Dave will be home soon, so I shake away my morbid thoughts and move into the bathroom, peeling off my water-soaked clothes as I go. After wringing my jeans and shirt out in the bathtub, I stash the incriminating evidence at the base of my laundry hamper. I leave my underwear out to air-dry on my shower bar, but there’s nothing suspicious about that.
Fully naked, I hop into the tub and turn on the shower, flinching as ice-cold water pelts my skin. There’s no use waiting for it to heat. Dave read an article years ago about the benefits of cold showers for your skin, and the morning after, the water heater was cut off. Ever since, I’ve had to endure miserable, frozen showers morning and night.
But at least Ihavea shower. Many do not.
The reminder makes my stomach twist with guilt, and I focus instead on all I have to be grateful for. A clean house. Food in my belly. Warm, clean bedding.
Guitar lessons with Riot.
The last thought sends a jolt through my body, and a pleasant warmth replaces the ice in my veins. I can’t deny how my body responds to him, but I also don’t know what to do about it. I don't know how to fight it.
I close my eyes as my hand slides between my thighs, fingertips brushing the slick, sensitive skin. A sigh escapes my parted lips as images of my teacher swarm my mind. His tattoo-covered skin, gauges, and outrageous, messy, long black hair. The sinful rings at each side of his bottom lip and the strange silver bullhook-like piercing hanging from the center on his nose. Eyes the color of a golden sunset just before it dips below the horizon, catlike and piercing in a deadly sort of way.
Everything about Riot looks dangerous, but that’s just the thing. Beneath his hard exterior is someone who feels so much, so deeply. And it makes me want to know more.Needto know more.
My fingertips swirl my clit as I imagine him flashing one of his famous smirks, and I come undone. My muscles shudder andclench as waves of pleasure course through my veins, heating my skin and dulling my mind to everything other than the memory of Riot’s hand on mine.
It’s gone as soon as it came. I come to with my hand braced against the wall, my chest heaving in small, shuddering breaths, and an ocean of shame filling my stomach.I cannot believe I just… Riot is my teacher! Plus, he’s at least a decade older than me. There’s no way in hell anything would happen between us. And even if I wanted it to—which Idon’t—it would be wrong.
Wouldn’t it?
With a heavy sigh, I finish washing and turn off the water, noting how my fingers have become waterlogged. I quickly towel off and blow-dry my hair, rush through a light application of makeup, then pull on one of the designer dresses Dave purchased for me last week—skimpy and uncomfortable as hell, but beautiful.
Breathing heavy, I check the alarm clock beside my bed, relieved to see I still have ten minutes. With nothing else to do, I grab a dirty tee from the hamper and wipe down the windowsill, making sure to remove every last piece of dirt I dragged in from outside.
At exactly 6:30, I turn off the recording and exit my room. The silence in the house is stifling without the classical music blaring from the speaker, and it takes me a moment to gain my bearings and put my mask in place before I descend the stairwell.
Once downstairs, I grab two Honeycrisp apples from the fridge and then pass through the kitchen into the foyer. I’m unable to contain a small, genuine smile as I meet the narrowed eyes of the security guard. He’s currently standing in front of the main entrance, hands clasped at his waist and shoulders pulled back in a militaristic stance that complements his cropped blackhair and solemn demeanor. One eye dark green, the other so light blue it’s practically white—devoid of a pupil and unseeing.
His gaze flicks toward me, then to the treats I’m clutching in my palms.
“Hey, Forest. Hungry?”
His mouth thins in a severe expression I’ve come to expect from the thirty-six-year-old. I wait a moment for him to respond, and when he doesn’t—he never has—I toss one of the apples to him.
Without moving his eyes from my face, Forest reaches up and snags the treat midair. He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, and I’m met with the rarest whisper of a smile.
“You’re welcome, Forest.”
He waves me off, but I don’t miss the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. Though he’d never say it, I know he’s grown to enjoy the afternoon treat I bring him every day. And even though he never talks back, it feels nice interacting with someone without having to keep up the mask. No fakeness, no half-hearted small talk. I can be myself around Forest—but it’s only because he’s been paid handsomely to keep my dark secret.
I’ve tried to get closer to the sullen guard over the past four months, but so far, his little barely there grin is the most I’ve gotten out of him. I suspect it’s because he has strict orders from Dave not to interact with me, but there’s no way for me to know for sure. So I don’t hold his silence against him or think him rude. Forest is employed by Dave and Dave alone. He owes no loyalty to me, and the fact he tolerates my daily annoyances is more than enough for me.
Plus, Forest is a hell of a lot better than the last guard. He’s kinder and far less likely to scream at me for daring to come within fifteen feet of the front door. So I’m grateful.
“Well, I’ll talk to you later, Forest. Gotta get back to practicing.” With a wave, I turn on my heel and move toward theentertainment room, taking a large bite from my own apple as I go.
There’s no TV, but a circular stage sits in the center of the space, adorned with a beautiful black Steinway. The chairs that usually line the floor have been packed away, but when my guardian Dave hosts parties, I’ve known the room to fit at least two hundred people comfortably.
I take a seat at the bench, scootching forward slightly and extending my foot to the pedal. I close my eyes and raise my hands to the ivory-colored keys, letting muscle memory take over. My fingers fly over the keys, filling the room with an explosion of sound, a booming melody. It’s sad and it’s sweet, achingly beautiful and horribly depressing all at once.
And it makes me feel absolutely nothing.
I continue like that for at least half an hour, running through songs my fingers know by heart so I can tune everything out and pretend I’m somewhere else. Doing anything else.
The grandfather clock chimes, signaling the end of an hour. The repetitive gong draws me from my trance, and only then do I realize someone is in the room with me.
My back tenses as footsteps draw nearer, my heart rate spiking abnormally. I’m so unnerved, I end up stumbling over a transition I’ve played thousands of times, and an ugly clanging sound replaces the caress of perfectly placed notes.
