Chapter 44
The Teacher
Jenna
Ian and I have just dug into his delicious lasagna when Killian saunters into the kitchen one night and plops onto the chair beside me. Expecting some sort of mockery or conflict to ensue, I tense, and Ian reacts the same.
We’re both stunned, staring as Killian scoops lasagna and salad onto his plate and starts eating. Usually, he just grabs the food and leaves—often without a word.
When nothing else happens, Ian breaks us out of the staring, quietly ordering me to eat with a nod at my plate.
More minutes pass in awkward silence of chewing and clanking silverware, Killian still acting like nothing’s out of the ordinary while Ian and I are waiting to see how this will unfold.
“What is Dad drilling you on these days?” Killian finally asks me, throwing me a quick glance while cutting into his lasagna and shoveling a big piece into his mouth.
I swallow hard a few times to clear my mouth. “Chopin.”
Killian lifts an impatient brow at me. “That’s hardly an answer. Is it his nocturnes, his études, or is he trying to get you playing one of his ballads?”
“A nocturne. The one in F major. Opus fifteen.”
Killian snatches my wrist, sending a bolt of electricity through me, both jarring and heating. “With these hands?” he asks incredulously, holding up my small hand. “Shit, Dad, are you trying to strain her fingers on those rapid sixths?”
“With the right technique, even small hands can manage rapid, big spans,” Ian explains.
Killian studies my hand, bringing more lasagna into his mouth with his left hand. “How’s it working out? Can you play the whole piece?” he asks me.
“Um, not without flaws.”
With an irritated edge, he adds, “Do you have all the notes down or not?”
“I do.”
He releases my hand and snatches his fork into his right hand. “I want to hear it. Upstairs, once you’ve managed to gnaw your way through the rest of your food.” He lifts a brow at my barely touched portion, then goes to work on his own.
I expect Ian to intervene, but he just nods at my plate and says, “Eat, Jenna.” Then he asks Killian, “What are you working on? I think I heard Rachmaninoff’s third earlier today.”
“Yeah, it’s a beast, but I’m tackling it.”
Ian’s voice fills with pride. “I’m sure you are.”
“Pembroke wants me to play it at the Summer Piano Festival.”
“That should be plenty of time for you to master it to perfection.”
“Yeah.” Killian scoops a big forkful of arugula and tomato salad into his mouth, chews for a moment, then says, “I don’t like his approach to the first movement; it feels rushed. Would you hear it and see what you think?”
“Of course.” Ian lights up in a whole new way, pride and affection warming his entire countenance.
I quietly listen while I eat, the knots in my stomach slowly untangling in the easygoing atmosphere.
Killian and Ian slip into a passionate conversation about the challenges of Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto, and I get a sense of comfortable familiarity I haven’t experienced between them before.
It’s comforting—the way I always thought a real family should be.
Jealousy prickles in me, but most of all, I simply enjoy the easy chatter even though I’m not part of it.
Once Killian has wolfed down two portions, he puts his plate in the dishwasher, then pauses at my side and shoots me a sharp look. “Upstairs, the moment you’re done eating. Bring your sheet music.” Then he’s gone.
While I finish eating, I keep glancing at Ian, thinking he’ll say something—let me off the hook. But he just watches me, arms crossed over his chest, uncompromising authority rolling off him in thick waves.
“What is he going to do?” I finally ask, pushing my empty plate aside.
“Hear you play. Probably correct your technique.” A smile tips up his lips. “He’s quite the stickler for proper wrist movement. Like me.”
“Will he—”
Leaning his arms on the table, he cuts me off. “Jenna, you’d better hurry, or I’ll let him know you’re stalling.”
My heart leaps into my throat, pounding away. I get up, about to grab the plate, but Ian pushes it out of reach. “Upstairs. Now.”
I half run to the entryway, afraid Killian will punish me if I don’t get there soon enough. Three steps up the stairs, I remember my sheet music, turn around, and rush to Ian’s music room, then back to the entryway and up the stairs.
I’m panting when I stop at the open door to the music room. Killian is at the piano, practicing a rapid passage that I think must be from Rachmaninoff’s third concerto, fingers rushing over the keys with effortless technique.
Taking his time, he finishes the part, leaving me gawking in open awe.
“Sit,” he demands when he gets up, not even turning to look my way.
I scamper across the floor and drop onto the bench.
Killian snatches the papers from my hands and sets the four tightly-packed pages of sheet music in front of me.
“Play.”
I glance at him, his sharp features, his immaculate hairdo, and his arms bulging slightly as he crosses them over his chest. He’s all sleek perfection and masculine authority, strict attention and unwavering focus.
The sight unnerves me as much as it thrills me.
Not daring to linger too long, I turn to the keys and begin.
The melody draws me in immediately, wrapping the room in a sense of nightly peace that fits the darkness outside, speckled with city lights, perfectly.
But the peace is fleeting. A thunderous storm breaks up the beautiful melody with a staggering descent of deep notes and rapid-fire sixths that I struggle to keep up.
I make tons of mistakes, and my pace is uneven, but Killian doesn’t stop me. He lets me return to the peaceful theme and finish the piece with grace.
Once I lift my hands from the keys, I wonder if he’s counted my mistakes the way Ian sometimes does and I’ll get to pay for them in strikes of slashing pain.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches the sheet music, contemplating, then steps around me.
“You need more weight in the left hand,” he says and demonstrates.
“More forward movement.” He plays the line leading back up and ends with a sharp accent on the final note.
“More attack on the f.” Then he repeats the same line in one fluid motion.
“Aren’t you going to lecture me about wrist movement?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Dad has already taken care of that.”
Surprised, I turn my head to face him.
“Just keep practicing slowly and softly and you’ll get those sixths nice and crisp.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. The usually hard facade of mockery and condescension seems to have faded. This version of Killian is calm and focused. Patient even.
“This right here is your anchor.” He plays the left hand again, slowly, with great crescendo. “Let it set the pace—not the right hand. Now you try, just the left hand.”
Seeing Killian’s masterful effortlessness as he plays sends a stab of regret through me. If only I hadn’t been forced to stop playing, I could have handled the line just as well. If only I had been brave enough to continue, I could have been his equal, not his student.
“Try it out,” he urges.
I shove the thoughts away. Because regret has no place invading my new hopeful world, and as much as Killian enjoys putting me down, he has never done so at the piano. If anything, he’s strangely encouraging as he gestures for me to go ahead.
I place my fingers on the keys and play the same line, imbuing it with more power and finishing on a forceful note.
“Better. But try to use your arm more. Get some more weight in.” He scoots onto the bench behind me, caging me in with his long legs, pressing his strong chest against my back.
My breaths shorten as he repeats the line a couple of times and explains how he uses his arm weight to gain more power. I barely pay attention; all I can focus on is him, surrounding me on all sides, commanding the very air that I breathe with his sheer calm confidence.
Killian’s music might seem like it’s all about showing off and proving he’s the best, but I don’t think it is. Not anymore. He’s too grounded—too aware of his masterly control of the instrument.
His masterly control of me.
Swallowing hard, I ignore the thought and focus on the movements of his fingers and arm.
“Your turn,” he says, resting a hand on my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I draw a shuddery breath, unnerved and unraveling at the heady proximity. But also strangely calm, his confident gravity steadying me. The strength I manage in the deep notes is staggering, and I smile when I finish on that sharp note.
“Good,” Killian says, voice still factual and focused.
No idle praise here. What I see is what I get.
It’s comforting, feeling him like this, and I want to lean into him and soak him up.
What I get instead is almost as good as a deepened physical connection.
Killian has me playing the left hand while he fires off rapid sixths like it’s all he’s ever done.
Feeling his chest moving against my back as he breathes in time with the music sends me deeper into the nightly storm, making me feel the power with an intensity that nearly draws tears to my eyes.
“Now, the whole thing, both hands,” he says.
Placing my right hand in a wide spread over the keys, I prepare to play the con fuoco section, but Killian stops me.
“From the top.”
He’s still on the bench with me, and I feel like a vulnerable child against the wide expanse of his body, caged in between his legs, wrapped in the comfort of his control.
The position hinders my movements when I start playing, yet the music comes more naturally than anything.
Killian’s heartbeat, his breath, and his touch give rise to a well of emotion that washes through me, straight into the music, lending a new softness to the opening melody and a new fury to the thunderous storm.
When I finish, I feel broken open, almost even worse than when he humiliates and hurts me. I’m not ready to lose him, so before he can send me away, I say, “Will you play for me?”
His hands remain on me—one on my waist, one on my thigh. He never leans into me or gathers me to him, but the closeness is startling even so.
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and I fear the moment he’ll break the silence with harsh words and demands for me to go away.
But it never comes. He just nods, then places his hands on the keys and starts playing.
I immediately recognize the music: Schubert’s “Erlkonig.” Only, it’s not just Schubert—not only the piano part made to go along with the singing. It’s Listz’s transcription. The already virtuosic piano part combined with the melody.
The sight of his hands vibrating with the speed of the octaves steals my breath. I don’t understand how he can play it, much less with me in front of him. Despite the hindrance, he hits every note and effortlessly crosses his arms in front of me when the left one jumps over the right one.
But it’s not just the music that makes it hard to breathe.
It’s him. To feel him all around me. The vibrations rolling up through his arms, his sharp breaths punctuating the music, and the twitches as his whole body becomes one with the music.
I’m part of it. Killian, his music, and his emotions are all around me, letting me into his closed-off world, letting me feel everything in there right alongside him.
I can’t imagine a situation more intimate.
I thought screaming in Ian’s arms that first day would be the pinnacle, but this… nothing compares.
When his hands work at the center of the piano, it’s like the one thing I crave from him the most: a tight, comforting embrace. I melt into him. I can’t help it. All my emotions drift to the surface, right there for him to take—right there for me to give.
At that moment, it strikes me just how good Killian is.
Ian has mentioned that Killian needs to improve his expressive skills to reach greatness, and I realize that he doesn’t just mean greatness in the regular sense.
He means greatness in the sense that the gods would envy him.
The realization does nothing to stir the jealousy from before.
I don’t need it, because I’m no longer an outsider looking in.
I’m part of it. And I relish every single moment and every deep-felt note.
When the piece comes to an end and Killian lifts his hands, placing them in my lap as if it were his own, I’m shaking all over. I can barely even breathe, and tears pool in my eyes from the sheer overload of intensity. I just stare at the keys, unable to move a single muscle.
“Why?” I finally manage.
“Why what?” he asks softly.
I turn, trailing my gaze over him, having no idea how to make sense of this otherworldly creature. “Why me? I mean, I can’t possibly compete with that. You…”
“You’re not here to compete.” He brushes the hair from my neck, and with a gentleness so soft it hurts, he presses his lips to my sensitive skin. “You’re my muse,” he whispers against my skin. “The one who makes this possible.”
“Makes what possible?”
He doesn’t answer, just lingers. His lips are no longer touching me, but the proximity—his hot breath against my skin, the very energy rolling off him—is more intense than any touch.
It tickles and shivers on my sensitive skin, sending bursts of hope and longing through my very bones.
He remains there, keeping us locked in the intimate bubble, yet not quite together.
After what seems like several minutes, he breaks the spell, gets up, and offers me his hand in an uncharacteristically gentlemanly gesture.
“Go sleep, Jenna,” he says softly. And that’s it.
He leads me on my way, out of the room, across the landing, and sends me downstairs.
My heart shudders and aches, hope rising and falling as I can’t decide whether that hope is the most dangerous or promising thing I’ve ever felt.