“What Faye means is that she’s been under the tutelage ofamateurs,” Madame Usher offered up. “This Ms. Garrison is her high school music teacher – and their music program is far from distinguished. Such a waste of rare and exquisite talent. You’ll have your work cut out for you, Maestro.”
Across the table, Aroha choked back a snort. She tried to cover up the sound by crunching on some bread, but my skin bristled.
What did I expect? These rich assholes had been studying under accomplished masters since they were still in diapers, while I had to give up my expensive lessonstwiceso we could survive. The gaps in my knowledge put me behind them before we’d even began.
“I remember your father well,” Master Radcliffe continued. “We met on several occasions at symphony events in the city. I saw him perform Sibelius with the London Philharmonic, and it was one of the most sublime performances I’ve ever encountered. The world was not ready to lose him.”
I nodded. What else was there to say? I hadn’t been ready to lose him, either. Too bad I had no say in the matter. One minute, Dad was yelling at Mom that she didn’t appreciate his need for artistic space after she’d worked twenty-two hours straight to cover his flights to Venice and couldn’t understand why he’d been home all day and hadn’t cooked dinner. The next, he’d disappeared without a trace.
A memory surfaced that I hadn’t thought of in a long time, that I’d shoved into that little black box in my head of things too painful to think about. A much younger, much skinnier Madame Usher standing in our doorway, her lips wet with crimson lipstick and her faux floral scent bowling through our house like Hurricane Bitchface. My mother facing her with a rigid back and hardened eyes. The pair of them sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, untouched cups of coffee and an unopened white envelope between them. Nine-year-old me sitting on the stairs and straining to listen, but they spoke so low and in such harsh voices… when Madame Usher left, she carried the envelope and wore a satisfied smirk that didn’t reach her eyes, and Mom stopped crying. She didn’t shed a single tear for Dad after that.
I did the crying for us both, and a fat lot of good my overactive tear ducts did, sobbing over a man who I now knew was nothing but a rotten cheater.
I still didn’t know what they’d said that day, or what was in that envelope.
“—Victor’s most accomplished pupil,” Madame Usher was still gushing about my father. “Donovan was to be the shining star of Manderley Academy, but the fates had other ideas.”
I wished the Master would change the subject before me and my steak knife took a trip to stabby town. Instead, he reached for a second helping of salad. “You aspire to a career in music?”
“I don’t know.” That was the honest answer.
“If you don’t know, then why are you here?” Madame Usher snapped.
More giggles from across the table. Only the waifish girl – Elena – looked uncomfortable.
“I’m here because you were in desperate need of my culinary skills.” I popped a piece of chorizo in my mouth. As if she didn’t know – I couldn’t go off on a world tour while my mother still lay in a hospital bed.
The conversation moved on to discussing an upcoming recital the students were giving at a museum in New York City. An animated debate broke out over which showpieces they should perform. I longed to join in, but I’d never heard them play, and I got the vibe my opinion wasn’t welcome.
Beside me, Dorien dominated the conversation. As he teased Ivan about his fingering technique, I caught a hint of the mischievous boy I’d grown up with. Being this close to all three Muses made my body light up and my stomach twist in ways I didn’t understand. I averted my gaze across the table, but Titus’s dark eyes bore into mine with unsettling intensity, as if he saw nothing wrong with cutting me open to study my entrails. I decided staring at my food was the best option. Between glances up from my salad, I noticed the honey-blonde (Heather?) hanging on Dorien’s every word, nodding in agreement to whatever he said.
Yes, Dorien. Of course, Dorien. Polish your cock for you, Dorien—
“Oops.” Dorien knocked my fork off the edge of the table. “Let me get that for you.”
It’s fine,I wanted to say, not wanting him any closer. But my mouth didn’t work. Too much hot in this room.
As Dorien bent over to reach under the table, his head drew close to my thigh. His breath tickled the bare skin behind my knee, where my jeans had torn. I sucked in a breath. Fire shot through my limbs.
Dorien hesitated, his body stiffening. A lock of dark hair fell forward, brushing my thigh. He whipped his head around to glare up at me, his lips dangerously close to… to… places a guy that hot had never been close to before. My body reacted instantly, all the fire inside me converging between my legs. I clamped my thighs together, but it was too late. A faint gasp escaped my lips… a gasp Dorien Valencourt heard.
Dorien’s lips curled back into a smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing, hovering over me like that. What a Dickweasel.
“You like this?” He arched a perfect eyebrow. My tank top had ridden up, and his lips blew hot air against my already-burning skin. I could almost imagine him as the Dorien I used to know.Almost. If not for that coldness in his eyes.
“I’d like my fork back,” I managed to choke out.
Dorien sat up, leaving me flushed. He dropped the fork onto my plate and leaned toward me. Carpet fluff rolled off into my food, but I didn’t care. I hated the sizzle that swept through my veins as his breath tickled my ear.
“You don’t belong here, Sprite,” he whispered. “And we’re going to make sure you know it.”
Chapter Seven
Dorien
Fuck.
Faye de Winter.
