Page 18 of The Darkest Prince

“Never will.” He grabs paper towels and dries his hands. “So get the thought out of your mind.”

“You know it will feel good.” I turn off the sink and take the extra towel from his hand. “So what’s the problem?”

He scoffs. “We’re already crossing enough lines. The two of us may not be blood-related, but we are brothers. We are Salvatores. Can you imagine what kind of shame we’d bring to our family if anyone ever found out about us?” Bastian shakes his head, disgusted with himself. “The Founders would never let us into The Society, and Dad would hate us for it.”

“Luca and Marcello already know,” I say because he seems to need a reminder that our little secret is not so secret anymore. “And if Dad knows, I doubt he cares.”

“The answer is no,” Bastian snaps, taking one last look in the mirror before unlocking the door and leaving without another word.

ChapterSeven

I never talkedmuch as a child. And as an adult, I speak even less. My biological parents couldn’t figure out why I rarely communicated using words.

They thought I had a learning disability. Autism. A mental illness. Just about everything the doctors could dig up from their medical journals.

I just didn’t like to talk.

Bastian understood me from the start. He’s only three months older than me. And since our parents were best friends and founded an airline together, we were inseparable from birth.

We spent almost every day together. Every holiday and birthday. There were very few days we weren’t at each other’s houses. I even attended all of his concerts.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at Bash, but he’s a prodigy pianist. He started playing when he was only two years old and still writes music. And some nights, he plays for me when I can’t sleep.

I sit on his bed and watch his fingers glide across the keys. He’s so graceful when he’s playing. Like a dancer getting lost in the beat. An artist allowing the muse to take over.

After he finishes the song, he looks at me and pats the bench. “I wrote something for you.”

He hasn’t done this in a long time, and excitement rushes through me.

I slide off the bed and sit beside him. “Did you name the song?”

Bash bobs his head. “I’m calling it The Darkest Prince.”

People in town call us the princes of Devil’s Creek, like we are royalty. And to them, we’re the closest you’ll get to royalty in America. Our lineage traces back to the Founding Fathers of the United States. That’s why Bash and I can join The Founders Society later in life. But our adoptive family needs a marriage to get accepted.

“The Darkest Prince.” I smile, a real one that touches my eyes. Smiles are rare for me, but not when I’m with Bash. “It’s fitting.”

“There’s darkness inside you. It was there even before your parents died.” His fingers inch closer to mine on the bench. “Luca is the cruelest prince.” He laughs. “And Marcello is the protective prince.”

I brush the fallen strand of hair off his forehead and look into his eyes. They’re gray and remind me of stone. “Which prince are you?”

“The creative prince?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not as mysterious as you. Or as mean as Luca… or as noble as Marcello.”

“How about the possessive prince?”

He rolls his broad shoulders again, looking away from me. Our moment of intimacy is too intense. When we’re alone, he doesn’t usually mind my touch. But I can tell he needs his space. What we did earlier was too much for him. Any more affection tonight will send him into a spiral of self-loathing.

I lower my hand, tapping my fingers nervously on my knee. “Play the song for me.”

His fingers sweep across the keys with practiced precision. He’s brilliant and brings the haunting sound to life. The tune reminds me of something from The Phantom of the Opera. It’s sad and instantly pierces my soul, penetrating my black heart with each keystroke.

When he plays the last note, my heart feels like it’s cracking in my chest. I rarely feel anything. With my condition, I don’t understand normal human emotions. I have to take most of my social cues from Bash. He helps me understand people and the world since I don’t get it.

Bastian angles his body to look at me. “What do you think?”

I’m rendered speechless by his performance. He played as if he were on stage again at one of his concerts. His music is what helped me to open up to him. Music is a form of therapy for both of us.

Bastian learned how to play from his mom. She was supposed to be at his concert the day our parents’ plane blew up over the Pacific Ocean. Back then, we thought it was an accident. But we now know terrorists called The Lucaya Group killed them, though their motive remains a mystery.

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