She attempts to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. Her fingers fall limp while mine continue to shake from the lingering adrenaline.
It’s probably best that she doesn’t answer while I’m driving. Seconds from detonating, I’m liable to jerk the damn car off a bridge.
Lasalle Street, fifteen blocks, two turns, and a high-security gate later, here I am, sitting in my driveway, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
A nearby gas lamp illuminates the interior of the car, but we’re parked around back, shrouded by massive oaks and hidden from the street.
When I turn in the seat to face her, she’s not staring at my enormous estate with envy in her eyes. She’s not surveying the million-dollar landscape with parted lips. She’s looking at me. Like I’m the only thing that exists in the world. Like I’m more important than all the wealth surrounding her.
I fall helplessly into her gaze, lost in the shadows of tragedy and fear and neglect. But there’s a glint of light in the dark depths. As she sways closer, seeking, my heart kicks with realization. That tiny glimmer in her eyes is trust.
That’s when I hear it.
The tempo of our breaths. The drum of our heartbeats. The crackle in the air.
The exquisite cadence pulses through me, awakening sensations I’ve never felt, composing a melody I’ve never heard.
Our hypnotic, dark notes.
This is so much more than punishment or forbidden pleasure.
She could never be a mistake.
“Are we going to…” She tilts her head and searches my face. “Do the vibe thing all night? I’m okay with that, but not knowing what comes next has me…um, a little jumpy.”
I trail a finger across her cheek and along her bottom lip. “Tell me you trust me.”
She nibbles the corner of her mouth. “You’ve given me every reason not to.”
I drop my hand, but she catches it and lifts it back to her face.
“You’ve also shown me every reason I should.” She holds our hands tightly against her cheek. “Thank you for finding me.” Her fingers trace the cuts on my knuckles, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “For protecting me.”
Christ, this girl… She’s my music, my place in this life, my part in it all.
I move in and touch my lips to hers. “You’re going to follow me inside.” I slide a hand into her thick hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.” I tighten my grip and yank her head back. “Then I’m going to test the depth of your trust. Say yes.”
Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and desperation. Then she blinks, breathes, and relaxes in my hold. “Yes, Mr. Marceaux.”
I follow Mr. Marceaux through the wide, echoing passages of his monstrosity of a mansion. Between the questions I’ll have to answer and whatever punishment that will follow, my legs threaten to buckle with each step.
He touches my lower back and steers me forward. Oddly, the tremors in his hand give me strength. Like maybe he’s as freaked out as I am.
His fingers have been shaking since he climbed into the GTO, his breaths fluctuating in volume and tempo all the way here. I’m well-acquainted with the indicators of a man in need, but this feels different, safer somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not attacking me like the other men I’ve encountered. Or perhaps it’s because the hand on my back is guiding me, not forcing me.
We pass a living room filled with plush leather furniture, a hearth room with more couches, and a massive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Compared to the gloomy Victorian Gothic exterior of stone and steeples, the inside is warm and bright, flaunting the kind of luxuries I’m not sure a teacher’s salary can afford.
Wrought iron chandeliers, long heavy draperies, shiny wood floors, black damask wallpaper, it’s all so old-world-ish yet modern at the same time. Such a profound reflection of his personality. He seems like such an old noble soul in the sense that he loves knowledge and truth—those pursuits interest him far more than the latest gossip or high-tech car. But after two months of lectures, I’ve learned he also appreciates the transience of life, the fleeting trends, and the way people and music change over time.
After countless rooms, a spiraling staircase that wraps around the atrium, and a maze of corridors, I’ve lost my bearings. Why would a single man need so much space?
I really don’t care how much money he has or where it comes from. I’m more interested in the man himself, what he has planned, and where he’s taking me.
“Mr. Marceaux?”
“It’s Emeric.” He stops, turns me to face him, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m Mr. Marceaux when I’m your teacher.”
His touch races a shiver across my skin and electrifies my heart. “If you’re not my teacher right now, what are you?”