I take a step away from him, not wanting to turn my back, but my observation is limited that way. The walls are paddedwith soundproofing panels, bathing the space in a wooden atmosphere.
Is this a music room? My curiosity gets the best of me, and I look over my shoulder.
There are three different violins spread around the room, a grand piano, and a cello leaning against the far wall. Countless music books are open everywhere, shelves full of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Rossini, Vivaldi. There are so many, I stop to look for anything specific. In a corner, there's a music stand in front of a seat, and the violin laying on the carpeted floor next to it is calling my name. That's when I fully turn my back to the door, forgetting about Achilles completely.
"This is a quality instrument you've got here," I say.
His voice still seems to be by the door when he answers. "That's a Guarneri Ysaye made by Edgar Russ. You'd like it." Then he approaches, standing right behind me, slightly to my right, and I can't help believing it's because he knows I wouldn't hear him well on my left. "But I think you'd be better with the original Guarneri I own. It's got an inimitable edge to it."
"You don't own an original Guarneri." I snort. "That's, like…millions."
"16.3 million, to be exact."
The mere number makes me dizzy. "Suddenly, the one you bought me feels like pocket change."
"It was." He chuckles. It's not arrogant like when he talks about his talent, or how much people love him.
It's a simple fact. Money,millions, is not a problem for people like Achilles and his friends. He's not proud of it, and he's not gloating, because money has no meaning to him. Whereas when he talks about music, how well someone plays, or when people approach him, you feel the difference between mere humans and him. There's almost a frustration to it. I canimagine him going home every evening, bored to death and wondering why no one else is as exceptional as he is.
A hand running up my spine startles me. My t-shirt stops his skin from touching mine, but that isn't nearly enough to stop the shivers he sends through me.
"The Guarneri means everything to me. I only use it for my concertos because only that specific instrument can translate the quality of my music." There's a gravel in his voice that's betraying a need I can't place. Is it the need to touch me? The need to play his instrument? Play me?
"What about the Edgar Russ, then?" I ask with a dry mouth.
He's so close behind me, I'm scared a single movement from me will be taken as a sign for him to pounce.
His hand comes from behind, skimming the skin of my throat, and settles on my jaw, gripping me tightly. "When I compose."
He pulls me flush against him, my back to his chest, and stays dangerously silent as his body practically becomes one with mine. Until he whispers in my ear. "You want to know why I don't leave you alone? Look closely at the sheets on the stand."
My eyes dart to them, my heart racing as I read the music notes. There's no way I could ever learn every concerto that's ever existed, but as a musician, you get familiar with composers, their music, their style. This is nothing like any famous composer I know.
This is Achilles Duval.
"You wrote music," I croak.
"I hadn't for six years." Another moment of silence passes, and I'm not sure if I should say something.
I knew that. I'm a fan of his music, and I'm part of a group that’s been waiting desperately to hear something from him.
"Sixyears," he repeats. He breathes me in. Beach and the sun, he called it. "You inspire me,mon trésor.And for that alone, you can be sure I’ll never let you go."
Too much is happening in my body and mind to pinpoint what steals my breath away and what stops me from thinking clearly. I want to know what he just called me, but the French words and the accent have my brain turning to mush. That's one thing, yes. But that's not just it.
My idol, the man whose career I've followed since I was barely a teen, just told me Iinspire him.
I'm not even worried about the fact that he admitted he'd never let me go, that his obsessive behavior isn't going to stop. He hasn't written in so long, and I've been holding my breath ever since. Now I’m learning that he wrote again, thanks to me.
No body or mind is built to handle this kind of admission.
My eyes roam over the page, reading the notes, hearing the terrifying music in my mind. This is him. Anguish and terror. Something that grips your gut like nothing else you've ever heard before. I fell in love with Achilles's music because it felt like it was expressing the kind of trepidation I've always lived with. Something brutal, yet hypnotizing. Something that made me understand that I was satisfied by fear. Because as horrible as it is, it can be so beautiful.
"You did this," he murmurs in my ear, his other hand coming to rest by my belly button, just above the waistband of my jeans. "The fear in your eyes when you see me, that hitch in your breath, the want in your being. That way in which, no matter how badly you try to, you can't resist it." Keeping my face pointing at the sheet, he adds, "Thisis your soul, Nyx, and I'm not done exploring it."
He pops the button of my jeans, and I instinctively move back, but instead of avoiding him, I press myself harder againsthim. I can already feel his dick growing against my lower back, and it has my senses switching back on.
Taking a trembling breath, I shake my head. "I don't want to be part of this. Let go."
