Chapter 3: LESSONS IN BREATH AND OBEDIENCE

“What would you like me to sing, My Lord?”

“Nothing yet.” His tone was sharp with interest. “First, I want to see how you breathe.”

It was such a strange statement that I almost laughed, but I didn’t. His focus was too intense for that.

“Take off your shawl,” he said.

I hesitated, then slid it off my shoulders. The air felt cool against my bare skin.

He walked slowly around me in a small circle.

"Too tight,” he finally said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He nodded toward my bodice. “You’ve laced yourself for show, not for song.”

My cheeks heated. “I— This is the only dress I have, My Lord.”

“Then we must work within its limits.”

He stepped next to me. “May I?”

“May you…?” My breath caught.

“Adjust your laces,” he clarified. “If you cannot breathe, you cannot sing. If you cannot sing…” His voice softened, almost a caress. “You have no place here.”

It made sense. It was simple and practical.

Still, every nerve in my body screamed as I nodded.

"Yes, My Lord.”

He moved behind me. My reflection showed his black clothing filling the space behind me, his masked face tilted slightly toward the nape of my neck. I stared straight ahead, my fingers stiff at my sides.

Gloved hands brushed the back of my dress, finding the laces.

"Exhale,” he murmured.

I obeyed.

The stays loosened under his hands, bringing a shocking sense of relief. I hadn’t realized how tight the bodice had been until it eased. My ribs expanded, and my next breath filled me in a way that felt almost indecent.

Avel’s voice drifted to my ear.

“Better,” he said.

The word traced down my spine like a finger.

He didn't step away right away. For a moment, we stood there—his hands resting lightly at the small of my back, my breath coming shallowly, and the mirror showing only a narrow strip of his jaw.

I was acutely aware of the height difference between us. The heat of his body radiated through the fabric.

“Your posture is good,” he said. “For someone self-taught.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“Do not thank me yet.” He withdrew his hands and stepped to my left, close enough to touch his sleeve. “Now. Sing that river-song again.”

“My— Here?”

“Here,” he said, “for me. No candles. No chandeliers. No one to impress but the man paying for the breath in your lungs.”

It should have angered me.

Instead, something inside me thrilled.

I inhaled deeply, the loosened bodice allowing my ribs to expand fully. The song rose instinctively to my tongue, as familiar as my own name.

I began softly.

The first verse spilled out gentler than last night. The smaller room changed the sound; there was no grand echo or swelling. Only the closeness of voice, air, and two people.

Avel watched me without moving. He didn’t pace or fidget. His stillness created its own kind of pressure.

When I reached the second verse, he said, “Stop.”

The word cut through the melody. The note faded, leaving my chest aching with unfinished sound.

"Your eyes,” he said, “are on the mirror. Not on me.”

“I— I thought—”

“The mirror is a tool,” he interrupted. “It shows you how to look. I am your audience. Sing to me.”

There was something both infuriating and intoxicating about his command.

I turned slowly to face him completely. He stood a pace away, close enough that if I leaned forward, I could brush against him.

"Again,” he said quietly.

This time, when I sang, I focused on his eyes.

His chest rose and fell with each phrase. The line of his throat shifted when he swallowed almost absentmindedly. His jaw tightened during the chorus, then relaxed as I moved into the softer verse.

The room grew warmer, or perhaps it was just my skin.

The lyrics, innocent on their own, felt darker in my mouth: 'Come to the river, love, lay your head down. The water is gentle, it will not let you drown…'

I sang to him like a challenge, wanting to see if anything could shake his composure.

By the last line, my heart raced in my throat.

He stepped closer, just half a step, enough that I had to tilt my chin to keep our gazes aligned.

“Better,” he murmured.

Something reckless stirred in me.

"You seem hard to impress, My Lord,” I said, my voice lower than it should have been.

The curl at the edge of his mouth deepened.

“Careful, Miss Wynn,” he said. “You are not here to impress me.”

“No?” My breath quickened. The loosened bodice did nothing to ease the tightness.

“No.” He let the word linger, then softly added, “You are here to obey me.”

My pulse stumbled.

Heat flared—in my cheeks, yes, but also deeper, pulsing through me like smoke.

I should have bristled. I should have argued. Instead, the word "obey" tugged at something raw inside me—a part that had spent years with no choice at all and suddenly wanted to choose submission, but on my terms.

“What if I disobey?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The air between us felt thin.

Avel’s head tilted, the mask catching the light. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before.

“Then you test how much I enjoy taming defiance.”

My mouth went dry.

His gloved hand rose. I thought he might touch my cheek, but instead, his fingers brushed the side of the choker, where the metal met my skin.

Every nerve there was heightened. The contact was minimal through leather, yet my entire body reacted as if he’d touched bare flesh.

“I gave you this,” he said. “Do you know what it means?”

“A gift,” I whispered.

“A mark,” he corrected. “You wear my favor at your throat. Anyone who sees you on that stage will know whose attention you hold.”

“And if I choose not to wear it?”

The question came out slowly, curiosity and challenge at war.

His fingers paused.

Then he laughed—a low, quiet sound that filled the space between us.

“Do you intend to test that, Miss Wynn?”

My courage faltered under his amusement.

“No, My Lord,” I said. “I only… I wanted to understand.”

His hand lingered against the choker for a moment, then fell.

“Understand this,” he said. “You are not a charity case. I did not take you from obscurity out of mercy. You are here because your voice does something no other has done in a long time.”

“What does it do?” I asked, unable to hold back.

His silence stretched. I realized he was considering how much to reveal.

Finally, he said, “It reaches me.”

Three simple words. Their impact stole my breath more effectively than any corset.

"Is that… unusual?” I whispered.

His lips curved again, this time with something almost self-deprecating.

“Extremely.”

We stood there, balanced between danger and fascination.

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

"My Lord?” Silas’ voice came through, muffled. “The orchestra requests your presence.”

Avel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Later,” he called without turning.

“Yes, My Lord.” Silas’ footsteps retreated.

Avel looked back at me.

“This will be enough for today,” he said. “You will return tomorrow at the same hour. Rest your voice. No shouting at careless stagehands, hm?”

The attempt at humor did little to steady me.

“Yes, My Lord,” I murmured.

“And Miss Wynn?” he added just as I turned to leave.

“Yes?”

His voice shifted back to that velvet-soft tone that made my skin prickle.

“Do not sing for anyone else tonight.”

The words were absurd and controlling.

Yet they made heat flood through me.

“As you wish,” I replied.

His head tilted slightly, as though I had given the right answer in a test I hadn’t known we were taking.

Only when I stepped back into the corridor and the door closed quietly did I realize my hands were shaking.

Madame Elladine waited a little way down the hall, arms crossed.

“Well?” she demanded.

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

"I..." Heat crawled up my neck.