Bonus Scene The Devil’s Nocturne
BONUS SCENE: THE DEVIL’S NOCTURNE
POV: Alaric Graves
Location: The Graves Estate, Vienna (Private Wing)
Track: Earned It – The Weeknd (Chamber Orchestra Version)
Mood: Worship & Possession.
The silence of the limousine was public. The silence of our bedroom is sacred.
I watch Elodie walk across the room. She kicks off her heels near the fireplace.
The red silk of her dress pools around her feet like spilled wine.
She reaches up, unpinning her hair, letting the raven waves cascade down her back.
She looks like a queen who has just returned from a conquest. And she is. She conquered me.
"Stop staring," she says, her voice husky, watching me through the mirror of the vanity.
"I will never stop staring," I reply, loosening my tie. "I paid a high price for the view. I intend to enjoy it."
I walk up behind her. I place my hands on her waist. Through the silk, I feel her warmth.
I feel the steel core that I helped forge.
She leans back against me, her eyes meeting mine in the glass.
We are a study in contrasts. My darkness, her light—though her light has been dimmed, smoked, turned into something far more dangerous than simple innocence.
"Did you mean it?" she asks softly. "What you said in the car?"
"About the music never stopping?" I slide the straps of her dress down.
The red silk falls to her waist, revealing the creamy skin of her back, the curve of her spine.
I trace the faint, white scar on her shoulder—a remnant of the glass from the villa.
"Yes. The music is eternal, Elodie. But the tempo.
.." I kiss the scar. "...the tempo changes. "
I turn her around. I lift her onto the vanity counter, pushing aside the expensive perfumes and jewelry.
She wraps her legs around my waist. The slit in the dress falls open, revealing the sheer stockings, the garter belt, the holster where she still keeps the ceramic knife.
Even here. Even in our home. She is armed. My little soldier.
"Take it off," she commands, her hands going to my shirt.
I obey. I strip off the tuxedo jacket, the shirt. I reveal the map of my own ruin. The burn scars on my chest. The bullet wound on my shoulder. She traces them with her fingers. Her touch is reverent. "You're a mess, Doctor," she whispers.
"I'm a masterpiece," I correct, capturing her hand and kissing the palm. "Because I survived you."
I kiss her. It starts slow. A Largo. A tasting. A reacquaintance. Then it shifts. Allegro con fuoco. She digs her nails into my shoulders. I grip her hips, bruising the skin. The hunger that we kept leashed in the Opera House breaks free.
"Say it," I growl against her throat. "Tell me who owns you."
"No one owns me," she gasps, arching her back as my hand slides up her thigh. "I am the Director."
I chuckle darkly. "Is that so?" I press my thumb against her pulse. "Then direct me."
"Fuck me," she orders. "Right here. On the glass."
I don't need to be told twice. I enter her.
Deep. Possessive. The sensation is blinding.
It is better than the morphine. Better than the adrenaline of the kill.
It is the only thing that makes the noise in my head stop.
When I am inside her, the ghosts of the asylum, the screams of the men I tortured, the fire of the rig.
.. it all fades. There is only her. Her breath. Her skin. Her rhythm.
We move together in the dim light of the fire. It is a violent, beautiful dance. We are two broken things that fit together perfectly to make a whole.
"Alaric," she cries out, her head thrown back, exposing the diamond choker.
I look at the key resting in the hollow of her throat. The key to everything. I lean down and take the key in my teeth. I tug it gently. "I am never letting you go," I vow, my voice a guttural roar. "You are my composition. My magnum opus."
"I am your life," she corrects, breathless, on the edge.
"Yes." I drive into her one last time, finding the friction, finding the spark. We shatter together. A crescendo that leaves us both gasping, clinging to each other in the wreckage of the moment.
Later, as we lie in the massive bed, the city of Vienna sleeping beneath us, I pull her against my chest. She is already asleep, her hand resting over my heart. I look at my right hand. The scars are silver lines in the moonlight. I flex the fingers. They work. Because of her.
I close my eyes. I don't dream of the cage anymore. I dream of the music. And for the first time in my life, the song isn't a tragedy. It’s a love story. Written in blood, sealed with a kiss, and played on the keys of a piano that survived the fire.