SWNOVELS Fractured Souls: Chapter 10
The elevator door looms in front of me, and I desperately try to control the panic building within. I’m failing miserably.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” I whisper as bile creeps up my throat.
“I won’t,” Pasha says next to me.
There is a ding, signaling that we’ve reached the mall’s ground floor. The doors open. The moment I glimpse people milling around, I take a quick step back. Pasha’s hand shoots out to the side, hitting the button to close the door.
“You can do this, mishka,” he says. “But if you’re not ready, we’ll try again next week.”
No, I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But I’m doing it anyway. And I’m doing it today.
“Open the door, please,” I choke out and squeeze Pasha’s hand.
The first minute is the worst. It’s early, so the mall is not crowded at all, but still, it feels like I’m going to suffocate just by being here. The sight of people in such an enclosed space, the sounds they make, their looks—everything seems too much. Pasha squeezes my hand back and takes a step forward.
Someone is laughing. They are farther away, down the hallway, but it seems like they are right next to me. The sound of feet thumping on the floor and random chatter echo in my ears. I shut my eyes and hold my breath. There is a light touch on my face, the tip of Pasha’s finger trailing the line of my jaw. I take another breath and open my eyes. He’s standing in front of me, blocking the view of the crowd with his wide frame.
“It’s okay, baby,” he says. “No one can hurt you when I’m here. Just look into my eyes.”
He moves his hand to the back of my neck and takes a step backward, pulling me with him. Without letting go of his gaze, I step forward. His lips curve upward. He takes another step, and then one more. I follow. I can still hear the people, but the sounds don’t bother me that much anymore because all my focus is centered on the man in front of me.
I don’t think anyone would call Pasha beautiful. The lines on his face are too harsh. His right eyebrow is split in two by a thin scar. His nose is too big and slightly crooked. He doesn’t look like a man you’d want to ask you on a date, but rather someone you’d want to have by your side when walking in a dark alley. Though, if someone asked me how a perfect man should look, I would point to the one standing before me.
Two more steps. I match his pace. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people looking in our direction with wonder on their faces. Several more steps, and Pasha stops.
“We’re here.” Pasha nods toward the store on his right.
I throw a quick look to the side. It’s the optical retailer.
“Do you want to go inside now, or would you prefer we come back later?” he asks.
“Now.” I nod and take another step toward him, molding my front to his.
His hand slides from my neck to my hair, and I can feel the heat of his body seeping into mine. I want more, need more of it. I lift my palm and place it on the center of his chest. People are passing us by, some grumbling that we’re in the way, but neither of us moves. Pasha’s head dips slightly, and I hold my breath, wondering if he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t. Instead, he releases my hair and takes a step away.
“Let’s go find some glasses for you,” he says and heads inside the shop.
* * *
I’m standing next to Pasha as he gives the store attendant his address so they can deliver my new glasses once they’re ready when a man enters the store and heads toward the rack of sunglasses. He’s holding a phone to his ear, talking to someone. My eyes skim his dress pants and white shirt and stop on his bright red tie. I should look away. Turn and focus on something else. I can’t. It feels like my eyes are glued to the red material around his neck. The tie that was used on me by the client was red. I bite my lower lip until it hurts and squeeze Pasha’s hand.
“Mishka? Are you all right?”
I close my eyes, trying to suppress the memory of my body being pressed into the bed while I desperately claw at the tie around my neck. My breathing becomes faster. Shallower. I can’t get enough air. It feels like I’m suffocating.
“Asya?” Pasha wraps his arm around my waist and turns around, following my gaze. The guy with the tie is still standing next to the sunglasses rack, browsing through the display.
“Wait here, baby,” Pasha says next to my ear and, releasing his hold on me, walks toward the man.
I thought he would ask the guy to leave. Instead, Pasha grabs the back of the man’s shirt and pushes him toward the door. The man flails, yelling. Pasha pays him no heed, twisting the guy’s arm behind his back while continuing to push him toward the exit. The store employee behind me lets out a shriek and grabs the phone, probably to call security. I fist my hands, hating myself for being so weak, then take a deep breath and march out of the store to where Pasha is still clutching the man by his shirt.
“Pasha,” I whisper and wrap my hand around his forearm. “Please.”
He looks down at me, releases the guy and pushes him away. The man stumbles, then turns around, biting out obscenities in our direction. Pasha takes a step toward him, but I tighten my hold on his arm.
“Please, don’t,” I say. “Let’s go back.”
He glares at the tie-clad man for a few more seconds before he takes my hand in his and leads us down the hallway toward the elevators.
As we’re passing a restaurant, my eyes fall on the small object sitting atop the raised platform beyond the entrance to the establishment. I stop in my tracks, my feet seemingly rooted to the ground, and stare at the instrument.
Pavel
I glance at what has caught Asya’s attention, and my eyes fall on the piano next to the wall. It’s one of those tiny versions—a baby grand piano made of white wood. Its lid is open and some music sheets lie on the small stand above the keys. The bench seat before it is unoccupied.
Asya takes a tentative step toward the platform and stops for a second. The next moment she’s rushing forward, pulling me with her. When she reaches the piano, she releases my hand and climbs up to sit on the bench in front of the instrument. She sits there for at least five minutes with her eyes glued to the keys. I stand close by, turned in a way that allows me to keep an eye on her while I can still see our surroundings just in case someone gets a stupid idea of approaching and asking her to leave. One of the waiters looks up and takes a step in our direction. I cross my arms and turn toward him, daring him with my glare to say something. The man sizes me up but quickly goes back to what he was doing. Good for him.
A single low note plays behind my back. Followed by another. A few seconds of silence and then a melody begins. My body goes stone-still as a combination of low tones unfolds behind me in a slow tempo. The tune sounds familiar. It’s a popular classical piece, but I can’t remember which one. I want to turn around and watch her play, but I’m afraid it’ll distract her. Instead, I stand guard, watching the people at the tables around us. All of them have stopped what they were doing, their meals abandoned as they all look in Asya’s direction. The melody ends, but she continues with another. I know this one. It’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” Unbelievably fast. Even to a layman’s ear, it’s clear that she’s not an amateur.
I can’t fight the urge any longer. The need to see her play is too strong, so I turn around and stare. She might just be wearing plain blue jeans and a navy blouse, but it feels like I’m in a damn concert hall, watching the star pianist putting on a show. The way she holds her body, the movements of her hands flying elegantly over the keys, and the confidence in her posture are all stunning. But what takes me aback the most is the expression on her face. Joy. Elation. Happiness. She is smiling so widely that it feels like her whole being is glowing. I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. Seeing her like this is as if I’m meeting her for the first time. There’s nothing in common between this maestro and the frightened girl I let stay in my place, the one who still follows me around the apartment, gripping the hem of my shirt in her hand.
Rage boils up through my insides at the thought of this side of her being smothered. I’m going to make the people who broke her spirit pay. In blood.
Asya finishes the melody and looks up, her eyes finding mine. Applause breaks out around us. People are shouting, asking for more. She ignores the noise, slowly rises, and walks toward me without breaking eye contact.
“You didn’t tell me you can play the piano.” I reach out and move a few stray strands away from her face. She is still standing on the platform, which makes us almost the same height.
Asya just shrugs and takes another step forward, plastering her front to mine. Our faces are barely inches apart.
“Which piece was it?” I ask. “The one you played first.”
“Beethoven.” She lifts her hand and traces the line of my jaw with the tip of her finger. “It’s called ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ It reminds me of you.”
The light falling through the window to the right of us makes her hair glow. A small smile still lingers on her lips. I fight the urge to bury my hands in her dark hair and crush my mouth to hers.
“We should get going,” I say but I don’t make a move to turn away. “It’s almost noon. It’s going to get crowded.”
Asya’s hand slides down from my face, grazing the sleeve of my jacket until her fingers wrap around mine. Her skin feels so soft compared to the roughness of my palm.
“Can we come again tomorrow?” she asks peering deep into my eyes. “I’ve missed playing.”
As if I could say no to her when she’s looking at me like this. “Sure, mishka.”
A huge grin spreads over her face, making me feel like I’m bathed in its warmth. I want more of it. More of her. I reach out and place my hands on her hips. “Want to hop up?”
She tilts her head to the side, regarding me.
“Looks like a business group just arrived,” I lie, then nod toward the left side of the hallway. “They just went into one of the stores.”
Asya’s hand squeezes mine, and she jumps into my arms the moment after. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she tucks her nose into the crook of my neck. Ignoring the stares of the people around us, I turn and walk toward the elevators, supporting Asya with one hand under her thighs, my other arm wrapped around her middle, holding her tightly against my body.
I should feel bad for lying to her, but I don’t. The satisfaction I feel from having her body pressed to mine overwhelms any remorse I might have. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t fucking care.