or playing piano, but never longer than a fleeting moment before he looks away.
Maybe I’ve thought too much of it, because I’ve had more dreams of him lately. Dark dreams I wouldn’t dare tell a soul about, not even Kelsey. Ones where he keeps me imprisoned in this place, and I find myself questioning whether he’s good, or evil. The other night, I woke up sweating and panting, calling out for him.
Humiliating to think that Giulia may have heard me.
I suppose I’ve always been drawn to older men, having developed well before most girls my age. The boys I grew up with were immature and plain stupid, always touching. Fondling.
Taking without asking.
Grown men tend to be different toward me. Careful, if not curious.
The dark hallway of the first floor greets me, as I step out of the elevator and make my way to the dining room. En route, I pause at the atrium, and look inside where the last few weeks of contractors and construction workers have turned what was once unkempt and neglected into a vision of wonder and fascination. Healthy vines spill down the gilded iron bars, braided in small white lights. Newly painted walls and lush greenery give a splash of spectacular color. Lanterns hang from the ceiling like stars in the night sky, while the floors, polished and shining, reflect the glow above.
Breathtaking.
I step inside the room, empty of workers who must be on their lunchbreak, and take a seat at the piano. A device sits propped against the music rack. Small and clunky, it reminds me of a walkie-talkie.
A large, round button in the center of it carries the symbol for play, and out of sheer nosiness, I press it. Music drifts from its speakers like black ribbons flitting around me. Haunting and darkly beautiful.
It’s a piece I’ve not heard before, I close my eyes, taking in every stroke of the keys, letting it wind around my senses.
The sadness. The longing.
The notes take shape inside my head like a living, breathing entity. A vision of Lucian’s hands dancing over white keys, and up over my arms, his fingertips dragging across my skin. I breathe in through my nose, and exhale through parted lips, while the music takes me back to my most recent dream of him. I reach up to touch my lips, recalling the night he kissed me on the rooftop, my eyes still shuttered to everything but the scene playing behind my lids.
“What are you doing?”
At the sharp, menacing tone, I jolt from my musings and scramble to turn off the device, pressing the first button that stops the music. Muscles vibrating, I turn to find Lucian standing across from me, with a notepad clutched at his hip.
“Tell me you didn’t mess anything up.”
“I … I didn’t.”
Scowl plastered to his face, he strides toward me and swipes up the device.
“I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”
“It’s a Tascam,” he says, examining the equipment.
“A what?”
“A Tascam. Used to record tracks.”
“It’s your music, then?” I can’t help the wonder in my voice, imagining such a beautiful piece originating inside his head. “I swear I only listened to it.”
Shoulders sagging, he tips his head back, eyes screwed shut, as he presses the play button.
“Tell me you didn’t mess anything up.”
“I … I didn’t. I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”
“It’s a Tascam.”
The playback is our conversation. I must’ve accidentally recorded over the music.
I slap a hand to my face, the needling pangs of shock stabbing my gut. “Oh, no.”
“Hours, I tried to get that piece right. Now, it’s gone.” He waves his notebook in the air. “Ran to get something to jot down the notes.” Jaw hard, he chucks the book across the piano strings beneath the lid.
“Lucian, I’m so sorry.” Remorse hammers through me, crushing my chest like a heavy fist. “I didn’t mean to touch it.”
“You just can’t keep your hands off anything, can you?” The growl in his tone likely only represents a fraction of his anger. He tosses the Tascam onto the music stand, and when it falls to the keys, slamming out a hard note, I flinch. “I’ll never remember it.”
Lowering my gaze, I stare down at the keys, and while echoes of the song linger in my head, my eyes scan over every placement of my fingers. I see them. I know them. “I can.”
Still turned away from me, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge my response.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I set my fingers to the keys and close