"Talk to me," I say, voice rough. "Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"
She won't meet my eyes. "Maksim, let me go."
"No." The word comes out harder than I mean it to. I soften my grip, try again. "Please. Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." She's still trying to slide away, still refusing to look at me. "It doesn't matter. Just let me—"
"It matters." I catch her chin, tilt her face up until she has no choice but to meet my gaze. "It matters to me. I need to understand."
The words reach her. She stops struggling. Stops trying to escape. But her expression is shuttered now, walls rising so fast I can almost hear them slamming into place.
"Why?" she asks, and there's an edge to her voice. "What difference does it make?"
"Because I just—" I stop. Swallow. Try to find words for the horror coiling in my chest. "Because I was rough with you. Because if I'd known, I would have been gentler. Because I might have hurt you and I can't—"
My voice breaks. Actually breaks, like I'm a boy again instead of a man who's killed without flinching.
"I can't stand the thought of hurting you," I finish quietly.
Her expression shifts. Vulnerability flickering through before she shuts it down.
"You didn't hurt me," she says. "It was... good."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
She tries to pull away again. I hold her in place. Not roughly. Not with force. Just persistent presence, refusing to let her run.
"Victoria. Please."
The crack when it comes is total.
"Because I didn't know!" The words explode out of her, fury and frustration tangled together. "I didn't know I was still a virgin, alright? I thought I wasn't. I thought—"
Her voice breaks. Her whole face crumples. And then she's crying.
Not delicate tears. Not the performative weeping of a woman who wants sympathy. These are ugly, wrenching sobs that shake her entire body, tears streaming down her face faster than she can wipe them away.
I gather her into my arms, lift her from the piano, cradle her against my chest.
"What are you doing?" she manages between sobs, trying to wipe her face.
"Taking care of you," I say simply. "I was too rough for your first time. Let me take care of you now."
I carry her out of the piano room, through the corridor that connects to my private suite. She's light in my arms. Fragile in a way she never lets the world see. The moonlight follows us, casting silver shadows across her tear-streaked face.
My bedroom is dark, only the moonlight entering. I don't bother with lights. I carry her straight through to the bathroom, set her carefully on the marble vanity.
"Stay," I tell her, then turn to start the shower.
I strip off my clothes while the water heats. When I turn back, I catch her looking at me. Her eyes travel down my body with undisguised appreciation, and despite everything, despite the tears still drying on her cheeks and the seriousness of what just happened, heat stirs in my blood.
"Don't look at me like that," I say, voice low.
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to fuck you again." I step closer, brush a strand of hair from her face. "Since it was your first time, you must be sore. If you keep looking at me like that, I won't be able to stop myself from taking you again."
She blushes. The color rises from her chest to her cheeks, visible even in the dim light.
