Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Anastasia
For a while, we just sit here. I’ve moved to sit cross-legged on the rug. Nyxx is sprawled on the couch, his guitar resting across his lap like a sleeping animal. The silence feels thick, full of things neither of us is ready to say.
I gather the sheet music on the coffee table into a neat stack—because doing something keeps my emotions from crashing. Six days here, and I’ve already alphabetized the spice rack, organized the kitchen drawers, and color-coded the towels. Control is hard to quit cold turkey.
When I glance up, he’s watching me, one knee drawn up, that unreadable half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re still buzzing,” he says. “You can’t just straighten your way out of feelings, princess.”
“Old coping mechanisms die hard,” I admit, aligning the pages one last time. “What now? You going to psychoanalyze me again?”
“Nah, I’ve got something better.” He stretches, the movement lazy and unguarded, like a cat in sunlight.
The stretch pulls his shirt taut across his chest, exposing a sliver of skin at his waist. The sight shouldn’t make my breath hitch—but it does.
He catches the flicker of my gaze and, for one suspended second, the air changes.
His mouth tilts in that slow, knowing way that says he noticed, but he doesn’t call me on it.
He just lets the moment hum quietly between us.
“You’ve spent your whole life saying yes to everyone else. Time you learned to say no.”
My brows lift. “And how exactly do you propose I do that?”
His grin widens, pure trouble. “With a game.” He leans forward. “I’ll suggest activities that’ll push your boundaries, things I think will help you grow. But here’s the catch—you have to consider each one. If it doesn’t feel right, you say no. No guilt, no explanations needed.”
“That sounds… challenging.” Although I said the word challenging out loud, the word terrifying is clanging in my head like cymbals.
“That’s the point,” Nyxx grins. “You need to learn to trust your instincts, to figure out what Ana wants, not what everyone else expects of you.”
Butterflies dance in my stomach, but I nod. “Okay. I’m in, but… can I start by asking you to call me Anastasia?”
He looks stunned.
“I thought I was teasing you, Anastasia, but I overstepped your boundaries.” He chews on this silently for a moment, a crease in his brow. “My apologies.”
The simplicity hits harder than any grand gesture. Admit you’re wrong, apologize, and move on. He makes it look effortless. I file the technique away for later.
“Ready?” Nyxx rubs his palms together like a mad scientist. “First challenge: let’s rearrange the living room furniture. Completely change the energy of the space.”
My initial instinct is to refuse. The thought of disrupting the carefully arranged room makes me uneasy. It’s not my space. I paid a security deposit… well I suppose we both did. But as I consider it, a small thrill runs through me. “You know what? Yes. Let’s do it.”
Nyxx’s eyes light up. “That’s the spirit!”
For the next hour, we push and pull furniture, debating placement and laughing at our increasingly ridiculous suggestions. By the time we’re done, the room feels completely different—cozier, more lived-in. I love the change.
“How’d that feel?” Nyxx asks as we plop next to each other on the sofa that now has an amazing view of the gazebo on the other side of the sliding door.
“I’m embarrassed to admit how good it feels to take charge of my space. I never would have considered it before I met you.”
His eyes narrow as he asks, “Am I mistaken, or did Anastasia Ashcroft just give me a little compliment?”
“You’re mistaken… it was a big compliment.”
Our gazes meet, and something unspoken hums between us—half amusement, half tension. He doesn’t move closer, but I swear the air does.
“Next up,” Nyxx says, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “how about we prank call that stuffy conductor you complained about?”
My heart races at the thought. It’s tempting—I’ve certainly had moments where I’ve wanted to get back at Maestro Grimaldi for his constant criticisms and nitpicking. But something doesn’t sit right.
Ignoring my urge to comply with Nyxx’s directive, I don’t give an immediate response, giving the challenge ample thought as I consider the possible consequences, weighing the cost-benefit ratio. Most importantly, I consult my emotions—something I rarely do.
“I… I don’t think so, Nyxx. It feels mean-spirited. It wouldn’t sit right with me.”
I brace myself for his disappointment, but his face breaks into a wide grin. “Exactly. You thought about it, checked your gut, and said no. That was brave. I’m proud of you.”
The words shouldn’t mean so much, but they do. I’ve been called disciplined, talented, even brilliant—but never brave.
For years, I’ve dated men who liked my precision but not my passion. They admired my control, not realizing it was the very thing that kept them at a distance.
Nyxx is different. He moves through life like a storm yet somehow makes room for me to breathe. For all his swagger, he’s taking this slower—and sweeter—than anyone ever has.
And that scares me more than the thought of playing a wrong note in public.
I take a steadying breath, meeting his gaze again. “Thank you. It feels… good to make these decisions for myself.”
“Now for the big challenge.” Nyxx’s tone has turned serious. “I’ve been saving this for last. Do just what you did for the last question—don’t answer right away. Consider it thoughtfully.”
He pauses, giving me just enough time for butterflies to riot in my stomach. “Perform in the town square. Completely improvised. No sheet music, no plan. Just you.”
My stomach drops, squeezing as though it’s caught in a vise. I clap my hand over my mouth to curb my initial impulse, which is to blurt out a refusal. Then I drop my hand to speak anyway. “What?! Nyxx, I can’t possibly—”
He raises a hand. “That’s your instinct talking. Give it a minute.”
Paralyzed, I wage a war with myself. I don’t want to do it.
I want to scream “no!” from the rooftops, but that’s a knee-jerk reaction—fear in its purest form.
My rational brain whispers that I should try, that this is the kind of risk growth demands.
But my heart pounds out a warning: You’ll fail.
You’ll falter. You’ll make a spectacle of yourself.
Each word lands like a slap. I’ve spent my life chasing perfection to keep that voice quiet, polishing every flaw until nothing human remained. But if I never let myself stumble, I’ll never touch the kind of music that breathes. I’ll stay safe. Small. Silent.
I realize I’ve been waiting for Nyxx to say something, to try to persuade me, but he’s giving me the time and space to make up my own mind. I’m grateful for that.
Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Go you, Anastasia. No media will be there; your parents won’t see or hear it. This is strictly for you.”
Right. This is for me.
The drive to Hamlin’s town square is filled with nervous energy.
Nyxx tries to distract me with outrageous tour stories, but my mind keeps circling back to the impending performance.
Listen to me—performance. For all I know, I’ll be performing for pigeons.
But still, it feels monumental, and my quaking hands tell the tale.
As we reach the bustling square, panic seizes me. “Nyxx, I don’t know if I can do this. I agreed, and I’ll follow through, but… I wish I could back down.”
He turns to face me, his expression serious but kind. “If that’s what you want, Anastasia, I’ll totally support you, but listen to me. You’re feeling terrified, right?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“What if you used it?” he says softly. “Let the fear be part of the song.”
Panic flares low and fast, blooming through me like feedback in a sound system—loud, uncontrollable, impossible to ignore. It seems totally wrong. Counterintuitive. Crazy. And then something clicks. The fear doesn’t disappear, but it transforms. “You mean… use it?”
Nyxx nods, a smile spreading across his face. “Exactly. Channel it. Express it through your playing. Let people hear what you’re feeling.”
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and walk to the center of the square. My hands shake as I remove the flute from the case and raise it to my lips.
The first notes burst forth, sharp and jarring—a high C that wavers before sliding into a dissonant run of chromatic scales.
My fingers tremble on the keys, and the tone wavers—fragile, breathy, on the edge of breaking.
For once, instead of fighting the imperfection, I lean into it, letting the music mirror the fear churning in my gut.
As I play, something shifts. The discordant notes begin to find their harmony, like pieces of a puzzle slowly clicking into place.
The discipline drilled into my muscles loosens, giving way to instinct—raw, untamed, alive.
A rallentando here, then accelerating into a series of ascending arpeggios that mirror my racing heart.
When I hit a wrong note, instead of cringing, I incorporate it into the melody. The mistake becomes a motif, repeated and transformed until it’s not a mistake at all but an intentional deviation. My formal training fights with this wild improvisation, creating something entirely new.
The terror that started the piece morphs into determination—shown in strong, staccato passages that punch through the air.
Then, as confidence builds, the music soars.
Trills and runs flow from my fingers with increasing surety, building to a crescendo that reflects the exhilaration bubbling up inside me.
It’s not pretty or polished like my usual performances, but it’s honest. Real. Raw. Me.
When the final note fades, I open my eyes to find a small crowd has gathered. Their applause washes over me, but it’s Nyxx’s beaming face that captivates me.
“That,” he says, pulling me into a spontaneous hug, “was fucking awesome.”
I have a scrapbook back home with all sorts of reviews and articles about my playing that date back to grade school. I think the best review of my lifetime will go down as “fucking awesome” from the Pied Piper himself.
Nyxx’s embrace is warm, solid. I find myself melting into it. For a moment, the world narrows to just us—the steady thump of his heart, the scent of sandalwood and sunshine that clings to him, the way his arms seem to fit perfectly around me.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his chest, not quite ready to let go. “For pushing me, for supporting me… for everything.”
When we finally part, the air between us feels different—charged, alive, threaded with all the things neither of us dares to say.
Nyxx clears his throat, a flush climbing high on his cheekbones. “So, uh… what do you say we grab some ice cream to celebrate?” His voice has gone low, rough at the edges, and it curls through me like a secret.
“Lead the way,” I manage, surprised by how breathless I sound.
He grins, cocking his head in that maddeningly charming way. “Bonus mini-challenge. You in?”
“Maybe?”
“I challenge you to order a flavor you’ve never tried.”
He’s right, of course. I’m a creature of habit—chocolate, or if I’m feeling daring, chocolate mint chip. “I’ll do you one better, Mr. Nyxx. You pick for me.”
His laugh is pure sunshine and sin. God, happiness looks good on him.
As we stroll toward the little ice cream shop on the corner, I marvel at how much has changed in so little time. The rigid, rule-bound Anastasia of a week ago feels like someone else entirely.
Nyxx reaches for the door ahead of me, his fingers brushing mine—barely a touch, but it sends a spark racing up my arm.
And as we step inside, I steal another glance at him, at the sunlight haloing his wild hair and the flicker of amusement in those mesmerizing eyes. I realize I’m not just breaking free of my old constraints.
I’m falling—headfirst, fast, and terrified.
The question is, am I brave enough to let myself fall?