Page 80 of The Pucking Arrangement

The delicate red straps wind around her ankles, hugging soft skin, flexing with every movement. They elongate her legs, sharpen every line, showcase the sheer power hidden beneath all that blasted temptation.

I clench my jaw so tightly it’s a miracle I don’t crack a molar.

“Papa.” A small hand tugs at my sleeve.

I don’t move.

“Why is your face doing that thing?”

“What thing?” My voice comes out like gravel.

“The angry thing,” she explains solemnly. “Like when someone checks you too hard.”

Sophie chokes on her drink.

Liam, though, remains still. And then he leans in. His voice is soft. Low. Lethal.

“She’s mysister, Dima.”

A sharp blade of guilt slices through me. But it’s too late for guilt.

I grip the balcony rail, fingers aching from the pressure. “I know,” I grind out.

Liam doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“Do you?” His voice is deceptively calm, masking something dark. “Because you look like you’re a heartbeat away from vaulting over this ledge and hauling her off the stage like a caveman.”

I exhale slowly, my grip tightening.

I could deny it.

I could lie.

But I won’t.

Because he’s right.

Because I have to have her.

And nothing—not even Liam—is going to stop me.

Below, Erin lifts her bow. The first notes spill from her like honey—rich, fluid, sinking into my bones. She sways with the music, lost in it. The way she commands that instrument does things to me. Her fingers glide over the strings, impossibly precise yet devastatingly tender, coaxing out sounds so pure they leave the room breathless. Every movement radiates control. Mastery. A strength that knots something tight and unrelenting in my chest.

The red silk shifts as she moves, catching the stage lights, clinging to every contour. She leans into a particularly passionate phrase, and the muscle in her forearm flexes.

I tighten my grip on the railing.

Those hands.

Those delicate, powerful hands that make wood and string submit to her will. That wring impossible beauty from mere pressure and friction.

My pulse pounds.

Her left hand flies up the fingerboard in a blur of motion, her right arm driving the bow. Every flick of her wrist, every shift of her thigh as she adjusts, sends a fresh surge of heat through me.

Then comes the run—fast, aggressive, fingers attacking the strings in a relentless storm.

My breath stops.

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