Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Nyx
GOOD FOR YOU – xxtristanxo
Achilles only has Wren as a roommate, and the latter is currently busy trying to get back in Peach's good graces, meaning there's no one to witness whatever happens here. No one to protect me from the madman who's starting to develop an unhealthy fixation with me.
He takes me all the way to the basement.
Shit, this is when I die. How did I, for even a second, think this man could have a soft spot for me?
He said so to coax me into thinking he could care.
Every step down to the basement makes me more certain that he's going to cut me into tiny pieces.
He loves to scare me, and being cut into pieces is pretty fucking scary.
I'm still trying to count how many chunks of me he's going to have to shove into trash bags when he releases me, putting himself between me and a second door they have downstairs. We're inside a room.
"Look around, Nyx."
I take a step away from him, not wanting to turn my back, but my observation is limited that way. The walls are padded with soundproofing panels, bathing the space in a wooden atmosphere.
Is this a music room? My curiosity gets the best of me, and I look over my shoulder.
There are three different violins spread around the room, a grand piano, and a cello leaning against the far wall.
Countless music books are open everywhere, shelves full of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Rossini, Vivaldi.
There are so many, I stop to look for anything specific.
In a corner, there's a music stand in front of a seat, and the violin laying on the carpeted floor next to it is calling my name.
That's when I fully turn my back to the door, forgetting about Achilles completely.
"This is a quality instrument you've got here," I say.
His voice still seems to be by the door when he answers.
"That's a Guarneri Ysaye made by Edgar Russ.
You'd like it." Then he approaches, standing right behind me, slightly to my right, and I can't help believing it's because he knows I wouldn't hear him well on my left.
"But I think you'd be better with the original Guarneri I own. It's got an inimitable edge to it."
"You don't own an original Guarneri." I snort. "That's, like…millions."
"16.3 million, to be exact."
The mere number makes me dizzy. "Suddenly, the one you bought me feels like pocket change."
"It was." He chuckles. It's not arrogant like when he talks about his talent, or how much people love him.
It's a simple fact. Money, millions, is not a problem for people like Achilles and his friends.
He's not proud of it, and he's not gloating, because money has no meaning to him.
Whereas when he talks about music, how well someone plays, or when people approach him, you feel the difference between mere humans and him.
There's almost a frustration to it. I can imagine him going home every evening, bored to death and wondering why no one else is as exceptional as he is.
A hand running up my spine startles me. My t-shirt stops his skin from touching mine, but that isn't nearly enough to stop the shivers he sends through me.
"The Guarneri means everything to me. I only use it for my concertos because only that specific instrument can translate the quality of my music." There's a gravel in his voice that's betraying a need I can't place. Is it the need to touch me? The need to play his instrument? Play me?
"What about the Edgar Russ, then?" I ask with a dry mouth.
He's so close behind me, I'm scared a single movement from me will be taken as a sign for him to pounce.
His hand comes from behind, skimming the skin of my throat, and settles on my jaw, gripping me tightly. "When I compose."
He pulls me flush against him, my back to his chest, and stays dangerously silent as his body practically becomes one with mine. Until he whispers in my ear. "You want to know why I don't leave you alone? Look closely at the sheets on the stand."
My eyes dart to them, my heart racing as I read the music notes. There's no way I could ever learn every concerto that's ever existed, but as a musician, you get familiar with composers, their music, their style. This is nothing like any famous composer I know.
This is Achilles Duval.
"You wrote music," I croak.
"I hadn't for six years." Another moment of silence passes, and I'm not sure if I should say something.
I knew that. I'm a fan of his music, and I'm part of a group that’s been waiting desperately to hear something from him.
"Six years," he repeats. He breathes me in. Beach and the sun, he called it. "You inspire me, mon trésor. And for that alone, you can be sure I’ll never let you go."
Too much is happening in my body and mind to pinpoint what steals my breath away and what stops me from thinking clearly. I want to know what he just called me, but the French words and the accent have my brain turning to mush. That's one thing, yes. But that's not just it.
My idol, the man whose career I've followed since I was barely a teen, just told me I inspire him.
I'm not even worried about the fact that he admitted he'd never let me go, that his obsessive behavior isn't going to stop. He hasn't written in so long, and I've been holding my breath ever since. Now I’m learning that he wrote again, thanks to me.
No body or mind is built to handle this kind of admission.
My eyes roam over the page, reading the notes, hearing the terrifying music in my mind.
This is him. Anguish and terror. Something that grips your gut like nothing else you've ever heard before.
I fell in love with Achilles's music because it felt like it was expressing the kind of trepidation I've always lived with.
Something brutal, yet hypnotizing. Something that made me understand that I was satisfied by fear.
Because as horrible as it is, it can be so beautiful.
"You did this," he murmurs in my ear, his other hand coming to rest by my belly button, just above the waistband of my jeans.
"The fear in your eyes when you see me, that hitch in your breath, the want in your being.
That way in which, no matter how badly you try to, you can't resist it.
" Keeping my face pointing at the sheet, he adds, "This is your soul, Nyx, and I'm not done exploring it. "
He pops the button of my jeans, and I instinctively move back, but instead of avoiding him, I press myself harder against him. I can already feel his dick growing against my lower back, and it has my senses switching back on.
Taking a trembling breath, I shake my head. "I don't want to be part of this. Let go."
Is it the most beautiful thing I've ever seen? Yes. But is it healthy? Absolutely fucking not, and I've had more than my share of toxic to last me a few lifetimes.
"I've been starving for creativity for too long to let go, mon trésor. But this doesn't have to be difficult. We can come to an agreement."
"Let go," I grunt, fisting his wrist as he unzips me slowly. "The only agreement we can come to is you leaving me alone and understanding that I have a boyfriend."
"The more you come for me, the weaker that excuse gets."
"I'm not playing, Achilles. I won't leave him, and even less, leave him for you."
The insistence in my voice does the opposite of my request. He freezes for a moment, and then his self-satisfied tone reaches me again.
"Let me show you how badly I'm not playing." He turns me, the movement so sudden, I throw my arms out to hold on to something so I don’t fall.
My hand hits the stand, the sheets flying to the floor.
"Look at me," he orders.
My eyes snap to his, making me feel even less stable when I have to tilt my head back from our proximity.
It's his unperturbed voice and evil smile that send cold panic through my veins when he says, "It's my sanity you play with when you try to escape me. And I have very, very little of it. I wouldn't advise doing that anymore. Do you know why?"
I shake my head, so faintly I'm not sure he sees it.
"Because I have pictures of you, in my bedroom, at my party, covered in my cum. And my instinct is telling me your boyfriend wouldn't like to see that." His grip tightens on my jaw, his gaze narrowing on me. "And how unfortunate would it be if someone sent him a screenshot of that Hermes post?"
"You can't be serious," I rasp. "You put me in those situations."
"I don't think that'll matter to him, but you know him better, so tell me if I'm wrong."
He's not. I'm in way over my head with this situation, and Chase won't care. He'll just make me suffer. I don't want to imagine the damage he'll cause. To me, my dad. My entire life will go up in flames.
"Like I said." His thumb caresses my cheek as he talks, my jaw starting to ache from his grip. "This doesn't have to be so hard. I can keep a secret, Nyx. Especially yours. He doesn't have to know how much you enjoy me becoming infatuated with you, how I'd do anything to have you."
I gulp, feeling my lower stomach tightening. My head is heavy with need, fear, and lust mixing together as my core lights up.
"So," he finally says. "Are you ready to play nice, mon trésor?"
His hand slides to the back of my head, gripping my hair and holding me in place as he lowers my jeans.
My heart hammers beneath my ribcage. This is blackmail. It is, right? But how does it work when he's giving me something I want? Forcing me to accept the lust I have for him.
I lick my lips, trying to shake my head, but quickly realizing it's impossible with the way he holds me.
He puts an end to my hesitation with a few simple words.
"Get on your knees."
Still blinking at him, I only move when I feel a tug at the back of my head.
"Achilles, please," I plead as I fall to my knees in front of him. "I need you to act rationally."
"Ah, see…" He chuckles mockingly. "Rationality goes out of the window when it involves you. Open this pretty mouth of yours."