Jessica's POV

I wake with a start and a ading sense of guilt, as if I’ve committed a terrible sin.

Is it because I’ve ed Tiffany Hwang? A ?

She’s snuggled up fast asleep beside me. I check the radio alarm: it’s after three in the morning. Fany sleeps the sound sleep of an innocent. Well, not so innocent now. My body stirs as I watch her.

I could wake her.

her again.

There are definitely some advantages to having her in my bed.

Jessica. Stop this nonsense.

ing her was merely a means to an end and a pleasant diversion.

Yes. Very pleasant.

More like incredible.

It was just , for ’s sake.

I close my eyes in what will probably be a futile attempt to sleep. But the room is too full of Fany: her scent, the sound of her soft breathing, and the memory of my first vanilla . Visions of her head thrown back in passion, of her crying out a barely recognizable version of my name, and her unbridled enthusiasm for ual congress overwhelm me.

Miss Hwang is a carnal creature.

She will be a joy to train.

.

I can’t sleep, though tonight it’s not nightmares that keep me awake, it’s little Miss Hwang. Climbing out of bed, from the chest of drawers I pull out a pair of PJ pants and drag them on. With a lingering look at the enticing woman in my bed, I venture into the kitchen. I’m thirsty.

Once I’ve had a glass of water, I do what I always do when I can’t sleep—I check my e-mail in my study. Jongin has returned and is asking if he can stand Charlie Tango down. Stephan must be asleep upstairs. I e-mail him back with a “yes,” though at this time of night it’s a given.

Back in the living room I sit down at my piano. This is my solace, where I can lose myself for hours. I’ve been able to play well since I was nine, but it wasn’t until I had my own piano, in my own place, that it really became a passion. When I want to forget everything, this is what I do. And right now I don’t want to think about having propositioned a , ed her, or revealed my lifestyle to someone with no experience. With my hands on the keys, I begin to play and lose myself in the solitude of Bach.

A movement distracts me from the music, and when I look up Fany’s standing by the piano. Wrapped in a comforter, her hair wild and curling down her back, eyes luminous, she looks stunning.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Why is she apologizing? “Surely, I should be saying that to you.” I play the last notes and stand. “You should be in bed,” I chide.

“That was a beautiful piece. Bach?”

“Transcription by Bach, but it’s originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello.”

“It was exquisite, but very sad, such a melancholy melody.”

Melancholy? It wouldn’t be the first time someone has used that word to describe me.

X

“May I speak freely? Miss.” Leila is kneeling beside me while I work.

“You may.”

“Miss, you are most melancholy today.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, Miss. Is there something that you would like me to do…?”

X

I shake off the memory. Fany should be in bed. I tell her so again.

“I woke and you weren’t there.”

“I find it difficult to sleep, and I’m not used to sleeping with anyone.” I’ve told her this—and why am I justifying myself? I wrap my arm around her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her skin, and guide her back to the bedroom.

“How long have you been playing? You play beautifully.”

“Since I was six.” I’m abrupt.

“Oh,” she says. I think she’s taken the hint—I don’t want to talk about my childhood.

“How are you feeling?” I ask as I switch on the bedside light.

“I’m good.”

There’s blood on my sheets. Her blood. Evidence of her now-absent ity. Her eyes dart from the stains to me and she looks away, embarrassed.

“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. White something to think about.”

She looks mortified.

It’s just your body, sweetheart. I grasp her chin and tip her head back so I can see her expression. I’m about to give her a short lecture on how not to be ashamed of her body, when she reaches out to touch my chest.

.

I step out of her reach as the darkness surfaces.

No. Don’t touch me.