Chapter 19 #2
"None of this was because of me or you. It was because Chase inserted himself into your life when you were too young and na?ve to push him away, and he blew it up in flames.
It's his fault. Now, I'm not saying I'm Prince Charming who came to save you, but it'd be a lie to say I'm not glad you have one less abusive asshole in your life.
Two if we're lucky and your dad never shows his face again. "
My jaw aches from how badly I'm tensing.
I bite my tongue, trying to find a lie in what he said.
It's harsh, and it hurts, but fuck, it's true.
He's not victim blaming, but he won't take the blame either.
He's putting it on the real perpetrator, and that man is dead, which makes it too hard for me to take it out on him.
I hang on to his gaze, not dropping mine like I usually would, and a smirk spreads on his lips.
"Look at her," he purrs. "Getting tougher by the minute. Strength looks good on you, baby."
"This is not thanks to you."
"It's not," he confirms with blatant sarcasm.
"It’s not," I repeat with conviction. "And I might have been too young and na?ve when Chase made his way into my life, but I'm not now. Maybe I can avoid one more asshole."
His smirk transforms into a full-on smile, and I try my hardest to ignore the way my stomach melts from how beautiful he is.
It's so unfair and destabilizing. Achilles is the kind of man whose beauty would make any woman’s heart stutter when he walks past them.
Having his attention? That’s not a fair fight.
"Oh no." He leans down, his lips brushing my right ear. "You're not getting rid of this asshole. Don't even try."
The kiss on my cheek is so brief I feel like I imagined it. I don't even get a chance to retort anything because Miss Rivera calls the violinists on stage for our rehearsal.
"Now go show everyone what you're capable of with the right violin in your pretty hands."
I don't. I'm pathetic on that stage. Our conductor notices the many times I'm the one who makes a mess and takes others down with me.
Harmony is the most important thing, and one person failing can affect others.
I'm that person many times today. By lunchtime, I'm biting my lower lip to not explode into sobs from the glares I'm getting from the other players. What’s worse is Miss Rivera's silence.
She looks at me intently, and that's all I need to feel her deep disappointment before the break.
I stand up, watching her speak in whispers with Achilles before she nods.
We're all packing our instruments when he says loudly, "Nyx, stay behind."
No "please." No reason. Nothing but a bored look anyone would expect of him but one I haven't seen my way in a while.
"Uh, sure," I reply, feeling like I have to save face in front of everyone and pretending like I have a choice to agree or disagree.
Josh walks to me, confidently asking, "Do you want me to stay?"
"She doesn't," Achilles's voice rings out in the room. "And don't play with the kind of authority you don't have."
"It's fine," I murmur to him. "I'll see you after lunch."
Josh walks away with concern in his eyes, and I stay on stage, my violin in its open case, on the floor right next to my chair. Achilles is in the audience, and the stage lights are the only ones on, so I can't see him bar a shadow standing there.
The last student exits, leaving us alone, and I shift from one foot to another awkwardly as I put my hand in front of my squinting eyes, attempting to see more of him.
"What was that, Nyx?" he asks with a flat voice. There's no disappointment, but I can still feel the sting.
"My hand hurts," I say weakly. "And I missed last Monday, so I'm still catching up."
"No." And this time, the firmness in the tone makes me want to die on the spot.
I hear him come forward, but he's still in the shadows.
"Nothing hurts when you play, and you know that.
You're too taken by the music and the feelings it brings.
You're possessed by it. The only way your hand would affect your talent is if something's broken or strained, and it wouldn't be from the pain but from the physical mechanism not functioning.
Is that the case? Is something wrong with your fingers, your hands, or your wrist apart from the pain from the cuts? "
I shake my head, shame burning my cheeks.
"Give me words when I take the time to help you improve."
God, I'm starting to think I was taking the casual, mocking man who nothing affects for granted. This is serious Achilles, the violinist, and it's scarier than the man who's been after me.
"No, there's nothing wrong," I croak.
"No," he confirms. "What's wrong is that, as always, you're stuck asking yourself what everyone thinks of you.
If it's not because you think you don't belong here, it's because you wonder what they think happened to your face.
What sordid stories they're making up in their heads about the girl from the North Shore.
You lose your focus wondering if you're talented enough to play on a priceless violin I gifted you.
You miss a note because your brain is too busy asking if you deserve the compliments I give you, or that I believe you should be our soloist."
"I—"
"My statement had no questions. It didn't require an answer. It required change, and I want it right now, Nyx. I'm not playing around when it comes to your dream. Are you?"
I blink at the blinding light, completely lost as to where he even is anymore. Mouth opening and closing like a fish. Since my music teacher died in high school, no one has ever believed in my dream like he has. Certainly not Chase. I've been on my own when it comes to fighting for it.
"That required an answer," he points out when I stay quiet.
"I'm not playing around," I whisper in a way that betrays my lack of confidence.
"But you are. You're not trusting yourself.
You can't even tell me with your gut that you believe in yourself.
You're scared, Nyx. Like always. You're carrying that anxiety on your shoulders that stops you from breathing.
How do you expect to play well if you're not breathing?
How will you show all those rich kids that you deserve your seat in this orchestra way more than they do.
They've had private lessons since they were three.
They were bought the best equipment. They can throw their instruments in the trash tonight and have a better one by tomorrow morning.
Because money and nepotism will get them anything they want.
That's where their confidence comes from.
Doesn't that make you hungry to show them what you're capable of? "
I hear him move toward the stairs to the stage, the energy flowing with him.
"I'm going to help you get rid of that anxiety."
He appears on stage, crossing the curtain of light, and I finally recognize that devilish smirk.
"And, baby, you're going to hate how I do it."
I take a step back when he approaches me, hitting my neighbor's chair.
"You can stop trying to get away now. It's not happening. Instead, why don't you turn around, press your palms on the seat of your chair, and lift that skirt up for me."
"What?" The word wheezes out of my lungs. "Are you insane? I’m not…I’m not doing that."
"Trust me. I know what'll get that fear out of your mind, mon trésor. I've had time to study you."
He stops by the conductor's platform, picking up her stick.
"Oh." An awkward laugh leaves me, not even wanting to believe where my brain is taking me. "You stay away from me with that thing."
"Remember when I fingered you on my desk? How scared you were and how hard you came?"
"Achilles…"
He moves closer, too slowly.
"And remember your little trembling body when I broke into your house and fucked you while your boyfriend was sleeping next to you? Sorry. Ex-boyfriend."
"You're out of your mind if you think anything is going to happen here."
He pauses, a genuine smile nearly breaking out on his face, only stopped by him biting his lower lip.
"I'm taking note that you said nothing is going to happen here. Where, then? I'm curious."
"Stop it," I hiss. "Not funny." I look around, making sure everyone’s gone. "Not funny."
He's right in front of me now, in my personal space, breathing my oxygen and stopping me from thinking straight.
"Notice how slowly I walked over here?" he purrs, his lips right above my forehead.
I nod.
"And notice how you didn't use that time to…I don't know…get away from me?"
"Fuck you, Achilles." The lust in my whisper betrays my anticipation.
"In a minute, mon trésor."
He gently wraps his fingers around my wrist, but that's where the softness stops. Twisting me around with a strength I can't fight against, he puts my back to his front before forcing my hand to rest on my seat. I'm bent over, and I'm forced to press my other one there to not lose balance.
"Atta girl. Don't move."
He flips my uniform skirt over my ass. I noticed he's wearing a less casual outfit today. A black button-down over black slacks rather than his usual hoodies over jeans, and it's giving him a more serious look than usual.
"I'm going to leave your tights on because we've never done this before, and I don't want the pain to become unbearable.
The purpose of this is to forget about whatever you feel physically so you can focus on what's going on in your head.
And once your pretty mind becomes malleable, I'll put whatever I want in there. "
"You're seriously fucked up," I say shakily.
"True. You can thank me for it later."
The first hit of the baton sears pain into my skin, tights or not. I grit my teeth as a scream flies past my lips.
"Fuck," I gasp.
Immediately, I straighten back up because I don't have to let him do this to me.
"Get back into position or get kicked out of this orchestra. This is my final warning."