Page 20 of Snowed in with the Brutes
Can the man be any more crass?Sinclair takes far too much joy in taunting me.
“Do you play?”Flinn asks.
His question startles me.Had he noticed the surreptitious glances I cast at the piano, trying to drown out the yearning in my eyes that would only weaken me further if I allowed it?
“No,” I say, though my voice is hoarse with deception.It was never meant to be my destiny.
“Liar.Take off the dress, Cora, your panties, and your bra.Take a seat at the piano and play something for us,” Sinclair orders.
My heart stutters to a standstill for one crucial beat.I try to swallow past the knot in my throat, my hands clenching as if I could catch the anxious feeling inside me and squash it to death.
I haven’t played in years, and the fear that I’ve lost my touch makes my fingers feel numb.
“Now, Cora,” Flinn urges.
They own me, I remind myself.
I stand, my fingers trembling as I reach for the straps on my shoulders.Defiance fills my eyes even as the dress falls to my feet, pooling around my kitten-heel slippers.I take off my bra, then peel off my panties.
I keep my gaze lowered, unable to meet their eyes in my most vulnerable state.
But while the control I possess may be just a scrap, it’s mine, and I’ll use it.With my head held high, I step out of the dress at my feet and move toward the piano, hiding every single emotion that passes through me.
The strength it takes to stop myself from covering my breasts and private parts depletes me.By the time I reach the piano—so close to where Kian usually sits that I can smell his cologne—and lower myself onto the white stool, my legs sigh in relief.
The coolness of the leather on my backside partially soothes my inflamed body.But the relief is only temporary.Two sets of eyes, Flinn’s and Sinclair’s, remain fixed on me; their gazes on my face, eyes, lips, shoulders, clavicle, and nipples create an intense inferno that envelops me once more.
Kian doesn’t spare me a glance.
“Play,” Sinclair says, his voice soft but deep and gravelly.My gaze lifts to him, and I’m yet again startled by his male beauty, much the same way I am whenever I look at Kian and Flinn.
My hands hover for a breathless second above the keys.I don’t allow myself to overthink, so I close my eyes and let my fingers fall.A note blooms under my touch.Then another and another.
I choose Mozart’sRondo Alla Turcainstead of Chopin’sNocturne.I don’t want to cry my heart out here in front of them.I don’t want to mourn my mom’s death or my dad’s sad life.I don’t want them to see me weak.
So, I playRondo Allawith gusto.Everything rushes back to me, as if I never stopped playing.I get lost in the sound of it.
Until I look up and see them.All three of them.My breath catches; my fingers slip.
Kian.Flinn.Sinclair.
I’ve known them for three years without really knowing them.Not a day goes by that they don’t slip into my thoughts.All that from one glance.One single glimpse of them at the Anderson ranch.Their images remain etched in the fabric of my soul to this day—and will forever.
I don’t know what it is about them.I don’t know why they have this effect on me, but that one day three years ago, they changed me without even knowing I existed.
I spent hours searching for everything about them online but found only generic information.Yet when I asked around—nervous while trying to sound casual—what I was told scared me but also fascinated me.They were dangerous men, feared around the globe.
I had no business even thinking about them.But stupidly, I worried for their safety.Being in the mafia is dangerous enough; being heirs to the most powerful family makes it even more so.
Still, all I was to them was a speck of dust on their shoes.As it should rightly be.I’m so beneath them in every way; I shouldn’t even be in the same room as them.
If they knew my secret, would they kill me for my audacity, for the deception?Yes, they would.That’s why they can never find out.Ever.
