Chapter 14
Elowen
I touch the blindfold over my eyes. I move my fingers to untie it. Two gloved hands catch my wrists from behind.
“Don’t, Princess,” he murmurs, lowering my hands to my sides.
His hands slide up my arms, his touch so gentle it makes me shiver. Then he releases me and moves away.
I tilt my head, listening for his footsteps. He circles around to stand before me.
“I want to see you,” I whisper.
He cradles my face in both palms—bare now, the gloves gone.
I place my hands over his.
“Let me see you.”
His breath warms my skin. His mouth hovers over mine.
“You won’t like me if you see me.”
“That’s not true. I’ll like you no matter what,” I promise.
“You won’t, Princess,” he whispers, his words brushing my lips, and then his lips follow.
I shudder at the touch.
I reach up to hold his face, but my hands find nothing. I can feel him kissing me, but there’s nothing there to anchor me.
I reach behind my head and tear the blindfold off.
My eyes snap open—I’m staring at the ceiling.
The dream still thrums in my chest. Sweat trickles down my neck and back. And instead of horror, I feel an ache. A flicker of longing for this dream to become real.
I drag a hand down my face. This is Stockholm, Wen. Go back to sleep. Dream about things that make sense.
I close my eyes. The dream dances behind them. I open them again.
I glance at the wall clock. Past midnight. I sit up in bed. Bruno lifts his head and watches me. I pat him, then get up.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
Bruno and I creep quietly through the hallway of my captor’s wing, to the stairs, and up.
Once we reach the top, I quicken my pace and hurry to the piano.
I settle onto the bench and look around. The roses are bathed in silver moonlight, their fragrance saturating the entire space.
The moon hangs just above the piano, as if shining through the glass dome, but I know it’s an illusion. This place doesn’t see the sun; why would it see the moon? Still, it feels so real. I can’t help but love it. The garden is a dream made tangible.
After drinking it all in, my eyes settle on the beauty before me. I caress the keys with light fingertips. A smile touches my lips.
I haven’t asked his permission, but he must be asleep by now. I’ll ask him tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll steal just a few minutes.
My fingers roam over the keys, pressing them at whim, producing soft, erratic rhythms—until a tune finds its way from my heart to my hands. It always happens like this, the keys and my fingers become the medium through which my heart speaks.
I close my eyes and let the music flow through me on its own.
A new composition flows through me, and I lose myself in it.
It begins in the left hand: low G, held. The note feels like standing alone in an empty room at midnight. My right hand finds B flat above middle C, pauses, then moves on. Left hand repeats the G—heavier this time.
The right hand climbs: B flat to D, reaching, yearning, then falls back to B flat—too scared.
The melody takes shape. The right hand rises slowly—E flat, F, G. The left hand answers with A natural. Wrong, yet beautiful. The dissonance settles in my chest like a bruise.
It’s a melody of a love that shouldn’t exist—but does.
The notes climb higher, the music breaking through the resistance my heart tries to hold.
B flat this time. High and clear. My left hand softens beneath it, surrendering to F minor with an added D flat. Shouldn’t. The word lives in that D flat.
My hands pause for a single beat, letting the last note echo through the garden.
Then it climbs.
My right hand reaches in aching intervals—sixth, seventh, stretching until my palm aches, my left hand follows now instead of fighting. Harmonies blur into ninths, elevenths, suspended chords that never resolve.
My fingers move on their own, battling with my heart. Or maybe they are my heart, finally speaking while my mind sleeps.
The phrase reaches its peak: E flat, G, B flat, high C. My hands crash into the chord, F minor bursting against a brighter force, trying to tear through the walls.
The music pleads now. Pounds against the doors.
Let it in. Let it drown the suffering.
But I’m not suffering.
So why is the music saying this?
The notes descend, as if caressing wounds that were never tended—and they aren’t mine. These wounds aren’t mine, and the music isn’t here to soothe me.
The composition my heart has created is not for me.
I open my eyes and find the owner of this piece. I press the last notes softly, looking into his eyes—eyes that tell a story without words.
A story of pain and suffering my heart recognizes but my mind can’t comprehend.
Salvario
After showering and changing, I head toward Bruno’s room to check on her, but halt when a delicate piano tune drifts through the air to me.
I frown and turn toward the stairs.
Is she playing my mother’s piano?
No one is allowed to touch it. Not even me. And definitely not her.
But my anger dissolves the moment I reach the top and find her.
She’s lost in her own world, eyes closed, her slender fingers moving over the keys as if possessed. And the music they’re creating—I’ve never heard anything like it. It holds me frozen, like some malevolent magic.
I don’t even realize when the melody begins reaching places inside me I’ve never wanted touched, and I can’t stop it. It pushes against my resistance, forcing me to see into the depths of darkness I’m terrified of.
It forces me to confront how much I still fear it—even after living in it for years. How terrified I am of these endless nights that fate has condemned me to, with no promise of dawn.
The melody battles with my fractured soul, offering hope that the suffering might end. And then the music shifts, fulfilling its promise—wrapping around my shattered pieces, touching them with something like veneration.
And then she opens her eyes.
Their warmth makes the ice inside me feel even colder. I want to capture it, to trap it, but I know it’s not for me.
Her warmth isn’t mine to keep. I’m not capable of holding it. I’m not strong enough to let myself believe there could be a place for me—not even in the smallest corner of her heart.
The music stops, but I remain rooted, trapped in her gaze.
She rises from the bench and takes small steps toward me.
“Did I wake you up?” she asks softly.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Why?” She tilts her head, studying me.
“I don’t sleep early.”
“But you wake up early. That’s not good for your health,” she frets.
I look away from her bright face.
“Don’t worry about your captor’s health, Princess.”
“Why not?”
My eyes find their way back to her golden ones. They can’t seem to settle anywhere else while she’s in the room.
“I might like it too much.”
Her lips part slightly. Her dark pupils widen within golden irises. A hint of red blooms across her pale skin. My hand rises, tempted to touch her beautiful face, but I stop it, clenching my hand into a fist.
“I don’t mind you liking it.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Why do you have so many questions?” Especially the ones I can’t answer.
She smiles. “I’m just a curious person.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
She raises her brows. “Do you want the cat to die?”
I frown. “No.”
She grins. “Then curiosity won’t kill the cat. And she can ask all the questions she wants.”
“Aren’t you afraid of me?” She should be.
She bites her lower lip. “Umm... I was afraid of you. But then you started being nice, so now I’m not.”
“I’m not a good man, Princess. And you should stay away from me.”
“I know you’re not a good man. And I want to know what kind of bad man you are.”
“You’ll find out when I kill your father.”
She goes rigid for a moment, then nods stiffly. The warmth in her eyes dims into something I don’t like.
But that’s how it should be. She should look at me with nothing but fear and hatred—pain is the only thing I have to offer.
“You’re right. I should stay away from you,” she breathes, then turns and walks away.
I remain rooted, staring at the empty bench.
She plays as if she were born to create music that echoes in hearts.