Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(96)

He smiles, a contagious one that his brothers usually possess too. “I paid for them, I swear.” He shakes the tub.

I accept one graciously. “That’s sweet of you then.”

He kicks his feet on the empty velveteen seat. “It still would’ve been sweet regardless if I paid for it or not.”

“But this is better.”

“Why?” He scoops popcorn, a smirk playing at his lips. He knows I suck at back-and-forth.

And now I’m open-mouthed, trying to find a suitable answer. “Because…” it just is. In another life, I hope to be a wordsmith. And a chef. A chef with great words.

“I like because.” He lets me off the hook, seeing my struggle.

Thankfully.

I return my attention to the round stage, the surface cherry wood, sleek and more elegant than concrete.

Nikolai surprised me with a ticket to Amour tonight, rerouting my plans to fall asleep to a vampire and werewolf battle. I think this is his way of apologizing for Elena’s appearance at practice. I couldn’t turn him down. I’m not that prideful, and I’ve really, really wanted to see this show since I first arrived in Vegas. The tickets are so expensive that I haven’t been able to watch Nikolai perform.

Artists don’t even receive complimentary tickets for family and friends, so I know Nik paid for me to be here too. From middle-center seats, I drink in the atmosphere for the first time, trying to stare at everything at once.

The long icicle lights drip from seemingly nowhere, a city skyline painted as a backdrop. It’s like Amour takes place in New York, during the holidays. While more people find their seats, music plays, a serene violin tune, romantic and subdued. Layers of fog already ooze across the stage in white puffs.

A flash of light goes off in my face.

I scowl at Luka who has his phone braced at me. He snaps another photo with a laugh.

“Is that necessary?” I shield my eyes, wondering if we’re going to be in trouble. We’re not supposed to take pictures in the auditorium.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “I promised my brother I’d get your first reaction. And the pissed off one is an added bonus.” He clicks into the photo and holds his cell to me so I can see myself.

I’m drooling at the sight of the stage: my eyes wide in awe and a fool-hearted smile spread across my cheeks. I look like a little kid about to witness a Christmas miracle. “I’d say delete it, but I know you won’t.”

He grins like I’m correct. “Nikolai will love it.”

That fact swells my heart. I twiddle my fingers, nervous for the show to begin, for Nikolai. And he’s done this so many times before.

Ten minutes later, the seats fill a little more than half up, which should be decent for a weeknight, but I know The Masquerade feels differently. The lights dim, shrouding the audience into blackness. The violins echo, beautiful and haunting music. And then red silk descends from the cavernous ceiling.

Soon Nikolai emerges, arms spread out, the silk wrapped around each wrist, head hanging. His sculpted, chiseled body is the sole object of everyone’s gaze. He lifts his build, using the power in his biceps and broad shoulders. His legs straight, he strikes masculine poses that show off his strength and agility. Men like Nikolai were the muses of Renaissance sculptors—their strong figures carved in marble and stone.

My heart slows, waiting to stop all together.

He’s… There are no perfect words for what I feel. For what I see. It’s staring at a Michelangelo painting and being intimate with the subject beneath the brush strokes. It’s falling to your knees and looking up at a god, who belongs to you.

Another flash goes off. This time, too apparent in the dark auditorium.

“Luka,” I hiss, squinting my eyes. Nikolai is still descending towards the stage, a commanding, quiet intro.

“I had to capture love,” he refutes.

Uh…

Security leans over our row, just one man in an Amour T-shirt, plastic badge tethered on a lanyard. “No pictures.”

Luka whispers back, “Sorry, dude.” He makes a gesture like he’s putting his phone away, but when security disappears, he leaves it on his thigh with a bigger, satisfied smile. What a rebel.

I redirect my attention, just as Nikolai’s soles hit the bottom of the stage, cloaked by fog. In the very center, he breathes deeply, like he’s witnessing what we just saw. Like he’s the one being overcome.

The hairs rise on my arms.

He scans the audience, pulling us all in individually. It’s what he does at The Red Death—it’s how he captivates and turns one head from the next.

His purple and silver paint across his eyes darken the romantic look of his red pants. It’s here—as he steps forward, alone—that I begin to realize the importance of Nikolai Kotova to Amour. He’s going to guide the audience through each act.

The storyteller.

The person that bridges every type of love together.

As his eyes flit around the audience, he says, “Do you know love?” The pain in his gaze palpitates my heart, and somehow, he finds me in the crowd.

He fixes his line of sight in my direction. Whether or not he can see me clearly, I can’t know for certain. But this one look from him, while he’s working, on stage—it solidifies me to the chair.

“I believe there are many, many kinds of love.” His eyes seem to smile at me. Knowing I’m unraveling at this intimacy. “And I have seen them all.”