I don’t think I want to know.
I don’t even realize I’m taking a step toward the woman—desperate to help her, to do something—when Beckett grabs my arm, stopping me.
“We can’t,” he reminds me, sounding pained. Agony reflects in his multicolored eyes. “I want to. God knows I want to. But we can’t. Not yet.”
A burn crawls up my throat and crowds my eyes, but I nod. I know he’s right, but standing here, doing nothing, makes me feel physically sick.
The crowd has finally begun to notice us now. Dozens upon dozens of masked faces turn in our direction. I wonder who I know behind the ominous masks. Dominic’s dad and brother, for sure. But is there anyone else? POP’s reach expands in every direction, across every state. How many politicians are here tonight? How many celebrities?
Acid-tipped talons scrape along my throat as I follow Aria to a grand piano near the center of the room. A lone spotlight illuminates it. The ivory keys gleam softly in the light, inviting the touch of fingers that might coax them to life. My handstwitch by my sides as I study the lacquered surface of the grand piano.
“Welcome.” Aria doesn’t need a microphone to speak. Everyone silences almost instantly when they see her masked face. “Thank you all for joining us tonight.” A scattering of applause ripples through the crowd. Aria waits for the noise to fade before continuing. “Our goddess has agreed to put on a show for us.” She sweeps her arms in my direction, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
The four of us are already the only ones—excluding the servers—not dressed in elaborate robes and masks. We garnered attention the second we stepped into the ballroom.
“She’s not a goddess. She’s aprincesa,” Zane mutters sulkily.
I snort.
“Cassia.” Aria gestures toward the grand piano with more contempt than courtesy, at least in my opinion. “If you may.”
“I may not,” I murmur, though my feet drag me toward the bench. My guys remain right beside me, crowding me.
Music has always been my sanctuary, my safe place. It was a way for me to silence the voices in my mind, if only for a moment. Now, I feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under me.
No,I growl internally, my fingers hovering over the keys.
I won’t allow Aria to take this from me. She’s already taken so much—my parents, my friends, my safety.
I won’t give her music too.
Taking a deep breath, I allow my eyes to flutter shut, my lashes feather-soft against my cheeks. The room is already quiet, the crowd collectively holding their breath, so it’s easy to forget that they’re even there.
I’m not playing for them or The Divine One.
I’m playing for myself.
For my men.
Each of their faces flashes in my mind’s eye.
Dominic, with his emerald-green eyes and shaggy blond hair.
Zane, with that perpetual impish smirk that lightens his eyes from an obsidian black to a honey brown.
Beckett, one eye a startling green and the other a forest brown, his smile always warm and inviting, drawing me in and promising me sanctuary.
Landon, with his light brown hair and the way his lips twitch like he’s about to smile but is holding it back.
Ryker, whose ice-blue eyes appear cold but actually smolder like a dozen fires, the heat invading my body.
Then I begin to play.
It’s delicate at first, tentative, like a whisper into the vast emptiness.
But soon, the notes begin to gather strength, swelling and pulsing, each one flowing into the next as if the keys themselves are alive.
My fingers dance across the ivory, each movement fluid yet deliberate. A soft, steady pressure, a release—a push and pull that mirrors the rising and falling of a heartbeat.