Page 18

Chapter 18

Reality Bites

Erin

T he house hums with that rare, golden kind of Saturday afternoon quiet. Ris is passed out on the couch, her tiny body curled around a stuffed bear, completely wiped from a morning spent watching her papa coach future hockey stars. Her skating bag is a casualty of exhaustion, abandoned by the door next to Dmitri’s gear from his recovery skate.

I sink deeper into the armchair, laptop balanced on my knees, breathing in the stillness. Upstairs, Dmitri is behind a closed door, taking his sacred pre-game nap—even on off days, the man is nothing if not disciplined.

And I should be doing the same. Resting. Or, I don’t know, practicing, like a responsible musician. But even the thought of picking up my cello seems tiresome and utterly pointless right now. My mind would wander back to him—the way his gaze burned into me from that stage, the way he possessed me last night. The way I crave him claiming me all over again.

Yeah. Not practicing seems like the right call.

My phone buzzes in my lap.

The email from Tanglewood lands in my inbox with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

My stomach drops as I stare at the subject line: “Regarding Your Summer Festival Application.”

God, I’ve been checking my email every five minutes for weeks, and now that it’s finally here, my finger hovers over the screen like it’s booby trapped. This is what I’ve wanted since graduation loomed on the horizon—my shot at being taken seriously, at having “prestigious” attached to my name in music circles.

“Just open the damn thing,” I mutter, tapping before I can chicken out.

The first line is all I need: “We regret to inform you...”

Crap.

I drop my phone like it’s suddenly scalding. The rejection sits there, mocking me, while I wait for devastation to hit.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, this weird sense of...relief?

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I whisper, running a hand through my hair.

Tanglewood was the dream I thought I needed. But maybe—just maybe—the universe knew better than I did.

I pick up my phone again, forcing myself to reread the rejection letter. It’s still there, still final, but the weight I expected to feel crushing my chest just...isn’t.

A FaceTime request interrupts my existential crisis.

“There’s my favorite cellist.” Luka’s grin is all easy confidence, his hair artfully tousled, dimples making a dangerous appearance.

I roll my eyes. “Do you say that to all your duet partners?”

“Only the stunningly talented ones,” he quips, then lowers his voice, teasing. “Have you checked your socials today?”

I shake my head. Between last night’s high and, well, this morning, I haven’t looked at my phone much.

“Oh, draga , you’re in for a treat.”

There’s something smug in his tone, but I’m already opening YouTube, scrolling to my channel?—

And freezing.

A hundred thousand new subscribers. More than enough to start making a livable wage from my channel alone.

In less than twelve hours.

My stomach flips.

“This is…” I trail off, scrolling through the endless flood of notifications, comments, and shares.

“Just the beginning,” Luka says smoothly. “Which is why I’m calling. We need to ride this wave. Keep the momentum going. I have an idea for our next collab, something that could really put you on the map.”

His enthusiasm is infectious, jolting me out of my haze. This is what I’ve been working toward—visibility, recognition, a real shot at growing my audience.

I sit up straighter. “I’m listening.”

“There’s this gorgeous rehearsal space in Chelsea—perfect acoustics, great natural light. Ideal for filming.” Luka leans back against what looks like a hotel headboard, his confidence effortless. “I was thinking we record a few pieces on Monday. I need a second cellist for a cello arrangement of the Brahms Double . You’d be perfect.”

My stomach tightens. The Brahms Double is a beast of a piece. Double stops, breakneck arpeggios, extreme range shifts—it’s not just difficult. It’s exposing.

“Are you sure?” I hesitate. “It’s insanely difficult.”

“I’ll play the violin part,” he assures me smoothly. “And if Monday is too soon, we can start with something else and tackle it later in the week?”

I stay silent, my brain spinning.

“But visually?” Luka continues. “With our stage presence? It’ll go viral.”

The opportunity dangles before me, golden and impossible to ignore.

“What time?”

“Say…eleven?” The satisfaction in his voice deepens. “I’ll send over the sheet music. Someone of your caliber can do this easily.” A beat. “And I’d suggest you wear something camera-worthy. Like that dress from last night.” He pauses just long enough to make it deliberate. “You looked...stunning.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“I’ll figure something out,” I say lightly, even as my pulse thrums.

“Brilliant. I’ll text you the details.” He shifts casually. “This is just the beginning of?—”

“What’s just the beginning?”

The deep, sleep-rough voice slides over my skin like a physical touch. My whole body recognizes it before my brain catches up.

I jump.

Dmitri stands at the bottom of the staircase, barefoot, shirtless, and looking entirely too fucking good for a man who just woke up. There’s nothing soft about the way he’s looking at me. His eyes—black as midnight, sharp as a blade—lock onto my face, then drop to my phone. The sound of Luka’s voice still lingers in the air between us.

And just like that, all my carefully constructed career plans dissolve into pure want. I can’t remember a single thing Luka just said.

I clear my throat. “Luka, I’ll see you Monday.”

But Luka doesn’t let himself be dismissed that easily. “Ah, there’s the hockey star himself.” His tone is all smooth amusement. “I was just arranging a recording session with Erin. The Bach duet we did last night is taking off. Check out my channel.”

Dmitri doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But the muscle in his jaw ticks once, sharp and telling.

“I’ll be ready for Monday,” I intercept quickly. “Text me the details.”

I end the call, but the air stays charged. The tension between us doesn’t dissolve—it thickens, wraps around us like a net, pulling tight.

Dmitri is still watching me, his stance deceptively relaxed, his hands loose at his sides. But I can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves.

“Recording session?” His voice is even.

I nod, aiming for casual. “Just a few videos. Building on last night’s momentum.” I lick my lips. “It could really help boost my visibility.”

A slow, stretching silence. Then he nods once, sharp. “Of course. This could be an incredible opportunity for you.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip. “Dmitri?—”

He cuts me off with a small, knowing smile. “You should practice,” he murmurs. “Ris and I will make dinner.”

It should put me at ease. It doesn’t.

Because there’s something wolfish in the way he says it.

“She’ll never forgive me if I start cooking without her,” he adds, eyes still locked on mine. “Weekend dinners are a whole production.”

My pulse trips. Something feels off.

I swallow. “You sure?”

“Oh, absolutely.” His voice drops. “Go play. I’ll handle dinner.”

Heat prickles my skin, and I turn toward the music room. But I don’t make it far.

Dmitri moves faster than a man his size should be able to. One second I have space, the next I’m backed against the wall, his massive frame filling every inch of my vision. His hands cage me in, one braced beside my head, the other skimming deliberately down my waist, his fingers pressing just enough to make me shiver.

I stop breathing.

Oh fuck.

He flicks a glance over his shoulder at Ris, still passed out on the couch, then back to me. His pupils are blown wide, black eclipsing brown, and when he speaks, his voice is pure gravel.

“Not so fast, solnyshko .”

My pulse slams into overdrive.

“Dmitri,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “Ris?—”

“Is sound asleep.” His lips graze my ear, the heat of his breath sending a violent shudder down my spine. “And I need to remind you of something.”

My hands grip his bare chest for balance. Or maybe just to feel him.

“Wh...what’s that?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

His mouth crashes into mine, claiming and all consuming. His tongue slides past my lips, deep and demanding, his kiss nothing short of punishment. My knees buckle, my body yielding instantly, but his grip on my hip is iron.

I melt into him, lost in the heat, in the raw, unchecked possession. His thigh wedges between my legs, pressing exactly where I need him, and a whimper escapes before I can stop it.

“Shhh.” His fingers fist in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. “Don’t wake the little one.”

His other hand moves, sliding beneath my shirt, rough palm skimming my ribs, then higher. He pushes my bra aside and rolls my nipple between his fingers, his breath ragged against my lips.

“I have a few things planned for you tonight.”

Desire detonates between my legs.

“Things?” I pant.

“Mmhmm.” He nips my bottom lip. “After dinner. After Ris is asleep.” His grip tightens, his thigh pressing deeper between mine. “I’m going to take you apart. Slowly. Thoroughly. Listen to you scream my name while you’re wrapped around my cock. Again. And again.”

My head falls back against the wall, my body no longer mine, my brain officially out of service.

His mouth trails lower, down my throat, teeth scraping, lips soothing.

“But for now,” he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and devastating, “you should practice. Unless…”

“Unless?”

His smirk is pure sin. “Unless you want me to throw you over my shoulder right now and finish what we started. Maybe just a quickie to tie us over until tonight?”

I consider it.

I want it.

But then Ris shifts on the couch, a soft sigh escaping her, and reality comes slamming back in.

I force myself to breathe, to remember where we are.

“Practice Brahms,” I rasp. “Difficult piece. Definitely practice.”

Dmitri chuckles, low and lethal.

“Good girl.”

He steps back—just barely.

Then, like he hasn’t just ruined me for the rest of the day, he plants one last kiss on my swollen lips and murmurs against them, “Tonight? You’re mine.”