Page 82 of The Pucking Arrangement

Movement in my peripheral vision reveals Luka, waiting for our duet.

Focus.

The final notes fade. Applause washes over me, but I’m already preparing for Shostakovich. This is the one that matters. The one that shows what I’m made of.

I catch Dmitri’s eye just before I start.

Andoh, the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch.

Watch this, Papa Bear.

The first notes tear out of me like a storm.

DMITRI

Shostakovich is a wrecking ball. Gone is the soothing warmth of Bach, the familiar elegance. In its place—violence. Frenzy. Music that slashes through the air like a blade. Erin doesn’t just play it, she wages war. Her bow strikes and shoves, her body a live wire of barely contained chaos, pouring every ounce of herself into the fight.

Der’mo.I exhale sharply, gripping the railing.

“Language,” Sophie murmurs. “There are children present.”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Because Erin is fire.

Uncontrolled, untouchable, burning too hot for anyone who dares get too close. Her hair is losing its battle with its pins, dark strands slipping free, clinging to the curve of her neck, damp with effort. The slit in her dress climbs higher with every impassioned shift, revealing scandalous glimpses of toned thigh that send heat straight through my veins.

“Papa?” Ris whispers. “Are you okay?”

No. No, I’m absolutelynotokay.

Because Erin is wrecking me. Destroying me with every bow stroke, every sharp breath, every roll of her shoulder as she bends the music to her will. I’ve never seen anyoneplaylike this, like she’s unraveling herself on stage, giving pieces of her soul away note by note.

And then Luka steps out of the wings, cello in hand.

My vision tunnels.

Erin barely acknowledges him as she lowers her bow, her chest rising and falling, scarlet lips parted from the effort. But Luka’s gazedevoursher, drinking in the flush on her cheeks, the wild disarray of her hair. As Erin leaves the stage, he turns to the audience, flashing a devastatingly charming grin.

The crowd eats it up.

Luka Havran is built for the stage. Tall, broad-shouldered, naturally magnetic. The kind of good-looking that makes women swoon and men resent him on principle. Dark hair falls just past his ears, perfectly disheveled, and his sharp cheekbones only emphasize the cocky smirk that seems permanently etched onto his face. He’s shed his jacket, leaving just a fitted vest that tapers to a slim waist—enough to make half the audience smitten before he plays even a single note.

The lights shift, drenching the stage in cool blues as he lifts his bow.

Then the first low, aching strains of “Creep” hum through the theater.

A hush falls over the crowd, and fuck, I have to admit—it’s brilliant. Stripped down to nothing but raw strings, the song takes on a whole new life. Dark, haunting, a confession in every note. Luka doesn’t just play it—hebleedsit, bending each phrase until it shatters. The melody builds, and when he reaches that tortured climax, the bow digs in, growling against the strings in a way that raises every hair on my arms.

The applause is deafening, roaring through the theater like a standing ovation at the Stanley Cup Finals.

And then Erin steps back onto the stage.

The audience barely has a moment to settle before she takes her seat next to Luka, her cello settling between her parted knees. No words are exchanged, no glance spared. Just a shared breath before they lift their bows in perfect sync.

Bach.

Their cellos intertwine. Where Shostakovich was a battle, this is something intimate and fluid.

They push and pull, they give and take. Every shift of Luka’s bow is met with an answering flick of Erin’s wrist, their bodies swaying in tandem, mirroring each other’s movement. When she smiles—just the faintest curve of her lips—he grins back like he’s won something.

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