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“Please don’t take me,” I beg, clinging to Grigory with fierce might. And thus, the sobbing recommences. Ugly, heartbroken sounds rack my body, so hard it hurts—my heart, my bones, my muscles. “Please don’t,” I whimper.
Markus steps back. I don’t see it; my head is buried in Grigory’s shoulder. But I feel the uncertainty, the tension as his feet move away. He hovers for another moment before he retreats. Then the door clicks shut, leaving me alone with Grigory.
It takes a while before I can focus on anything but the desperate urge to clutch Grigory’s shirt. When I finally do notice something else, I realize that Grigory is holding me with the same almost desperate need to keep me close.
Leaning back, I stare at him with surprise and question written in my tear-stained eyes.
His mouth twists in an expression I can’t read. His entire countenance has hardened, but it’s not in the usual stern, controlled way. No, some kind of emotion flickers restlessly in his eyes, his jaw ticking like he’s struggling to rein it in.
Seeing him like this knocks me out of my despair. “Are you okay?” I murmur, still staring at him.
His chest rises as he breathes a deep, not-so-even sigh. Then he seems to regain control as his face sobers into its usual hardness, but his gravelly voice is thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”
He leans down and presses a long kiss to the top of my head. Time stops in a breathless moment of bittersweet intimacy before Grigory murmurs against my hair,“Sharing you might well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
My heart breaks at that moment. For him, for us, for Markus. No matter how things turn out, someone will end up hurt. I just know it.
— CHAPTER 25 —
MARKUS
I’ve known for a long while but kept denying.
Now, here the truth is, blaring into my face, mocking me for not having accepted it before.
Clara belongs with Grigory. I’m not sure she realizes it herself. I’m not sure he does. Like me, they’ve been trying to deny it. But it’s there nonetheless—a deep, instinctive pull between them that reaches far beyond any feelings of love and affection.
It’s almost painful to watch them both trying to go against their instincts. I’ve seen the way he looks at her lips but refrains from kissing her, and the way she gravitates toward him but keeps her distance when I’m around.
But now, at her most desperate, she couldn’t hide it. She needs him more than she’s ever needed me. Her deep-seated urge to submit fits Grigory’s all-consuming demand for power like his baton fits in his hand.
Sure, I can evoke her submission too, but not in the same pivotal way Grigory can—making breathing seem inconsequential in comparison. To Grigory, she fills the same role. An addiction. Obsession. Vital sustenance. It doesn’t matter what I call it; separating the two could cause irreparable damage.
No matter how much I want Clara, I can’t risk that. They’re the two most important people in my life, and I can’t bear hurting either of them. But someonewillend up hurt. The only question is, how much.
Needing a distraction from the dismal realization, I take out my phone and see that I have three missed calls from my agent and a text.
With a frown, I click on the text, and my heart starts thumping as I read the words.
The Met needs a new Rodolfo in the spring, and they want you.
I read several times, unable to believe the words.
I know about the production ofLa Bohèmethat the Metropolitan Opera is doing in the spring. It’s a revival of the same production I watched with my father all those years ago when I became enraptured with opera. I’ve been following the revival closely and planning on taking Clara with me to see it.
Just the idea of seeing the production live is a dream for me. And now they want me on the stage. Singing the lead role.
The Met.La Bohème.The same production that ignited the dream.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
Until I met Clara.
My heart clenches. How the hell am I supposed to take this job and keep our relationship from crumbling? It’s already hanging by a thread.
I need to find out if this is actually what my agent means before I start trying to solve problems prematurely.
So I call him, and when he doesn’t pick up, I go to the Met’s website. And true enough, Luciano DeMarco, who was supposed to sing Rodolfo, has fallen ill and needs to be replaced. My entire body buzzes as I watch the early pictures of the production and imagine myself in those costumes amongst that scenery.
