Page 33

Chapter 33

Champions and Russian Bears

Dmitri

T he first note slices through me like a blade.

Clean. Sharp. Precise.

Lethal.

I knew she’d be playing tonight. But nothing could have prepared me for this.

The cello is a part of her—or maybe she’s a part of it. The bow glides across the strings like it’s an extension of her body, every movement fluid and flawless.

But it’s not the technique that’s killing me. It’s the truth buried in the music. Because this isn’t just a performance. This is Erin speaking.

And I hear every unspoken word.

“Papa, Papa!” Ris tugs at my sleeve, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “Erin looks like a princess! Like Ariel with her red hair!”

My throat locks up. I force myself to swallow.

“Yes, Amnushka,” I rasp. “Very beautiful.”

But beautiful doesn’t cover it. Not even close.

The blue dress cascades around her like liquid light, catching the glow of the stage, turning her into something unreal. Something untouchable.

And yet, I have touched her.

I’ve mapped every inch of her skin. Felt her shake beneath my hands, whisper my name like a prayer. I know the exact shape of her mouth when she’s about to come apart. And now I know what she looks like when she’s slipping away.

The opening notes of “We Are the Champions” are unrecognizable at first. Luka’s arrangement transforms the rock anthem into something elegant, almost reverent. Like a farewell.

My fingers curl into fists.

She’s leaving.

I know it. She knows it.

And yet, she still looks at me.

Our eyes collide across the hall, and I stop breathing.

Everything else falls away.

The music swells, building, shifting—so does she.

She straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and suddenly, the slow ache of the opening erupts into something fierce.

The bow becomes a weapon.

Every stroke, every note, every goddamn sound is a demand.

Listen to me.

Look at me.

Fight for me.

The tempo rises. The song becomes hungry. Unforgiving.

Something I can feel in my ribs, my gut, my fucking bones.

The guys around me notice too. Kovalchuk elbows Matthews, both of them staring like they’ve never seen a cello before. Even Coach Novak, the king of indifference, watches with something like awe.

But they don’t understand.

They don’t see what I see.

They don’t know what it’s like to hear this woman laugh. To watch her walk around my kitchen barefoot, stealing pieces of fruit from my plate, rolling her eyes when I try to feed her protein shakes.

They don’t know what it’s like to wake up reaching for her only to find nothing.

The tempo drops, giving the illusion of softness.

But I know better.

She’s pulling me in, making me believe for half a second that I can breathe—before she takes it all away.

She shifts octaves, and I feel a punch to the sternum.

My chest tightens. My jaw locks. My pulse hammers in my ears.

And suddenly, I’m thinking about her hands.

The way they move. The way they shake when she’s overwhelmed. The way they curl into my shirt when I kiss her like I mean it.

The way they’ve always reached for me.

Until now.

The crescendo builds. She’s driving this straight to the edge, taking me with her.

And I—I can’t fucking move.

She plays the last note standing. Chin lifted, spine unbending, shoulders squared like a warrior casting the final blow. Triumphant. Unyielding. A conqueror.

My chest tightens. My pulse pounds.

Because I’ve seen that stance before.

In bronze, in the museum—Attalus, frozen mid-command. She lifts her bow like a sword, and the auditorium erupts around her. The ballroom explodes. Chairs scrape against marble as people jump to their feet. The applause is deafening, a tidal wave of sound crashing over her, but Erin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t waver. She stands in it—owns it—the moment stretching, her body singing with the same fire she poured into the music.

Beside me, Ris is bouncing, yelling at the top of her lungs.

“That’s my Erin! That’s my Erin!”

My Erin.

Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because somewhere between that first lesson in my living room and right now, she became mine.

And I let her go anyway.

She looks at me one last time.

Like she’s waiting for something.

For me to do something.

Say something.

Stop her.

But I just stand there. Frozen. Mesmerized.

Liam appears at my elbow, pressing a whiskey into my hand like he can sense I’m seconds from losing my goddamn mind. “Here,” he says. “You look like you need it.”

I grunt, tossing it back in one go, my eyes never leaving the stage.

“She’s really something,” Liam muses, watching his sister with the same quiet reverence I can’t seem to shake. “Talented as hell.”

“The best.” I nod, my throat raw.

Liam studies me over the rim of his glass. “You know, for a guy who just won the Cup, you look like absolute shit.”

“Jeez. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs. “If I’d just watched my girlfriend play the most heartbreaking rendition of ‘We Are the Champions’ ever arranged—while knowing she was about to leave me for another continent—I’d probably look like shit too.”

I turn to glare at him. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then what is she?”

The question knocks the wind out of me.

What is she?

The woman I can’t stop thinking about. The one who made my house feel like a home again. The one who understands my daughter in ways I sometimes can’t.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally.

Liam snorts. “That’s one way to describe it.”

On stage, Erin bows, soaking in the applause. To anyone else, she looks radiant—poised, confident, in control. But I see the truth in the slight tremor in her fingers. The way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Our gazes collide across the room.

For a split second, the world shifts.

Longing. Confusion. Need.

Then Luka fucking materializes in front of me, blocking my path.

I barely rein in my groan. “Not now, Havran.”

“Now, exactly now,” he says, his accent wrapping around the words like silk as he throws an arm around the shoulder of the tall, dark-haired man beside him. “I would like to introduce my boyfriend, Marko.”

My brain flatlines.

“Your…what?”

Marko extends a hand, looking far too entertained by this situation. “Pleasure to meet you, Dmitri. I’ve heard so much about the famous Russian bear.”

I shake his hand on autopilot, still recalibrating. “Uh...can’t say the same about you, I’m afraid.”

Luka beams. “Marko runs the music program in Dubrovnik.”

The picture in my head rearranges so fast I almost get whiplash.

I exhale, tension I didn’t realize I was holding draining from my shoulders. “Just for the record,” I say flatly, “if you were into women, I would have fought you to the death for her.”

Luka blinks. Then Marko loses it, snorting.

“I would have paid good money to see that,” he gasps between wheezes. “Luka, you should have warned me—he’s even bigger in person.”

Luka recovers, flipping his hair dramatically. “Please. You would have fought me? Me ?” He gestures to himself in all his imposing, perfectly put-together glory. “Dmitri, dragi , I was born for battle. I have outplayed concertmasters, charmed opera divas, and survived my grandmother’s very strong opinions about my haircut. Do you honestly think you stand a chance?”

“Yes,” I deadpan.

Marko wheezes again, wiping a tear from his eye. “He is Russian, my love. He probably wrestled a bear as a child and took swims in the Volga River.”

Luka chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine. Hypothetically, you might have been able to take me in a street fight. But tragically, the world will never know because—shocker—I was never going to fight you over Erin.” He exhales dramatically, as if the sheer burden of dealing with my stupidity is personally weighing him down. “Instead, I took the liberty of handling some very obvious things for you.”

He pulls out his phone, swiping to an itinerary. “Here’s your flight information. Direct flight to Dubrovnik. Two tickets—for you and your adorable little daughter. Text me your email, and it’s all yours.”

I stare at the screen, jaw clenching.

“You better be on that plane, Sokolov.” Luka’s voice sharpens as he casually plucks my phone from my hand, types something, and hands it back. “There. You have my number now.” His eyes narrow. “She’ll perform better if she’s happy. And you make her happy. Don’t be a dumbass.”

I glance at Marko, who’s watching the exchange with open amusement. He smirks and shrugs. “He’s right, you know. I’ve got extra concert tickets for you and the little one. Once you’re in Dubrovnik, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

Luka claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, grinning like he just saved a nation. “See? We’re all very invested in your love life. Now don’t screw it up.” He pats my cheek lightly—the bastard actually pats my cheek—before strutting away, Marko following with a wink.

I exhale sharply, drag a hand down my face, and scan the room.

Erin’s moved to a corner, alone now, the performance smile fading into something softer. Something sad.

My chest tightens.

Enough.

No more waiting. No more excuses.

Tonight. Not tomorrow. Now.

I move toward her, cutting through the lingering crowd, but before I can reach her, Galina steps into my path, Ris’s small hand in hers.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks, eyes sharp.

“To fix my mistake.”

Her brows lift before softening with understanding. Then she actually smirks . “About time.”

“Can you take Ris home?”

Ris blinks up at me, sleepy but alert enough to argue. “But, Papa, I want?—”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I promise, crouching to her level. “I need to talk to Erin. Grown-ups only, Amnushka.”

Ris frowns, clearly unimpressed. Then, with all the brutal honesty of a six-year-old, she asks, “Are you going to tell her you love her?”

My heart stops. Then restarts at twice the speed.

“Yes,” I say hoarsely. “That’s the plan.”

Galina’s smirk turns downright victorious. “We’ll be fine. Take your time.” She winks. “Come, Risochka. Let’s leave your papa to his very important business.”

I press a kiss to Ris’s forehead, straighten, and meet Galina’s knowing gaze. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” She tilts her head. “Just don’t mess it up.”