Der Praesi

Twelve minutes before I was scheduled to step onto the stage, I felt my lungs shrinking to the size of a violin bridge. The Wiener Musikverein tonight was a freezing monument to suffocating elegance—gold-leaf marble pillars, towering crystal chandeliers, and a row of ice-cold judges fully prepared to butcher a violinist's career over a single out-of-tune note. But my immediate crisis wasn't Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. My immediate crisis was my stiff, trembling fingers and a missing block of rosin. "Coach, please tell me you’re almost here," I whispered in a low panic, wedging my phone between my shoulder and ear while frantically digging through my velvet violin case in the backstage corridor. Through the phone's speaker, the clatter of porcelain cups and rapid chatter spilled over the line. "Nevaeh! You haven't been called yet, have you?! Hold on! The queue for Sachertorte at Café Sacher is completely absurd, but I finally got the box—" "Coach Yi!" I hissed, barely suppressing a frustrated scream. "I don't need chocolate cake right now! My rosin is completely gone, and my fingers are slick with sweat!" "Don't panic! I’m literally sprinting across the street right now. Go check the quiet storage corridor near the back—maybe it fell out while you were warming up earlier. I'll be there in ten minutes!" The line went dead. I let out a ragged breath, smoothing down my tight glaucous evening gown before turning deeper into the labyrinthine backstage hallways. The further I walked into the historic building, the fainter the chaotic sounds of tuning instruments and murmuring contestants became. Thick plush carpets gave way to the freezing marble of a VIP wing currently undergoing renovation. The air here felt starkly different—colder, smelling of aged wood, raw masonry, and a faint, distinctly masculine trace of cedarwood. I tiptoed forward, my eyes scanning the dimly lit floor. But as I passed a heavy, half-open oak door, my ears caught the sound of heavy breathing and a muffled, breathless gasp. "Ah... Nnh..." I instinctively glanced through the crack. It wasn't my rosin. In the shadows of the room, a woman in a glamorous red gown was pinned flush against the wall. Towering over her was a man in a black leather jacket. His hand gripped her jaw, crushing his lips onto hers with a lethal dominance—a kiss that felt far less like affection and more like a cruel declaration of ownership. High, desperate gasps filled the quiet hallway. "Mmph... Hah..." I felt blood rush to my face. My eyes widened, my entire body freezing on the spot. Wrong room! Very wrong room! I took a cautious step back, intending to vanish before anyone noticed my intrusion. But just as the woman let out another breathless moan, the man’s large hand shifted from her waist to the inner lining of his leather jacket—drawing out a sleek, matte-black suppressed handgun. CLICK. Without breaking the searing kiss, he pressed the cold muzzle of the suppressor directly beneath the woman’s chin. My breath caught in my throat. The heat in my cheeks instantly turned to ice. It wasn't a passionate encounter—it was an execution trap. In sheer shock, my high heel squeaked sharply against the marble floor— Creak! The lethal kiss inside the room stopped instantly. The man tilted his head. Releasing his grip on the woman—who collapsed into a trembling heap—he turned slowly toward the cracked door, his gaze locking straight into my wide eyes. The scent of cedarwood rolled into the corridor like a physical wave. I immediately spun on my heel and ran. My heart hammered violently against my ribs as my heels clattered against the marble. But before I could reach the main corridor, heavy footsteps closed the distance behind me with terrifying speed. A large arm reached out from the shadows, wrapping around my waist like an iron band and slamming me back against the wainscot wall. "Let go of me, you insane bastard!" I hissed, thrashing violently against his grip. I drove my elbow backward into his ribs with everything I had, aiming to break free. It was like hitting a wall of solid steel. The man didn't even flinch. If anything, my resistance only tightened his hold. My breath hitched in my throat as I caught my first full look at him up close—and my mind went momentarily blank. What in the hell is this man? A human or a giant bear? He towered over me, broad-shouldered and imposing, his massive frame blocking out all light. His hand alone, wrapped possessively around my waist, looked large and calloused enough to snap my slender, musician's wrist without breaking a sweat. However, his grip shifted. A long, callous-roughened thumb pressed firmly against my throat, resting directly over my wildly thumping pulse. I glared up at him, my chest heaving, refusing to let the panic in my eyes completely swallow my defiance. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. The sharp, lethal aura around him suddenly melted into something dark, amused, and mockingly playful. "Careful, Maestra," he rumbled, his sapphire eyes trailing down the curve of my throat before locking back onto my furious gaze. "Like what you see? Or are you just figuring out how easy it would be for me to break you?" "In your dreams," I spat through gritted teeth, my fingers digging uselessly into the tough leather of his jacket. "Touch me again and I’ll—" "You'll what? Play a sad song on your violin?" He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "I’ll break this damn violin over your skull!" I snapped back, though the slight tremble in my breath betrayed the sheer terror clawing at my chest. "Look, I didn't see anything! I was just looking for my rosin! I swear on my life, I don't care about whatever illegal, psychotic business you’re running in this building!" The man’s eyebrow arched, a quiet chuckle rumbling deep in his chest at my frantic, sharp-tongued rambling. "You didn't see anything?" he mocked softly, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement. "Your eyes were wide open, Maestra." "Because you were literally choking a woman with a mouth full of tongue and a gun under her chin!" I blurted out, my face flushing crimson between rage and embarrassment. "Who does that in a public hallway?! Have some dignity! If you’re so desperate to make out with a gun to someone’s throat, rent a hotel room like a normal psychopath instead of doing it backstage at the Musikverein!" A heavy silence fell over the corridor. Even his men guarding the exits stiffened, glancing at each other in utter disbelief that a girl carrying a violin case was currently scolding their lethal leader for his lack of public decorum. The man stared down at me for a heartbeat, stunned by my sheer audacity. Then, a low laugh escaped his throat—dark, rich, and utterly menacing. His hand tightened around my throat, not enough to choke me, but just enough to force my head back and tilt my gaze directly into his. "You've got a dirty mouth for a classical musician," he purred, his thumb trailing a slow line over my racing pulse as his men finalized locking down the floor. "Save your screaming for the stage, Maestra," he murmured against my ear, his gravelly rasp laced with lethal calm. "Because off the stage, you belong to my ride now." I clutched my violin case to my chest like a shield, staring up into a face carved from sharp angles and cold, predatory intent. Tucked neatly into the bodice of my glaucous gown was my official contestant badge: 12. The man’s sapphire eyes drifted down to the badge, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The overhead intercom crackled to life, echoing loudly through the empty renovation wing: "Contestant number 12, Nevaeh, please report to the main stage immediately." At the exact same time, a sharp whistle rang out from down the corridor. One of his men stepped into view, signaling urgently. "Praesi. Police units just pulled up to the front plaza." The man didn't flinch. His thumb gave one final, deliberate press against my racing pulse before he slowly drew his hand away, lingering close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath. "Go play your Tchaikovsky, Nevaeh," he whispered, his tone chillingly soft. "I'll be listening." Before I could process the words, he melted into the shadows of the side exit, leaving me trembling violently against the pillar—with ten seconds to walk out onto the stage in front of hundreds of people.