Page 34

Chapter 34

After the Final Note

Erin

I keep my head down, gathering my sheet music with shaky hands, shoving pages into my case like I can outrun the hollow ache spreading through my ribs. I need to get out of here. Now.

The adrenaline is still thrumming through my veins, the lingering high of the performance warring with the weight pressing down on my chest. I should feel triumphant. I do—I played my heart out, and the crowd felt it. I felt it.

But Dmitri?—

Dmitri just stood there.

He was watching me, the same way he did at the Philharmonic, like he wanted to devour me whole. Like I was the only thing in the world. Like I still belonged to him.

And yet—radio silence.

No stolen moments. No whispered words. No… stay .

So fine. Fine. He made his choice. And I’m making mine.

I fumble with my cello, my pulse thrumming with something close to anger now—at him, at myself, at the way my heart still aches even when I know better.

“Your performance was incredible.”

That voice—deep, steady, ruinous—rakes over my skin like fire.

I jump, fingers slipping, nearly dropping my folder. My whole body locks up. I take a steadying breath before turning, willing my face into careful, practiced neutrality.

Dmitri stands there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

He’s just my brother’s teammate. My former boss.

The man I used to fuck.

Used to.

I swallow the lump in my throat and lift my chin.

“Thanks.” My smile is brittle. I’m barely holding it together. “Glad you liked it.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and unsteady, balancing on a knife’s edge. My brain scrambles for something else—anything else—to fill it. To keep it from swallowing me whole.

“You guys were incredible the other night,” I blurt, words rushing out too fast. “Hard to do justice to a game like that.”

It sounds rehearsed, like a line I’d throw at any of my brother’s teammates, like I haven’t spent weeks scraping my heart off the floor, like he hasn’t spent just as long pretending we never happened.

His gaze flickers, but he only hums in response. Then his eyes drop, tracking the cello at my side.

“New instrument?”

I nod, my fingers curling tighter around the strap. “Italian,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Bought it with my festival advance.”

Then, because I can’t seem to stop myself, I add, “And the money I made nannying. You were…very generous.”

The words come out wrong, laced with something I don’t have the strength to hide. Bitterness. Hurt. A razor-sharp edge.

His jaw tics. His eyes snap to mine, darkness flashing. For a second, I think he’s going to call me on it. Make me say what I really mean.

But instead, he steps closer. His gaze drops back to the cello, his fingers brushing the fingerboard.

“It sang for you,” he murmurs, his voice a caress. “Like it didn’t know how to do anything else.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my heart thrumming in my throat. My hands move on autopilot, reaching for my case, desperate for an escape.

Then suddenly, he leans in, helping me. His big hands are moving carefully, securing the latches, adjusting the endpin.

“What are you doing?” My voice wobbles, my pulse skittering.

He doesn’t answer. Just picks up my cello case. And then, with his free hand, he takes mine.

“Dmitri—” I protest, trying to pull back, trying to untangle myself.

But his fingers tighten, his grip possessive and final.

“Come,” he says.

The command leaves no room for argument. He tugs me forward, leading me through the thinning crowd. Past the press, the arena staff, the remnants of the celebration still echoing off the walls of Madison Square Garden.

I twist in his grasp. “Dmitri, I need to go home.”

“I know.” He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even look at me. “I’m taking you.”

“I can do it myself.”

His only response is a quiet hmm that’s neither agreement nor permission.

Outside, 34th Street is thick with post-game energy—horns blaring, fans celebrating on the Avenue. Dmitri raises a hand, and a yellow cab screeches to the curb. Before I can react, he opens the door, shoving my cello inside. Then, his hand is on my waist, guiding me in.

“Dmitri, seriously ? — ”

“Get in, Erin.”

The growl in his voice sends a bolt of heat through me. My skin tingles where his hand lingers, firm and unrelenting.

I swallow hard and slide inside.

He follows, shutting the door with a decisive thud. “Twelfth and Sixth,” he tells the driver, his voice rough.

My stomach flips. My apartment.

I whip toward him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you home.”

“I can?—”

“I know.” His hand slides up my thigh, fingers trailing beneath my dress, possessive and sure. “But we’re going together . ”

My breath catches, pulse hammering. “I’m so confused, Dmitri. What’s this now?”

He doesn’t answer but his touch tightens. “Are you wearing this dress for me?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

His fingers trace lazy circles against my skin. “Like you promised me you would?”

Heat floods through me. I squeeze my thighs together, but his hand is already there, parting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.

His exhale is ragged. “I want to peel it off you,” he murmurs, voice dark and lethal, “like I promised.”

I shift in my seat, but his grip tightens, fingers teasing higher, pushing my dress up inch by inch.

“Dmitri.” My voice is barely a breath, and I hate the way it betrays me, the way it trembles like my body already knows it’s lost this fight.

His smirk is dark and confident.

“You wore this for me,” he murmurs, voice rich with satisfaction, his fingertips tracing fire up the inside of my thigh. “Like a good girl.”

I suck in a sharp breath, my nails digging into the leather seat. “It’s Defenders blue,” I try weakly. “I wore it for the team.”

His thumb presses against the edge of my panties, right where I’m aching.

“Liar.”

Heat floods me. I press my thighs together again, but he just chuckles, low and knowing, prying them apart with his hand.

“You’re squirming,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles down my thigh. “What’s wrong, solnyshko ? Too much?”

I turn my head sharply, staring out the window, desperate for distance. But all I see is our reflection—his broad shoulders, his dark eyes locked on me, the way he’s got me spread open and barely breathing.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

He grins. “Liar.”

The cab jerks to a stop in front of my building. I lurch forward, but Dmitri’s arm snaps out, steadying me, keeping me right where he wants me.

The cabbie lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You two gonna make it?”

My entire body burns. Dmitri pulls out a bill, tossing it into the front seat without looking away from me. “I’ll make sure of it. Keep the change.”

Then he’s out of the cab, hauling my cello onto the sidewalk before extending a hand. A command, not an invitation.

I hesitate.

He cocks his head, eyes glinting in the dim streetlights. “Erin.”

I take his hand. He yanks me to my feet, then straight into his chest.

I gasp, but before I can protest, his lips are at my ear. “Open the door.”

My fingers fumble as I unlock the building entrance, but he doesn’t help. Just watches, hovering too close, his breath warm against my neck, his body heat sinking into my skin.

The second the door swings open, he’s moving, crowding me inside.

The stairwell is dim and quiet. I take a step, but he’s right behind me. Another step, and his hand slides to my hip.

“Dmitri,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder. “I can climb the stairs myself.”

He just smirks. “Keep walking.”

I practically run up, but he stays on me, one step behind, one hand always on my body, like he’s daring me to stop him.

We reach my door. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I turn, back pressed against the wood, blocking the entrance. “You brought me home,” I say, breathless. “Now I want to go to bed.”

His hands flatten against the door on either side of my head, caging me in. His smirk curves, stealing the air from my lungs.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

I don’t have time to argue before his mouth crashes against mine.