There’s no reason to cry anymore.
But I blink, and I blink, and the tears roll down my cheeks without any input from me.
“Mishka?” Ilya asks, touching one of my cheeks. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I say. “It feels better.” And it does. The painkillers have mostly kicked in, and the cream has gone a long way to dull the pain into something much less potent. “It’s only that…”
WhyamI crying?
“I’m so grateful,” I whisper without realizing that’s even why until I say it. “I was terrified. And you saved me.”
“I will always save you,” Ilya promises. He leans down to kiss the back of my neck, his beard brushing against my skin. “You helped me see how unhappy I was. Even if you don’t stay with me, I will always be grateful.”
“I’m the grateful one,” I tell him, settling back into the pillows with a sigh. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Not now.
And if I’m lucky, not ever.
TWENTY-THREE
MICAH
My heart is pounding as I step onto the stage with my cello. I sit down in the designated chair and look out into the bar.
Most people aren’t paying attention to me. They’re too busy eating and chatting with their friends, or maybe they don’t care about a random cello performance. But sitting near the front is Ilya, who’s smiling brightly at me.
He gives me a thumbs up signal. I briefly freeze, remembering the last time I’d been given a thumbs up in this particular establishment, but I relax as I remind myself who it’s coming from. This is different. This is better.
I take a deep breath, then pick up the bow. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve played so much at the restaurant that I should be more than used to performing for crowds by now. If anything, the restaurant diners would be more judgmental of my music than the open mic bar patrons.
This piece is new, something I’ve been working on long enough to feel comfortable playing here but not ready to perform in the restaurant yet.
Unlike last time, there’s no deep grief in the notes. There’s only joy, the expression of my new life, and I pour all of those emotions out into the piece. I think of Ilya, forever encouragingand an ally at my side; I think of the friends I’ve started to make at the restaurant, who had all wished me good luck tonight like they’d known how momentous this was for me.
Strange, to think that it is.
Despite the relative newness of the piece, it’s easy to lose myself in it instead of fussing over the notes, and when I blink back to myself, I realize the audience is applauding.
It seems every bit as sincere as it had been the last time, and a small, shy smile curves onto my lips. My gaze goes to Ilya, who looks like he’s going to burst with pride, and he gets up to help me with the cello.
“You were amazing,” Ilya says. “The best performer tonight.”
“I was only the third performer,” I point out, grinning. “There might be others after me who are a lot better.”
Ilya shakes his head. “Impossible. Nobody can top you.”
“You can top me,” I joke, and I can’t believe how a simple joke like that makes my heart flutter—because I’m allowed to joke. I’m allowed to have fun.
Ilya laughs and kisses the top of my head. “But only me.”
“Only you,” I promise. I don’t mind the possessiveness, coming from him. It doesn’t feel dangerous, kicking up the anxiety within me that it always had with Adam. It’s just something safe, something comforting, and I realize I like this.
I like all of this.
We go back to the table, where Silvano Cresci and Kyran Winters are waiting for us. Kyran has one hand on his guitar, waiting for his own turn to perform.
“Wonderful performance,” Silvano says with a small clap. “But I knew it would be.” He elbows Kyran gently. “You’ll need to try even harder to impress me now.”
