Page 16 of The Encore’s Crown

Then she reaches out without hesitation and plucks one of my strings. The deep note hums through the room. It vibrates through the bass, into my hand, straight into my chest. My heartbeat jumps with it and I go still.

“Listen,” I say, fast and rough enough that it sounds like a warning. “You shouldn’t touch a musician’s instrument without permission.”

Her eyebrow lifts. Of course she hears the implication I didn’t mean to hand her.

“Funny,” she says. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

She grins when I stare at her.

I want to laugh but I don't. Laughing would be a mistake. It'd let her think she can come over here, lean in, touch my bass and torture me with her perfume, like this is normal. That she can make jokes with her mouth while I stand here pretending I’m not thinking about it all over me. That I'm not pretending I don’t remember her voice in my ear or all the messages I never deleted.

“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat like she isn’t pleased with herself. “It sounds fine.”

“It sounds like a bass,” I counter. “That’s all you know. You lack the knowledge to make an informed assessment.”

“No.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “You're just talking nonsense. This is a waste of time.”

There it is again, the whiplash. She looks at me like she wants to pick a fight, but she’s standing close enough that I can feel the heat of her. She talks like I’m irritating her, but she doesn’t move away. She acts like she can’t stand me, then leans in like she wants a better look.

It’s annoying. She’s annoying. That’s all this is, annoying. Except that's starting to feel like another word for something I don’t want to think about.

Something I can’t name, because I’m not supposed to be thinking about her like this. I’m not supposed to care whether she’s angry or just curious. I’m not supposed to notice the way her voice changes when she isn’t trying to cut me open with it.

She tilts her head again. “You look different than I expected.”

I keep my face blank. “Do I?”

“Without the makeup and the veil and all the…” Her hand makes a vague motion. “Stage stuff.”

“Disappointed?”

Her gaze flicks over me once.

“You looked…” She pauses, searching. “Taller with it on. In the pictures.”

A laugh gets out of me before I can lock it down.

“I doubt the veil adds inches,” I say. “So I don’t know what to tell you. They say you should never meet your heroes.” I shrug.

Her eyes spark at that, like she’s glad I played along. Like she didn’t come over here only to punish me. That knocks me off balance. The gentleness. I don’t want her gentle with me.

Rafe shouts for lineup, and the moment snaps clean down the middle. Natalia steps back, slipping away like she didn’t just put her hands all over the shape of my self-control. She drifts toward Kasia, phone already out, filming the chaos like nothing happened.

Maybe nothing did and I’m just an idiot standing here with a perfect bass and a pulse that won’t behave.

Then just before she disappears around the corner, she glances back at me. I feel it like a hand tightening around my heart.

I promised Rafe I’d back off.

I meant it then and I still mean it now. I just wasn’t prepared for her to be this close. I wasn’t prepared for her to go from ice to fire to something almost soft in the space of twenty-four hours.

As I watch her walk away, I’m starting to think keeping that promise might mean breaking something else.

Chapter 8

Fireproof

Natalia