Fractured Souls - Page 31

I thought he would ask the guy to leave. Instead, Pasha grabs the back of the man’s shirt and pushes him toward the door. The man flails, yelling. Pasha pays him no heed, twisting the guy’s arm behind his back while continuing to push him toward the exit. The store employee behind me lets out a shriek and grabs the phone, probably to call security. I fist my hands, hating myself for being so weak, then take a deep breath and march out of the store to where Pasha is still clutching the man by his shirt.

“Pasha,” I whisper and wrap my hand around his forearm. “Please.”

He looks down at me, releases the guy and pushes him away. The man stumbles, then turns around, biting out obscenities in our direction. Pasha takes a step toward him, but I tighten my hold on his arm.

“Please, don’t,” I say. “Let’s go back.”

He glares at the tie-clad man for a few more seconds before he takes my hand in his and leads us down the hallway toward the elevators.

As we’re passing a restaurant, my eyes fall on the small object sitting atop the raised platform beyond the entrance to the establishment. I stop in my tracks, my feet seemingly rooted to the ground, and stare at the instrument.

I glance at what has caught Asya’s attention, and my eyes fall on the piano next to the wall. It’s one of those tiny versions—a baby grand piano made of white wood. Its lid is open and some music sheets lie on the small stand above the keys. The bench seat before it is unoccupied.

Asya takes a tentative step toward the platform and stops for a second. The next moment she’s rushing forward, pulling me with her. When she reaches the piano, she releases my hand and climbs up to sit on the bench in front of the instrument. She sits there for at least five minutes with her eyes glued to the keys. I stand close by, turned in a way that allows me to keep an eye on her while I can still see our surroundings just in case someone gets a stupid idea of approaching and asking her to leave. One of the waiters looks up and takes a step in our direction. I cross my arms and turn toward him, daring him with my glare to say something. The man sizes me up but quickly goes back to what he was doing. Good for him.

A single low note plays behind my back. Followed by another. A few seconds of silence and then a melody begins. My body goes stone-still as a combination of low tones unfolds behind me in a slow tempo. The tune sounds familiar. It’s a popular classical piece, but I can’t remember which one. I want to turn around and watch her play, but I’m afraid it’ll distract her. Instead, I stand guard, watching the people at the tables around us. All of them have stopped what they were doing, their meals abandoned as they all look in Asya’s direction. The melody ends, but she continues with another. I know this one. It’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” Unbelievably fast. Even to a layman’s ear, it’s clear that she’s not an amateur.

I can’t fight the urge any longer. The need to see her play is too strong, so I turn around and stare. She might just be wearing plain blue jeans and a navy blouse, but it feels like I’m in a damn concert hall, watching the star pianist putting on a show. The way she holds her body, the movements of her hands flying elegantly over the keys, and the confidence in her posture are all stunning. But what takes me aback the most is the expression on her face. Joy. Elation. Happiness. She is smiling so widely that it feels like her whole being is glowing. I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. Seeing her like this is as if I’m meeting her for the first time. There’s nothing in common between this maestro and the frightened girl I let stay in my place, the one who still follows me around the apartment, gripping the hem of my shirt in her hand.

Rage boils up through my insides at the thought of this side of her being smothered. I’m going to make the people who broke her spirit pay. In blood.

Asya finishes the melody and looks up, her eyes finding mine. Applause breaks out around us. People are shouting, asking for more. She ignores the noise, slowly rises, and walks toward me without breaking eye contact.

“You didn’t tell me you can play the piano.” I reach out and move a few stray strands away from her face. She is still standing on the platform, which makes us almost the same height.

Asya just shrugs and takes another step forward, plastering her front to mine. Our faces are barely inches apart.

“Which piece was it?” I ask. “The one you played first.”

“Beethoven.” She lifts her hand and traces the line of my jaw with the tip of her finger. “It’s called ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ It reminds me of you.”

The light falling through the window to the right of us makes her hair glow. A small smile still lingers on her lips. I fight the urge to bury my hands in her dark hair and crush my mouth to hers.

“We should get going,” I say but I don’t make a move to turn away. “It’s almost noon. It’s going to get crowded.”

Asya’s hand slides down from my face, grazing the sleeve of my jacket until her fingers wrap around mine. Her skin feels so soft compared to the roughness of my palm.

“Can we come again tomorrow?” she asks peering deep into my eyes. “I’ve missed playing.”

As if I could say no to her when she’s looking at me like this. “Sure, mishka.”

A huge grin spreads over her face, making me feel like I’m bathed in its warmth. I want more of it. More of her. I reach out and place my hands on her hips. “Want to hop up?”

She tilts her head to the side, regarding me.

“Looks like a business group just arrived,” I lie, then nod toward the left side of the hallway. “They just went into one of the stores.”

Asya’s hand squeezes mine, and she jumps into my arms the moment after. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she tucks her nose into the crook of my neck. Ignoring the stares of the people around us, I turn and walk toward the elevators, supporting Asya with one hand under her thighs, my other arm wrapped around her middle, holding her tightly against my body.

I should feel bad for lying to her, but I don’t. The satisfaction I feel from having her body pressed to mine overwhelms any remorse I might have. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t fucking care.

Chapter 11

There are two cartons of milk inside the fridge. The regular one and one that’s fat-free. Pasha usually buys only the regular full-fat milk. I squeeze the fridge handle and glare at the cartons sitting there so innocently on the shelf. They mock me.

It’s fucking milk!

A palm caresses the small of my back. “Problem with the milk?”