Chapter Seven
Jasmine
I ran two weeks later. Waited until I was strong enough to walk, stole what little I could carry, and fled in the middle of the night. I've been running ever since.
My hand was shaking against my stomach, trembling so hard I had to press it flat to stop the movement. The surrounding bedroom blurred, tears filled my eyes, and cascaded down my face before I could stop them.
I wrapped my arms around myself, felt the soft fabric of the dress, and shivered despite the room's warmth. My legs gave out, and I sank onto the floor, back against the wall, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Gone. My baby was gone. Had been for almost a year now, but the grief felt fresh and raw, like it had just happened. Like I was still bleeding, still cramping, losing the only thing I'd ever wanted to protect.
I rocked slightly, an unconscious motion, the soothing movement you'd use with a crying infant. Except there was no infant. Would never be an infant. Just me, alone, broken, trying to survive in a world that had made it very clear I didn't matter.
My breath came in quick gasps, not quite hyperventilating but close. The room felt too small, with the walls pressing in. I needed to move, needed air, needed something to ground me before I spiraled completely.
I pushed myself up on shaking legs, and moved to the window. The view stretched out before me, all that impossible sky and distant buildings glittering in the afternoon sun. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, letting it anchor me, reminding me where I was.
Not in that packhouse. Not in that room with the empty cradle. Here. In a penthouse. Clean and safe, and locked away from anyone who might hurt me.
For now.
That's when I heard it.
Music, soft and distant, filtered through the walls from somewhere else in the penthouse. Piano music, with the notes clear and precise, building into something that sounded both mournful and hopeful simultaneously.
I lifted my head from the glass, listening.
The melody was complex, layered. It climbed and fell, twisted back on itself, and created harmonies that made my chest ache in a way that differed from the grief.
Whoever was playing understood music the way I did. Understood that it wasn't just notes arranged in pleasing patterns, but a language that spoke the things words couldn't reach. The things that lived too deep for speech.
The song shifted, moving into a minor key that held such longing it made tears well up again. But these tears were different. Not grief exactly, though grief was part of it. This was recognition. Connection. The feeling of being seen by someone who understood.
I moved toward the door, and my hand found the lock. I hesitated. Leaving this room meant being vulnerable again. Meant putting myself in proximity to Alphas who could hurt me if they chose. Meant risking everything.
But that music. It pulled at something inside me, something that had been silent and scared for so long. It promised understanding, maybe even kindness.
I turned the lock. The bolt slid free with a deadening clunk.
The hallway was empty when I opened the door, the amber lighting making everything glow with the same warm quality I'd noticed earlier. The music was clearer now, coming from somewhere to my left, deeper into the penthouse.
I followed it, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. My steps were cautious, ready to retreat at the first sign of danger, but something about the music made me brave. Or maybe just desperate enough to reach for beauty when I found it.
The melody grew stronger as I moved through the penthouse, past the leather couches and glass tables, toward a doorway I hadn't noticed before. The music was coming from there. From whoever sat at that piano, pouring their soul into notes that felt like they'd been written just for me.
I stopped at the threshold, my hand on the door frame, and looked inside. The room differed from the rest of the penthouse. Where the other spaces had been designed for living, for comfort and beauty, this room existed solely for sound.
Acoustic panels lined the walls in geometric patterns, their surfaces designed to absorb and shape the music that filled the space.
The floor was hardwood, polished to a shine that reflected the afternoon light streaming through a single large window.
And there, positioned to catch that light, sat a grand piano that was easily the most beautiful instrument I'd ever seen.
The wood was deep mahogany, gleaming as if it had been polished with love and care. The keys were pristine white and black, and the man sitting at them moved across them with the kind of fluid grace that came from years of practice, from muscle memory so deep it was almost instinctive.
He looked up as I entered, his fingers never stopping their movement across the keys. The melody continued, with the same mournful beauty I'd heard from my room, but now I could see the source of it.
Ocean blue and green eyes met mine, striking and intense, but somehow gentle despite their color.
His face was handsome in an understated way, with strong features that would have been severe if not for the slight softness around his mouth, the warmth in his expression.
An expression that was curtained by wavy brown chestnut hair, that looked soft enough to touch.
I imagined my hand gliding through it as his scent drifted over to me.
Rosewood. A delicate, sweet, floral scent with tints of woody notes.
I took a deep breath in, absorbing it into me.
Absorbing him into me. There was something about his scent.
Something that called to me, pulled me in, and held me tight.
He was pure addiction wrapped up in a handsome, muscular body.
He smiled at me and shifted slightly on the bench, making space without asking, without demanding. Just offering.
His eyes dropped back to the keys, and he continued playing while gesturing with a slight tilt of his head toward the piano bench beside him. An invitation.
I should have stayed where I was. Should have maintained distance, kept the advantage of proximity to the door. But the music was so beautiful, and he'd looked at me with such simple kindness, and I was tired of always being afraid.
I moved into the room, my steps slow and measured, crossing the polished floor to the piano. Up close, I could see the way his fingers moved across the keys, pressing and releasing with such tenderness.
Sitting down on the edge of the bench, as far from him as the seat would allow, my body angled so I could watch both his hands and his face. My back was straight, muscles tense, ready to bolt if needed.
He didn't seem bothered by my wariness. Just kept playing, his attention focused on the music, giving me space to adjust, to settle, to decide whether I felt safe enough to stay.
The melody shifted, moving into something lighter, almost playful. His fingers danced across the high notes, creating a cascade of sound that reminded me of water over stones, of wind through leaves, of all the small beautiful things the world held when you were paying attention.
“Music speaks what we cannot say,” he said, his voice low, barely rising above the piano's song. He didn't look at me when he spoke, kept his eyes on the keys, giving me the option to ignore him if I wanted.
I said nothing, just listened.
“I've always thought it was the most honest form of communication,” he continued, his fingers moving into a minor chord that held a question. “Words can lie, can hide what we really mean. But music reveals everything if you know how to listen.”
The chord resolved into something major, something that felt like an answer.
“I'm Lucian,” he said. “Lucian Linfield. Kade's my pack brother.”
Pack brother. Which meant Alpha. I'd already known, had smelled it on him the moment I entered the room, but hearing it confirmed still made my shoulders tense.
He must have noticed the shift in my posture because the music gentled, became softer, less demanding of attention. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said simply. “None of us will. You're safe here.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that promise. But I'd heard similar promises before, had believed them, had learned the hard way that Alpha words meant nothing when measured against actions.
“You don't have to believe me yet,” he added, like he'd read my thoughts in the tension of my body. “Just... stay. Listen. Let the music speak for a while.”
His hands moved across the keys again, building into something that held both sadness and hope, that acknowledged pain while still reaching toward something light.
I leaned slightly closer, and my breathing slowed, the rapid, shallow gasps evening out into something closer to normal. I was still tense, still ready to flee, but the urgency of it had dimmed.
Lucian's hands moved through another passage, this one climbing higher up the keyboard, creating notes that sparkled and fell like rain.
“My mother taught me to play,” he said conversationally, his tone casual, like we were old friends catching up rather than strangers navigating the complex dynamic of being an Alpha and an Omega.
“She said music was the language the soul spoke when words weren't enough.”
My throat felt tight. My mother had said something similar, had told me that singing was how we told the truth even when we were afraid to speak it aloud.
“Do you play?” he asked, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the keys.
I shook my head. “Just sing.”
“Just,” he repeated, with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Singing is one of the hardest, most vulnerable forms of music. It requires you to use your body as the instrument.”
His words settled over me like a blanket, unexpected and warm. No one had ever described my singing that way before. No one had ever made it sound like something valuable, something worthy of respect.
The music shifted again, moved into a melody I almost recognized, something that felt like it was built from the same emotional language I used when I sang.
Loss, longing, and the stubborn refusal to give up, all woven together into something beautiful precisely because it held all those contradictions.
My hands, which had been clenched in my lap, gradually relaxed. My fingers uncurled, resting loosely against my thighs. The constant vigilance that had been humming through my nervous system dimmed, not disappearing but settling into something less exhausting.
Lucian played through several more passages, each one a conversation, a question, and an answer.
Finally, his hands stilled, the last notes hanging in the air between us like visible light. The silence that followed wasn't empty or uncomfortable. It was full, pregnant with everything the music had said, with all the understanding that had passed between us without words.
He turned to look at me fully then, those ocean-colored eyes meeting mine with an intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't.
“Thank you for listening,” he said.
I swallowed and found my voice. “Thank you for playing.”
The smile that crossed his face was genuine, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle slightly at the corners. “Anytime you want to listen, I'm here. This room is always open to you.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak past the emotion clogging my throat.
The fragile bridge of hope that had formed during those minutes of music still held, still connected us across the piano bench. It wasn't much. It wasn't acceptance.
But it was a beginning.
And right now, that had to be enough.