Page 91 of Cruel Delights

Music has always been a subversive experience for me. As a child, I couldn’t articulate my feelings. With my mother screeching at me about posture and key placement, I stuttered over any words I spoke.

Any formal schooling and recitals I had into adulthood were more of the same.

My time at the Velvet Piano is more of the same.

I’ve spent so much time in my head. So much time doubting, second-guessing, feeling like an imposter unworthy of the keys I sit before.

But, as my fingers take the lead and I play for Fyodor, I’m set free in a way I didn’t expect.

I don’t even remember to check his reaction. How can I when my eyes are closed and I’m swaying like a dandelion in the wind?

My fingers still and the last note plays. My eyes gently open. I’m dizzy and lost for several seconds.

Silence echoes in the wake of my performance.

I sit up straighter and attempt to settle back into the present. Difficult after going on such a melodic journey.

Fyodor makes no effort to hide his rude, prolonged stare. Still diminutively propped up against the wall, he’s not keen on cluing me in to how I did anytime soon.

He makes me wait.

And wait.

He strokes his chin he takes so long. And then—

“Velikolepnyy.”

“Um… what?”

“Velikolepnyy. Magnificent.”

“Oh. Oh! Thank you.”

“Kaden was right,” he speaks his longest sentence to me yet. It showcases the thick harshness of his Russian accent more than ever.

But I’m more distracted by his wandering gaze.

It slides over me, even as I sit plain at the piano in a conservative black dress. The same type of dress Kaden advised. Though I do wear pumps that can be considered sexy, it’s hardly what I was going for.

That doesn’t stop Fyodor from doing what skeevy, gross old men do—he gawks at me with unapologetic lechery. He might as well drool, he stares so hard, so lustily.

The air in the room changes.

A prickle of discomfort needles at my spine.

Fyodor pushes off the wall and comes up from behind where I sit.

In that quick of a moment, he’s gone from distant and cruel to invading my personal space and leaping over a boundary. He bends over me seated at the bench, and his hot breath tickles my cheek.

“I like how you play.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Very much. Very, very good.”

“Errr… thanks. Excuse me.”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re…” I swallow in a gulp. “Please give me some space.”

Though I don’t glance up to check, an amused smirk crawls across his pallid face—I know because I canfeelit.