Married to the Alpha Professor

Viola's POV

The last chord hadn't finished fading before the guests behind me clinked their glasses.

I kept my hands on the keys until the sound had died completely, then drew them back. The tips of my right fingers were a little numb, so I flexed my wrist and let myself breathe out over that final passage. At least I hadn't played a wrong note in the last piece. It had been added to the program at the last minute, and the orchestra had run through it exactly once in rehearsal. I'd been afraid of fumbling the modulation, and then the closing phrase had come out better than I expected.

Not that anyone had noticed.

The front row had already gone back to talking, and a server was moving through the crowd with a tray of champagne. One man actually raised a hand at me as I stood, telling me to move aside so he could reach the bottles on the table.

I swallowed the complaint that had made it to the back of my teeth and pulled the men's hoodie off the chair. The sleeves hung a good hand past my fingers, and the collar carried the smell of someone else's laundry detergent. I'd borrowed it from a classmate. The dress underneath was the only black one in my closet that came close to passing.

The coordinator was standing by the door with a stack of envelopes, and my pay should have been in that stack. Four hours, seventeen pieces. After the orchestra took its cut, what remained would cover next month's rent on my aunt's secondhand sheet-music shop. She hadn't picked up my calls again last week, and I didn't want to guess whether she'd gone to someone for another loan.

I walked over and worked to keep my voice polite.

"Good evening. I'm tonight's pianist. Could I settle up now?"

The coordinator flipped through his list. "Viola? Give me a moment. We're still reconciling the accounts."

"Of course. How long, roughly?"

"Very soon."

Then he turned to another guest, his face rearranged into a warm smile.

I stood there a few seconds before I understood he had no intention of speaking to me again.

The small lift I'd felt a moment ago sank slowly back down. I didn't like waiting like this, and I liked it even less that he clearly remembered my name and still couldn't be bothered to explain anything. But I stepped aside and told myself there was no reason to turn a few minutes into a scene.

The last tram left at eleven forty. I still had time.

That was when the orchestra's concertmaster came across the hall with a few others. They'd already put their coats on and were arguing about where to get food.

"You're still here?" He seemed surprised to see me.

"Waiting to be paid. I have to pick up my music, too."

"Perfect." He tipped his chin toward the corridor. "The piano and the stands went into the private music room. Go straighten out the stands so the manor staff don't mix them up with theirs."

I blinked at him. "Isn't the orchestra handling its own stands?"

He looked at me, and his smile didn't move. "Everyone's been working all night. It's just a favor. If you're quick about it, it won't cost you much time."

He said it lightly, as though I were handing him a glass of water.

I stared at the case in his hand and felt something close up in my chest. I was the one who'd sat at that piano all night. Nobody had asked whether I could manage a piece added at the last minute, and now that the performance was over, everyone seemed to feel I had more to give.

"Fine," I said finally.

He hadn't expected me to agree that fast. He clapped me on the shoulder, casual as anything. "Thanks."

I held myself still instead of pulling away.

Once they were far enough down the hall, I swore under my breath. The word came out filthier than I'd intended, and it startled me, and then it felt good.

At least nobody was around to hear it.

I looked toward the door. The coordinator was still talking to guests, and not one envelope had left his hand.

Fine. Get the music first, then ask about the money again. As long as I walked out with tonight's pay, I didn't have to stay angry over something this small.

I started down the corridor, past a wall of family portraits. Every man in them wore an expensive suit and an expression that suggested the world ought to arrange itself around his preferences. I wondered whether any of them would still look that relaxed if they'd had to hold on to a scholarship to stay in school.

The thought improved my mood a little.

At the end of the corridor a servant was hurrying past with an armload of tablecloths.

"Excuse me, where's the private music room?"

"Right, the double doors at the end." He pointed without slowing down.

"Thank you."

I watched him walk off and swallowed the second question I'd meant to ask. I'd have to find it myself.

The door wasn't locked. I pushed it open and felt along the wall for the switch.

A burnt smell rolled over me.

I held my breath and stepped back half a pace. It was the smell of wood after a fire, dry and sharp in the nose. My first thought was the fireplace, but there was no smoke in the room and no glow of flame.

Strange.

I leaned in and looked. "Is anyone there?"

No answer.

The room was unnaturally quiet, except for a faint scraping somewhere at the back, like something being dragged slowly across the floor.

Every instinct told me not to go in.

But my scores were in there. The three original pieces had taken me months, and one of them was due to the conservatory's review board next month. I couldn't leave them behind and make a second trip out to Crawford Manor tomorrow.

I bit my lip and turned on the rest of the lights.

That was when I saw the man in the corner.

He was on his knees, one hand braced against the floor and the other clamped hard over his chest. His jacket had been thrown aside. His white shirt had split open down the back in one long tear, the fabric warped outward by the body changing underneath it.

"Sir?"

I tried, cautiously.

He didn't look up.

"Are you all right? Do you want me to call someone?"

A low growl forced its way out of his throat.

I went rigid where I stood.

Then came a clean, distinct crack. Like a bone breaking.

The man arched violently, shoulders hunching upward, and the shirt tore open another stretch. The fingers braced on the floor began to lengthen, the knuckles jutting forward, the nails twisting into curved black talons that gouged deep into the carpet.

I clapped a hand over my mouth.

I've seen werewolves shift. The noble students at the conservatory like to bring their claws out in the corridors and wave them around in front of me. They know I haven't awakened, that I can't catch the clear scent coming off them, that I have no wolf of my own to answer the provocation. Every time they do it, someone laughs.

This man was different.

There was no ease in him, no spare strength held back for display. Something was tearing at him from the inside, and even his breathing had turned into a painful rasp.

Another crack, like bone splitting.

His spine snapped straight and his body nearly took the table down with it. A silver tray crashed to the floor, and the scores on the table scattered into the air.

Then the man let out a roar that was almost entirely animal.

I turned and ran.

My foot had barely left the floor when the weight came down. My chest tightened, my knees gave, and I hit the door frame hard. My ears filled with a ringing that wouldn't stop, and breathing itself became difficult.

I fought to straighten up and found my legs weren't taking orders from me.

This was nothing like the tricks those students used to frighten people.

I gripped the frame until my fingertips ached. My head was a mess. I wanted to shout for help, wanted the servants out in the corridor to hear me, and all my throat produced was a broken scrape of air.

"Help—somebody—"

Nothing came back.

Behind me, another sound, the kind that sets your teeth on edge.

The man was raising his head, slowly.

The chandelier swayed above him, and the scattered scores were still turning in the air. His face had changed past recognition. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, and all that was left in his eyes was a ring of red that hurt to look at.

His gaze crossed the wreckage of the room and landed on me, exactly.

The blood in me went cold.

I wanted to tell him I had the wrong room. I wanted to say I hadn't seen anything, to beg him to let me leave. I couldn't produce a single word.

My hand was still locked on the door frame, my fingertips going numb with the strain. And the man who no longer looked human was getting up off the floor.