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“Why?”
“Why… what?”
“Lyra. Is that your name?” he asks with a feigned air of curiosity. His hand dares come up onto my bare shoulder, resting on the curve of it as if invited.
I shrug off his touch. “Yes. That’s my name.”
“You play beautifully.”
“Thank you. Can you please give me some—”
“Youare beautiful.”
Any gratitude and manners go out the window. I half rise from the piano bench before he grips my shoulders with surprising aggression and shoves me back down. He doesn’t let go—if anything, his stubby fingers clamp down harder and hold me still on the bench. He leans closer and presses his cold, slack cheek to mine.
“I will make you a star, Lyra. You will be my muse if you do as I say.”
Fyodor groans as he kisses my cheek and squeezes my shoulder.
I attempt to shrug him off to no avail. He refuses to give up, tightening his grip.
A panicked bomb detonates from the deepest part of me. An instinctual reaction waiting in the wings since my encounter at the Midnight Society party, where a guy named Klein Fairchild shoved his dick into my mouth.
But Fyodor’s not going down easily. As I dodge his advances and duck out from under him, he anticipates my escape.
His arms come around me, and rather than back off, he doubles down.
“Do not fight me,” he coos, nibbling my ear. “What are you afraid of? I told you I will make much of you—”
“Get. Off. Me!”
“Your skin. It’s so soft. So dark. Very beautiful.”
The groan he releases is grotesque to my ears. I can’t take another second, jamming an elbow into his ribs.
Fyodor Kreed goes from practically getting off, caressing my skin, to curling over in pain.
I seize the chance to scramble away.
“Don’t ever touch me again!”
I flee. I run away like a frightened woodland creature. Much like the night at the Midnight Society party, where I’d fled barefoot in a wild panic.
In some demented kind of way, this moment is worse; it hurts more.
Here I was, thinking I was on a legit audition, baring my creative soul, and there Fyodor Kreed was, ready to perve. I shove open the grand front doors to the opera house and tumble down the steps at a reckless speed considering my high heels.
In the half hour that’s passed, night has fallen, and the drizzle has intensified into sheets of rain.
I don’t give a fuck. I slip and slide down the wet sidewalk in my haste to get away. Fyodor hasn’t followed, but you can never be too sure—the night of the Midnight Society party, I ran for almost two miles without stopping.
I’m prepared to do so again. Aching toes and cut up heels of my feet or no aching toes and cut up heels of my feet.
“Lyra! Lyra!”
I almost tumble trying to turn around. I recognize the voice.
Kaden’s calling out to me.
