Page 22

Chapter 22

Thunderstruck

Erin

M orning light spills across my sheets, warm and golden, but it does nothing to quiet the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin.

Dmitri’s been gone since Monday, and I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since.

And today, I’ll see him.

My stomach flips, a ridiculous, giddy thing I refuse to acknowledge. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning despite my exhaustion, waking up way too early like a kid on Christmas morning. Now I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling, pulse skittering at the mere thought of being near him again.

I roll onto my side, clutching my pillow, but it’s useless. The anticipation is sharp, electric, winding tighter with every passing minute.

Five days was both nothing and an eternity.

And today, the waiting is over.

But before I let myself get lost in the thought of Dmitri—his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world—I need to remember why my stomach isn’t just flipping with excitement.

I need to tell him.

Because everything changed on Wednesday, when Luka decided to drop a nuke in the middle of our recording session.

We’d been playing “Thunderstruck” in Dmitri’s garden, the storm clouds rolling in like a special effects team had been hired for the shoot. Wind whipped through the cherry blossoms, scattering petals over the dark water of the pool. Thunder cracked in the distance, an ominous drumroll beneath the grinding wail of our cellos.

I was lost in it, high on the music, bow slashing across the strings, pulling raw electricity from the humid air. My hair stuck to my damp skin, curls wild from the rising storm, fingers flying over the fingerboard in a blur of harmonics and growling double stops.

Luka, ever the showman, was in his element, standing to play, head bobbing with the violent rhythm, his entire body moving with the force of the music. His bow slammed against the strings in percussive strikes, mirroring the thunder rumbling overhead, both of us transformed, caught in the storm.

And then, just as the first fat raindrops started to fall, while our videographer frantically covered his equipment, Luka casually set my entire world on fire.

“Speaking of thunder,” he mused, grinning and running a hand through his now rain-dampened hair, “I spoke to Marko Vucic. You know, the Dubrovnik Summer Festival director? He’s a good friend.”

I barely heard him over the blood rushing in my ears.

“What?”

But Luka didn’t notice my world tilting, didn’t see my chest tightening as he kept talking, too smug, too casual, like this was just another gig.

“They want us for opening night.”

Us?

Opening night.

Dubrovnik Summer Festival.

My pulse kicked into a full gallop.

A festival etched into the ancient stone of the city itself—centuries-old walls transformed into grand stages, orchestras playing under the stars, the Adriatic whispering in the background, music spilling through marble-paved streets.

The entire city turning into a living symphony. A masterpiece of sound and spectacle, where only the world’s best musicians are invited to perform.

And they invited me.

Granted, with Luka. But still—an opportunity of a lifetime.

“Three concerts. Two weeks in July.” Luka shrugged, like performing at one of the most prestigious festivals in the world was just another summer plan. “Masterclasses with the top conservatory students from across the Balkans. Private events. Then nights on the beach—music, bonfires, parties with Europe’s A-list.” His dimples flashed, eyes gleaming. He leaned in, continuing to paint the picture.

“Imagine it, draga . Playing on the shore at sunset, the city towers glowing behind us, the waves our rhythm section. Viral videos, millions of views. Musical directors from Vienna, Berlin, London coming to see us. Not just watching but wanting us. Booking us.”

His grin turned wicked.

“And when we’re not performing? Swimming, sailing, eating today’s catch straight off the grill. Living like gods.” He spread his arms wide, the stormy wind catching the edges of his shirt, making him look like some kind of tempest-born deity. “A summer of music and sun, with the whole world watching.”

As if I needed more persuading.

And the crazy thing?

Tanglewood would have made this impossible.

If I’d gotten in, I’d already have my summer planned. I’d be locked into a rigorous schedule, bound to classes, workshops, rehearsals.

There wouldn’t be space for Dubrovnik.

For the kind of summer that could launch me into the stratosphere.

And maybe—just maybe—Tanglewood didn’t happen for a reason.

The thought hits me like lightning.

Maybe I was so focused on one door that I didn’t realize another, bigger one was waiting to open.

And now, here it is.

Flung wide open.

Waiting for me to go through it.

Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the skyline in a jagged burst of silver.

But for once, it wasn’t the most dramatic thing happening.

My stomach bottomed out. My pulse pounded.

This is it.

It’s happening.

The opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The one I can’t afford to pass up.

Luka, oblivious to the storm inside me, continued wrapping his cello, shielding it from the rain.

“My fall tour starts in September.” His voice hummed with energy, vibrating with possibility. “Thirty cities. I open in Vienna, then Prague, Salzburg—every major music capital. Paris, Berlin, London—” He spread his hands like he was offering me the world. “Finishing with a homecoming run through Eastern Europe.”

Then he paused. Locked onto me with those sharp, gleaming eyes.

“And I want you with me.”

The words crashed into me harder than the thunder overhead.

“What do you say?”

It was like my brain short-circuited, completely forgetting how nouns and verbs were supposed to work together.

My mouth opened—nothing came out. Just air.

My fingers clenched around my cello case, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to break free.

“Think of the content,” Luka pushed, already framing imaginary shots with his hands. “Behind-the-scenes footage, rehearsal clips, live performance snippets. Some venues even allow full recordings. Our channels would blow up.” He spread his arms wide, pure showman. “We’re electric together, draga . A powerhouse couple on stage.”

Couple .

The word hit wrong. Tangled something in my chest.

A sharp crack of thunder rattled through the garden as the first real downpour hit, sending our videographer running inside.

But I barely felt the rain.

My mind was spinning too fast, trying to process the bomb Luka had just dropped in my lap.

Not just the summer festival.

Not just Dubrovnik.

Three months in the fall. Thirty cities. A dream tour across Europe’s most prestigious concert halls.

And three months away from Dmitri.

Away from Ris.

That’s a steep price to pay.

And now, wrapped in cool Egyptian cotton sheets, my brain is still buffering, stuck somewhere between panic and denial.

Dubrovnik. The jewel of the Adriatic. Sun-drenched stone walls, crystal blue waters, a stage that can turn promising musicians into stars.

The kind of opportunity I’ve spent my entire life working toward.

Past tense.

Tanglewood is peanuts in comparison.

I roll over in the too-empty guest room bed, staring at the ceiling.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

Last semester, I wrote a whole sociology paper about women who got their fancy degrees only to throw it all away for a man. Look at Melissa, I continue my internal rant. Harvard MBA. Cutthroat instincts. Could probably run a Fortune 500 company in her sleep.

And now?

Bake sales. PTA meetings. Coordinating figure skating carpools like it’s her life’s calling.

“Some of us choose this,” she’d said last week when we met for the playdate, sipping her organic matcha while the girls played with their American Girl dolls. That knowing little smirk like she could already see my future.

Like she knew exactly where I was headed before I even did.

Well, I don’t think so , flashes through my mind defiantly.

But still, here I am.

Twenty-four years old.

Lying awake.

Contemplating passing up the opportunity of a lifetime because...

Because I like making pancakes with a six-year-old?

Because five days without Dmitri feels like withdrawal?

Because I can’t sleep in this perfectly nice guest room when I’ve gotten used to his bed—his warmth, his scent, the way he wraps himself around me like I belong there?

Jesus Christ in heaven.

Three weeks ago, my biggest dilemma was whether to post Bach or Vivaldi for my next video. Now I’m contemplating life-altering decisions because a six-year-old’s face lights up when I help her with her cello practice.

Heavy footsteps snap me out of my feminist existential crisis. A soft knock, then Dmitri’s voice that slides over me like a slow pull of whiskey—dark, smooth, and entirely too intoxicating.

“Erin?”

Don’t do it, my brain warns. Pretend to be asleep. Pretend you have boundaries. Pretend you’re not already melting just from the sound of him.

“Come in,” I say instead.

The door swings open, and—holy hell. All my resolve promptly dissipates. Especially the feminist-fueled intentions urging me to stay the course and not risk derailing my entire future over a stupidly hot, stupidly shirtless hockey player.

Dmitri fills the doorway like some ancient Slavic God of temptation, all broad shoulders and sleep-mussed hair, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweats that cling to his hips in a way that should be illegal. His playoff beard is thicker now, wilder. He looks untamed.

Pushkin would have written odes to him.

Tolstoy would have made him the tragic hero of a thousand-page epic.

And I—who five minutes ago was all about professional goals and independence—am currently contemplating the logistics of throwing myself at him headfirst.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice breathy, betraying me completely.

Dmitri leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over me in a slow, deliberate sweep.

“Saw your ‘Thunderstruck’ video.”

My stomach flips. “You did?”

“The whole team watched it on the plane.” His smirk is wicked, but there’s something possessive lurking beneath it. “Finn said you managed to make AC/DC sexy.” He tilts his head, gaze burning into mine. “Captain almost ripped his head off.”

“That was the idea.” I smile weakly, a live wire sparking under my skin.

I’ve learned a thing or two about social media by now. I know exactly why that video blew up—why it hit just right.

Luka and me, drenched in the storm light, our bows striking down like weapons, the rhythm sharp and relentless. The roar of “Thunderstruck” transformed by the savage force of two cellos pushed to their absolute limits.

The camera had caught everything.

The way Luka had stood, his body rocking with the violent tempo, bow arm slicing through the air like a conductor of chaos.

The way I had leaned into the storm, my fingers a blur over the strings, my hair wild, whipping around me as if the music itself had set the world on fire.

It was passion. It was power.

It was two musicians utterly transformed into primal animals.

And Dmitri had watched all of it.

The team had watched all of it.

I can see it now—my brother and the guys huddled around the screen, mouths open, eyes glued to the way my bow ripped across the strings. To the way Luka moved with me, feeding off my energy, matching me stroke for stroke, strike for strike.

Luka, grinning through the chaos.

Luka, standing too close.

Luka, looking at me like we were creating something bigger than us both.

Dmitri had watched that.

And from the way his jaw flexes, from the way his shoulders hold an almost imperceptible tension, I know exactly how he felt about it.

I swallow hard. “And what did you think?”

His gaze locks onto mine.

“I think,” his voice is slow velvet dragging over my skin, “you looked fucking incredible.”

It should be a compliment. It is a compliment.

But there’s something sharp and simmering beneath it.

Something that tells me he didn’t just watch the video.

He felt it.

And it wrecked him.

I exhale shakily, but before I can form a response, he’s closing the distance and sitting on the bed.

“Two million views,” he murmurs, his hand trailing up my thigh, fingers pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. “My cellist’s gone viral.” His lips brush my ear, his voice a dark promise.

My cellist.

The words hit like a brand, sending heat pooling between my thighs.

“The blue dress you gave me photographed beautifully in that light. It hit just the right tone,” I manage to croak, my heart thundering in my chest. “Thank you again for the gifts.”

His gaze flicks to where that same dress is hanging on the closet door.

Then back to me.

“You will wear the dress for me soon, yes?” His voice is thick, low. “I want to take it off you.”

My cheeks flame.

“Does the beard mean you won?” I’m desperate to distract him before I spontaneously combust.

“Overtime win.” His grin is pure satisfaction. “I see someone didn’t make it past second period. Missed quite a show.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, heat crawling up my neck. “I tried, but?—”

“Difficulties sleeping without me?”

The way he’s looking at me—dark eyes locked on mine, heavy with intent—makes my pulse skitter.

The arrogance drips from every syllable, and I should be annoyed. But instead, my thighs press together, my breath stutters, my skin is on fire.

As if he hasn’t ruined me for sleeping alone.

As if I haven’t spent the last five nights tossing in a bed that feels too big, too empty, too wrong without him.

As if I don’t already know this isn’t just a fling.

That was never the intent.

I wanted fun. A distraction. A man too powerful and untouchable to ever derail my life.

But Sophie’s words won’t leave me.

Did you know he hasn’t been with anyone since Elena?

Three years. Not a single woman. The weight of it crashes into me all over again. This isn’t casual for him. It never was. And now it doesn’t feel casual for me, either. It feels inevitable. Like some invisible force that’s pulling me in.

Like no matter what I tell myself about my career, my future, my independence, the moment Dmitri touches me, none of it matters.

“Erin.”

His voice is a caress. A warning, a plea, a demand. All at once.

I look up, meeting his gaze. I need to tell him. About Dubrovnik. About the fall. Europe. A career-making opportunity.

And I need to know if what Sophie told me is true—about how he hasn’t been with anyone since Elena.

I need him to laugh it off, to tell me it’s ridiculous. That he’s just private, careful because of Ris. That Liam has it all wrong. That this isn’t as serious as it suddenly feels.

That we’re just fucking and having fun. That I can still walk away.

But before I can open my mouth, a blonde blur rockets into the room, and Dmitri shifts back slightly, putting distance between us.

“Papa, you’re home!”

Ris barrels into him, then launches herself onto the bed, her little arms wrapping around my waist like she belongs there. Like I belong here.

“Erin! Papa’s back!”

Thank God six-year-olds don’t question why their father is half-naked sitting on their nanny’s bed at seven in the morning.

“The picnic is today!” Ris bounces between us, utterly oblivious to the tension she’s just steamrolled. “We’re all going, right? Please say you’re coming too, Erin!”

My heart twists.

Because this, right here, is exactly what I’m afraid of.

How easily they’ve become my everything.

How much it’s going to hurt when I have to leave.

“The picnic?” I repeat weakly, buying time.

“The school family picnic!” She flops onto her back, star fishing across my comforter. “Everyone’s going! There’s games and face painting and ice cream and?—”

“Slow down, Amnushka,” Dmitri says, amusement in his voice. “Let Erin wake up first.”

But his eyes never leave mine.

Like he can sense something’s off. Like he’s reading every flicker of doubt written across my face.

“Please come?” Ris hits me with the puppy eyes—her most lethal weapon. “You can help me win the three-legged race!”

I hesitate and glance at Dmitri, whose stare makes my skin tingle. “Are you sure that’s…okay?”

His jaw tightens. Barely.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Because I’m going back to the city in a week. Because I’m just the temporary nanny who let things get too complicated.

“Never mind.” I force a smile. “Of course I’ll come.”

Ris squeals, throwing her arms around me. “Yes! We’re gonna have so much fun! Can we wear matching outfits? Like at the concert?”

Something sharp tugs in my chest. It’s so easy to fall into this life. To want it more than my dreams.

“Ris,” Dmitri says smoothly, breaking the moment. “Go get dressed. Then we’ll make breakfast.”

She bounces off the bed, already chattering about matching sundresses, completely oblivious to the charged silence she leaves behind.

The second she’s gone, Dmitri moves.

One moment I’m sitting up in bed, still dazed, the next I’m pressed against the headboard, his massive frame caging me in.

His hands plant on either side of my head, his body radiating heat, his eyes dark and demanding. There’s nowhere to look but at him.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is a low thunder.

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. I just?—”

His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing whatever flimsy explanation I was about to give him. The kiss is brutal and possessive—five days of missing me condensed into one devastating touch. His beard scrapes my skin as he deepens it, his tongue sweeping past my lips, tasting, claiming.

His hand moves down my body, his warm palm cupping my throbbing center.

“It seems to me you need some attention,” he rumbles, then slides his hand into my panties. I gasp, then melt into his touch, relief and want washing over me all at the same time.

I should stop this. Talk to him. But how am I supposed to think when his fingers stroke over me with that slow, knowing rhythm, like he’s playing an instrument he’s already mastered? When five days of tension is unraveling all at once, leaving me raw and shaking under his touch?

“Soaked,” he grumbles, sliding his finger up and down my opening. I dissolve beneath him. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching to meet his. Because this is what I’ve been missing. The way he consumes me. The way he makes me live in the moment, forgetting everything else.

He breaks the kiss, but his hand is still between my legs, still caressing me, still unraveling me. Our foreheads touch, our breaths mingling, harsh and uneven, his mouth swallowing my needy whimpers. “Try again. What’s wrong?”

“Dmitri...”

“You need me. You want me.” His fingers slide deeper, and I arch, my breath hitching, pleasure coiling in my belly.

“I can’t have enough of you,” I whimper, my nails biting into his shoulders. This was supposed to be light. Casual. I never meant to get this deep. But he’s looking at me like I belong to him. Like he’s been starving for me.

This was never casual for him. I need to ask him.

“Dmitri.”

I force his name past my lips, desperate to regain some control.

His fingers slow, but they don’t stop.

“Yes, solnyshko ?” His voice is a whisper.

I swallow hard.

“Sophie told me…” I trail off, nerves twisting in my stomach.

His brow furrows.

“Told you what?”

Now is my chance. I should just ask. Say the words. Call him out.

But his thumb circles my clit, and suddenly I can’t think anymore.

“Dmitri—”

His smirk is lethal.

“So needy, moya lyubov . Five days, and you can barely say my name.”

I clench around his fingers, my breath shaking as the pleasure builds, builds, builds?—

“Tell me what you need, Erin.”

You. Always you.

I shatter, gasping his name, my head thrown back against the pillows, my entire body trembling as I come apart in his hands.

His lips crush against mine, swallowing every shuddered breath before pulling back, his forehead pressed to mine. He pulls his hand out, then licks my slickness off his fingers, leaving me empty. “Something’s different.” His thumb drags over my bottom lip, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “You’re pulling back. Why?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Because if I look at him, I might blurt out everything. About the tour. About Luka’s offer. About how terrified I am of wanting this more than my career. But now is not the time.

“Just tired,” I whisper, my body still humming from the aftershocks. “Haven’t been sleeping well without you.”

His gaze darkens, and the air between us shifts.

“I’ll fix that.”

Before I can respond, his mouth is tracing fire down my neck, his hands sliding under my shirt. His shirt. Stolen from laundry days ago, now officially my favorite thing to sleep in.

Oh.

This man knows exactly how to unmake me.

“Papa!” Ris’s voice carries down the hall. “Can I wear the blue dress?”

Dmitri growls against my skin, the vibration quaking through my bloodstream. He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to keep it together. “Yes. But first, we are going to the skating rink for coaching. Wear your ice-skating leggings.”

Then, in a voice meant only for me, he rasps, “To be continued.” His eyes burn with promise.

Then he’s gone, leaving me breathless and completely wrecked.

Because how the hell am I supposed to choose between this and my dreams?

How am I supposed to walk away from them next week?

How am I supposed to imagine a future where they aren’t mine?