Page 75 of Chain Me
Perhaps this time he’d left a note behind? I scanned the room, finding only a gray robe slung over the end of the bed. When I climbed off the mattress and pulled it on, I realized the door to my room was ajar as well. Once in the hallway, I made out the faintest notes of music and hope guided my motions, a pathetic lifeline.
I followed the sound, creeping down the stairs and through a maze of rooms until I reached one at the very back of the house. Contained within was a lone piano placed before a row of bay windows. Devoid of curtains, they displayed an unobstructed view of a small garden overrun with sprouting roses.
Hunched on the bench was a figure wearing only a pair of wrinkled black pants. I’d never seen him so disheveled. So…tired. His bare torso caught the light, displaying the numerous silvery lines speckling his skin. Scars was too ugly a word to call them. Merely…decoration, deliberately chiseled there by whatever artist crafted this stunning creature.
The moment I stepped foot within his domain, the music ceased on a single plaintive note.
“You were sleeping,” he said without turning around. The emphasis he placed on that word betrayed another meaning—sleepingfree from nightmares, for once.
A part of me recognized the words as his reason for leaving. Which felt…odd. Even odder was that some of the irrational fear eating through my chest abated.
There was a word for women like the one I was becoming. Clingy.Needy.My mother used to gossip about a socialite she’d known once, who’d actually had the gall to take offense when her husband’s work hours grew from days into weeks.She has his estate. Why should she care?
Perhaps because poor Mrs. Perriweather suffered from the same irrational darkness that plagued me? The fears lurking within the shadows of her psyche, threatening to swallow her whole if someone—anyone—wasn’t there to keep them at bay. All they had to do was stay, just long enough for her to find herself again.
However long that might take.
This feeling was temporary, I was sure of it. So why couldn’t I cross the threshold until he beckoned me closer?
My hesitant footsteps were quickly swallowed by the notes of music that rose to a crescendo as he continued to play. I’d misjudged his skills as simplygoodbefore. Talented. Only now could I appreciate the full wealth of emotion he layered into every single note. He didn’t look down at the keys once as he sat with his posture erect and his eyes on the window. He didn’t merely play. Hebled.
He never stopped, even as I perched myself on the end of the bench. I wasn’t sure who closed the distance first. Which body shifted to bridge the gap. All that mattered was that my head was on his shoulder and I huddled into the contact while his fingers still flexed to stroke the keys.
“What song?” I asked as softly as I dared.
“Something Puccini,” he explained. “Vissi d’arte,I believe. A bit dramatic for my tastes, but it gets the point across.”
“The point?”
“Here.” He grabbed my hand, manipulating my fingers where he wanted. With quiet motions, he guided me to strike the keys in tandem, and the melody continued.
I suspected that a million answers to my question lurked within the tune spilling out around us. Including what Dmitri himself had hinted:Music is the only damn thing humanity possesses worth saving.
Closing my eyes, I tried to listen—but nothing rivaled his voice and I was too greedy to deny myself it. “What does the title mean?”
He hesitated, the music faltering slightly. “‘I lived for art.’”
“What is it about?” The mixture of sharp and low notes conveyed longing. Pain.
“In short?” He inclined his head and ceased playing altogether. “Nell’ora del dolore.”His mouth grazed my throat, allowing his voice to enter my ear, lowered for me alone. “Signore, perché me ne rimuneri così?”
He sat back, continuing the melody unassisted. Something warned me against pressing him for clarity. Not yet. I listened instead, somehow sensing the meaning in every strained tone before he translated, his gruff baritone melding with the music.
“In this hour of grief… Lord, why do you reward me thus?”
His tone barely wavered, yet he conveyed the passionate plea effortlessly. The pain. The desperation. Did he truly feel that way? Or was he merely interpreting the agony written into the music?
I watched his fingers fly across the keys. My teeth tore at my bottom lip, but I barely felt the pain. Sighing, I leaned against him, sensing him shift to support me.
“I’m afraid.” My voice fell to a whisper, nearly swallowed as the music swelled. “I’m so afraid. I don’t want to die.”
He had been wrong about my supposed death wish.
I wasn’t ready.
The music slowed, becoming an array of scattered notes, seconds apart.
“You will.”
