Inside, the place is like heaven. Instruments are everywhere. Cellos, violins, drums. Behind the glass panels are trumpets and flutes. Anatoly rushes around with trays of coffee. “I understand you want to buy a piano?”
“Da.” Viktor looks toward the back where the piano rooms sit. “My boy wants one for the winter room.”
Anatoly’s eyes widen. His gaze darts between Viktor and me. “Of course. Shall I guide you? Or would you prefer to look alone?”
Viktor lifts his chin a fraction. “We’ll choose.”
Anatoly tugs at his mustache and clears his throat. “I will leave you to it. If you need any advice, I’ll be in the shop.” With a quick bow, he leaves the room and closes the door behind us.
Viktor turns to me. “Look around, Jonah. Tell me which one is yours.”
My fingers curl into the hem of my shirt. “I can’t accept this, Viktor. These pianos are not for people like me.”
He rolls his shoulder once, unconcerned. “We’ll get you piano classes too.”
I shake my head. “I can’t take that from you.”
Viktor crosses to the sideboard, pours himself vodka from a crystal decanter, and lifts the glass like the decision is already made. “But I can give it, krasavchik.” He tips his chin toward the room. “Go on. Feel which one speaks to you. If you want, I can call the old man back in.”
The space opens in front of me. Rows of polished instruments under soft lights—black and dark mahogany and warm brown—their lids propped like open wings. Some are slim and upright, others wide and grand, their keys pale as bone. The air smells faintly of wood polish and old music. I take a slow step forward, my hand hovering, afraid to touch and needing to all at once.
I sit at the first piano. Just to try, I tell myself. I’m only doing this because Viktor insists. But the moment my finger hits the keys, I feel that same love I always feel for the instrument. The notes press behind my ribs. Something old stirs. Something I thought I’d buried.
“Hm. Not convinced.” Viktor’s voice comes from just behind me. His chest brushes my back, his breath moving through my hair. “You?”
I open my eyes. “Maybe not.”
“Try the next.” His knuckles graze the back of my neck as he leans over my shoulder, warm and close.
Moving to the second piano, I notice it is made of dark wood and has a deep resonance. I play a few chords. The sound fills the room. “Better.” His thumb settles under my jaw.
My pulse jumps. I keep playing, my skin prickling as he steps closer. I sense him before his hand finds my throat. Before his thumb presses beneath my jaw and fixes me in place. “You look good here.” His thumb stays under my jaw. “Like you belong at something beautiful.”
Heat climbs up my spine. My hands stumble on the keys. “Keep going.” He leans closer. “I’m listening.”
I shift to another piano. This one is glossy black. The keys are soft under my fingers. The vibration hits my ribs first. My breath stutters before I realize it. The moment I touch it, Viktor exhales like he’s been waiting for this exact sound.
“That’s the one.” He doesn't hesitate.
I play again. He steps so close the heat of his chest touches my back. His mouth grazes my neck. It is barely a kiss. It's more like a claim he can’t hold back.
“You’re good.” His mouth brushes my ear. “You know that?”
“I’m not,” I breathe.
“You are.” His teeth nip lightly at my skin, sharp enough to make my fingers slip over the keys. I moan into the quiet room, the sound of my pleasure lost in the notes. “You’re good at everything you do for me.”
My breath shudders. I try another chord just to stay grounded. His hand circles my throat gently and then he tips back my head to claim my mouth. His lips are soft. The faint scent of vodka makes me dizzy. “Play it again,” he says against my mouth. “I want to hear how it sounds when you know I’m touching you.”
I do. It sounds different. It's like my heartbeat got caught between the notes. His lips trail up to my ear. “Khorosho, zolotse. That’s mine.”
I swallow. “Are we buying this one?”
“We’re buying whatever makes you sound like that.” His hand tightens briefly at my throat and he kisses the corner of my jaw. “And we’re taking it home.”
The words land with the heavy finality of a closing vault. He isn't just buying an instrument; he is buying the silence of my old life and replacing it with a melody he controls. I don't care that the price is my soul because as his hand tightens at my throat, I realize I’d rather be a prisoner in his palace than free in a world where he doesn't exist.I just want to hear him call me mine one more time.
CHAPTER
