Page 163 of The Pucking Arrangement

“But your music sounds sad.” Her little brow furrows. “Daddy says music shows what’s in your heart.”

The breath leaves my lungs. Because she’s right.

The song is supposed to be triumphant. But the way I’m playing it? It’s a confession.

“I’m just warming up,” I say, smoothing a curl from her face, but my hands are unsteady.

“When you’re done, can we get ice cream?” She bounces on her toes. “Papa says we can celebrate with extra sprinkles!”

I nod, even as my chest tightens. The thought of sitting across from Dmitri, watching him be the incredible father he is, pretending like I haven’t spent every night missing him?—

It’s too much.

“Ris, here you are.Babushkais looking for you. Please go back to her and stop running away without telling her. Erin also needs to prepare.”

The deep rumble of his voice rakes over my skin.

I freeze.

The air shifts.

I don’t have to look. I already know he’s there.

His presence swallows the space around me, the scent of cedar curling through my ribs like smoke.

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening on the bow. The cello between my knees is the only thing keeping me upright.

Because Dmitri Sokolov is looking at me. Really looking at me. And for the first time in weeks, I think I might shatter.

“But Papa—” Ris starts to protest.

“It’s fine,” I cut in quickly, desperate to avoid his gaze. “I’m nearly ready.”

“See?” Ris turns to him triumphantly. “She doesn’t mind one bit.”

His eyes lock onto mine, and everything inside me stills. There’s something in his expression I can’t decipher—something beyond the careful mask he’s worn since I left. Something raw and electric that makes my breath catch.

“Five minutes until we need you ready,” the coordinator reminds me, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.

Then Galina appears. “Here you are, Risochka.” She exhales, stretching out her hand. “Don’t run away like that again,” she admonishes.

“Ris, go withBabushka,” Dmitri says, his gaze never leaving my face.

“But—”

“Now.”

She huffs dramatically but complies, taking Galina’s hand and skipping away through the crowd, her dress twinkling under the lights.

And then it’s just us.

“Congratulations,” I manage, hating how thin my voice sounds. “On the Cup.”

He nods once, a slight dip of his chin. “Queen.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re playing Queen.” His accent wraps around the words. “For champions. You play it well,” he continues, his voice lower.

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