Page 135 of Stolen Harmony
My fists trembled at my sides, every muscle in my body screaming for violence, for the simple satisfaction of watching Victor's smug face crumble under my knuckles. But even through the red haze of rage, I could see the cameras in the corners of the room, could imagine him reviewing the footage later, using my loss of control as more ammunition in his war against everything I cared about.
“You don't get to say his name,” I managed through gritted teeth.
“Rowan?” Victor smiled, tasting the syllables like fine wine. “Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful boy. Do you know how he sounds when he's stripped of all that armor he wears? When the whiskey and the want have burned away everything but need?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed like he was savoring a particularly pleasant memory. “Low, throaty sounds that come from somewhere deeper than thought. He looks up through those dark lashes and you feel like a god, like the only person in the world who can give him what he's really craving. He'll do anything if you tell him it will make the hurt stop, Elias. Anything at all.”
I almost lost myself then. My vision tunneled, my hands rising of their own accord toward his throat. For a split second I could see it—the life leaving his eyes, the silence that wouldfinally follow, the peace that would come with knowing he could never hurt anyone again.
But even as the violence surged through me, I caught sight of Victor's expression—not fear, but anticipation. He wanted this. Needed me to snap, to become the monster he'd already painted me as in whatever narrative he was constructing.
“Disappointed in yourself?” he asked conversationally, dabbing at his lip with that expensive handkerchief. “I can see it in your eyes, brother. You wanted to kill me just now, wanted to wrap your hands around my throat and squeeze until everything stopped. But you didn't, because deep down you know I'm right about what you are.”
“This isn't over,” I said, my voice raw and shredded by fury that had nowhere to go, no outlet that wouldn't make everything worse.
“Oh, but it is,” Victor replied smoothly, settling back into his chair like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just systematically destroyed everything I thought I knew about the person I loved. “Rowan has already chosen, you see. He knows you'll always hesitate when it matters, always choose propriety over passion, always leave him wanting something you're too frightened to give.”
He smiled, and it was the most genuinely pleased expression I'd ever seen on his face. “And me? I don't hesitate, Elias. I don't waste time with moral qualms or ethical considerations. I see what I want, and I take it.”
I turned to leave, my hand already on the door handle, when his voice followed me one last time, soft and lethal as a blade sliding between ribs.
“Do you want the last detail, brother? Do you want to know what he tasted like after the whiskey burned away and he finally stopped fighting what hereally wanted?”
I froze, my entire body locking up like I'd been struck by lightning.
Victor's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow managed to fill the entire room, to seep into every corner and crack. “Like surrender. Pure, sweet, desperate surrender.”
I walked out before I killed him, before I gave him exactly what he was hoping for.
The corridors felt endless as I moved through them, every step echoing like a gunshot in the institutional silence. The fluorescent lights were too bright, casting everything in harsh relief, making the shadows seem deeper and more threatening. The air was too thin, recycled and stale, carrying the smell of fear and failure and Victor's cologne.
Outside, the night hit me like a slap of cold water, but it wasn't enough to wash away the sickness he'd left crawling under my skin. The municipal building loomed behind me like a monument to corruption, its windows glowing with the light of a dozen small tyrannies playing out behind closed doors.
But under all the lies, all the manipulation, all the carefully crafted cruelty, was a truth I couldn't escape: I had abandoned Rowan when he needed me most, and Victor had been waiting in the shadows to take what I'd left unguarded.
Chapter 27
The Rest Between Notes
Rowan
The rehearsal space reeked of stale sweat and broken dreams.
I sat behind my guitar amp, fingers picking out a melody that went nowhere, while Jake and Marcus argued about tempo changes that didn't matter. The music felt hollow, mechanical, like we were all just going through the motions of being a band without any of the passion that made it worth doing.
New York had swallowed me back up like it always did, the city's relentless energy masking the fact that I was still just as lost as I'd been in Harbor's End. Maybe more lost, because at least there I'd had something to run from. Here, I was just another musician in a city full of them, playing the same three chords and pretending it meant something.
It had been a week since I'd left Harbor's End. A week since I'd thrown my few belongings into a duffel bag and caught the first train back to the city, running from the wreckage of whatever I'd thought I was building with Elias. A week of telling myself I was better off without the complications ofsmall-town life and inappropriate feelings for men who would never want me back.
“Ro, you with us?” Marcus called from behind his drum kit, sticks poised over the snare like he was ready to beat some sense into me.
“Yeah,” I lied, adjusting my guitar strap and trying to focus on the chord progression we'd been working on for the past hour. “Let's take it from the bridge.”
But my heart wasn't in it. Hadn't been in it since I'd gotten back, if I was being honest. Every song sounded flat, every lyric felt forced, every note I played reminded me of sitting at that piano with Elias, making music that actually mattered to someone other than just me.
Caleb counted us in, and we launched into the bridge with the aggressive energy that suggested we were all frustrated about something but too proud to admit what. The song was decent, maybe better than decent, but it felt like performing surgery with oven mitts on. All the technical skill in the world couldn't make up for the fact that none of us gave a shit about what we were playing.
“That's it for today,” Sasha announced from her spot near the soundboard, where she'd been taking notes on her tablet with the focused attention of someone who was paid to care about things the rest of us had stopped caring about months ago. “Good work, guys. We'll pick this up Thursday.”
