asshole wants to talk about it?

“Erin!” Ris launches herself forward before I can form words. “You were so pretty! Like a princess who plays cello!”

“Thank you, sweet girl.” Erin laughs, catching her easily. The sight of them together is so right. “Did you like the music?”

“The fast part was like lightning!”

“Speaking of electric combinations,” Luka interjects effortlessly, his dimpled grin lighting up the room, “we need to discuss a collaboration. Your technical mastery and stunning appearance paired with my arrangements? We’d break the internet.”

My jaw actually creaks .

“Careful,” Liam mutters behind me. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The murder face.”

I force myself to breathe. Be civil. Don’t throw the man into a cello case.

Luka steps closer to Erin, still riding the high of the performance. “Drinks?” he suggests nonchalantly. “There’s a great wine bar around the corner. We could celebrate, go over a few ideas?”

I’m about to commit a felony when Erin’s eyes find mine.

“Actually,” she says, and I swear she sways toward me, “I should probably head home. It’s late, and I’m exhausted.”

Luka’s smile falters, just slightly. “But surely one drink?—”

“Rain check?” she says smoothly, already reaching for her coat. The one I brought for her. “Let’s connect tomorrow about the YouTube thing.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Luka’s gaze lingers a beat too long. “You were magnificent tonight, draga. ”

I move before I can think, taking her coat and holding it open. My hands are steady, though my pulse isn’t.

She steps in, and my fingers brush over bare, warm skin as I settle the fabric around her shoulders. She shivers.

“Cold?” I murmur, echoing the question I asked earlier.

Erin lifts her eyes to mine, a flicker of heat passing between us.

“No,” she says quietly. “Just…ready.”

She doesn’t have to say more.

“Papa?” Ris yawns, rubbing her eyes. “Can we get ice cream?”

“It’s late, Amnushka.”

“But Erin was so good!”

“Tomorrow,” Erin promises, but she’s looking at me. “Right now, I just want…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

I grab her cello case, jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

Liam clears his throat. “We should head out too. Early practice tomorrow.”

I catch the look he gives me as he steers Sophie toward the door. Behave yourself.

But Erin’s eyes are still on me, darkened with want, green irises shadowed and stormy. Her lips—flush with color, slightly parted—pull in shallow, uneven breaths, the remnants of adrenaline and anticipation.

And I’m so fucking done behaving.