Page 80 of His Innocent Muse

“It’s just us here, love,” he says. “Nothing and no one to be afraid of but me.”

I squirm, his newest pet name like a siren song to my blood. “I’m not afraid of you, Ghost.”

“You should be.”

“But,” I say, stronger now, “I’m not. Sir.”

His eyes sparkle at my defiance, his tongue poking at his cheek. “Then sing to me.”

I raise a brow, snorting. “Sing… Sing what?”

“Are you laughing at me?”

Oof, tone change. That line of pissing him off but he’s kinda into it sort of tone change that I haven’t been brave enough to toe, yet.

“Nooo,” I sing-song, “Sir. Of course I’m not. I just asked what you want me to sing.”

He licks his lips, shifting in his seat. Hmm. I keep this up and he might take me right here on stage.

I cross my knees, and his eyes snap down to watch them. He shifts again.

“Whatever you were singing in the shower,” he all but growls. “You should finish that.”

“Whatever I… Ghost!” I put my hands on my hips, straightening my legs specifically to stomp my foot. “What does that mean? You don’t know what I was singing?”

He wraps his hand around the armrest, choking it for all its worth. He doesn’t respond, instead watching me, waiting for a full fit. When I don’t, he prompts, “Should I?”

“You own a concert venue,” I say. “Yes, you should know aboutMoulin Rouge.”

“Ah,” he says, “one of those new-age musicals.”

I scoff. “It came out in 2001.”

“Like I said. And it only hit Broadway in 2019, now,” he says, leaning forward in his seat as if preparing to launch out of it, “whatis thistoneyou’ve found?”

“No tone, no tone,” I giggle, backing up a step and tapping my heels on the smooth stage. The click echoes back at us from the door, and I startle, looking around once more.

“Better,” he says, dropping back into the seat again. “Now sing.”

I steady my breath and step back to the microphone. Though it’s off, I’m sure he set it here for a reason, so I’ll give him the show he’s requesting. My voice shakes, and I don’t project near as much as I need to for what the song calls for. But this isn’t the shower. This is a whole stage, and an empty theater, and I’m damn terrified.

Ghost still has hearts in his eyes when I finish, water shining on his lashes. He stands up as I step around the microphone and raises his hands, but the thick echo of clapping reaches us long before his hands come together.

Our heads whip to the door at the same time. Roman Cartwright stands in a white button up and black slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to showcase his angel and demon tattoos. A blood red box is tucked under his arm, with a perfect gold bow holding it together.

“Brava, Lucinda,” he says, clapping one final time before lowering his hands. “Stunning belt at the end.”

I fly off the stage and block Ghost in the aisle, gripping his jacket to keep him back. His face is flush with rage, fists clenched and shaking at his sides, though he pauses to wrap his arm around my waist and tuck me against his side.

“I’m pleased to see you two have worked out your differences,” Roman says, meeting us near the stage. “I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Ghost snaps. “You will never come near her again.”

Roman’s eyes widen. “Ghost, I’m hurt. We know each other better than this.”

I stroke my hand down Ghost’s stomach and turn, pressing my back to his chest. I’m fairly certain I’m the only thing keeping him from ripping the other man apart.

“How’d you get in?”

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