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“I’ll call you by whatever name you want,” he said, and closed the distance between us again and brought both hands to my cheeks until I was forced to look him in the eye. “We have a lot unsaid. But that’s not what matters now.”
I wiped at my face, shamelessly now. Swatting at my cheeks until they were dry. If I had a shirt on, I would have taken it off to wipe the offending emotions from my face.
Then his hands covered mine, pulling the gloves off and tenderly unwrapping my knuckles, before he kissed each joint.
“You want to be in my arms.” He repeated. “And I am willing. So come to me.”
His low voice growled, the same command as when he told me to get on my knees, to surrender, to come, but now he opened his arms out, inviting me to fall into them. So I did.
He pulled my head to his chest and kissed my forehead, and started to rock me back and form, pulling me to his lap. And I wept. I wailed, I screamed, and he hummed a little melody like a lullaby until my feelings were spent, gone like sand that slipped through my fingers.
“Alastair?” I whispered.
“Hmm?” He stopped his singing and brought his ear to my lips.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
I let the darkness take me, my eyes closed, and the world turned black.
Chapter 36
Alastair
Shefellasleepinmy arms, her brow still creased. I lifted her and brought her to my room. She was much lighter than when I had made love to her in France. Her muscle mass seemed to be wasting away, and I’m sure after the gunshot and that bastard Brett’s workouts, she was losing some of her weight.
I’d help her get back up to fighting fit. Model thin was never my preference. Fragility had never turned me on. But it wasn’t until the first time I saw a video of this girl fighting, that I realized that I craved strength. Raw, visceral, ferocious strength.
I shouldered my way into my room. The familiar smell of parchment and books greeted me. It seemed to compliment her natural musk - that almond and honey scent. I tucked her into my gray satin sheets, pulling the duvet up to her chin. The hair of her pony tail fanned out onto the pillow beside her as she curled onto her side, her hand coming to rest near her face. I kissed her cheek, tasting the trail of her tears again.
I should have put her back in the clinic, on the bed she had been using. But I was possessed by the need to have her in here. To have her live here, her scent on my sheets.
My room wasn’t large. It was a suite, with a small balcony that faced the rose garden. I opened the floor to ceiling glass windows and allowed the breeze of the evening to waft in. I loved the scent of earth and greenery. And my Rose belonged in a garden, anyway.
The gossamer white curtains helped block out some of the evening light and fluttered in the wind.
The rest of my room was white plaster, with exposed wooden beams that ran overhead. The four-poster bed was an ancient thing, repaired over the years, but had been in the house for at least three generations. The walls themselves were lined with bookshelves. Some ended at hip height, with lamps and more books piled on top. The rest stopped just short of the ceiling. Most of the shelves were filled with music books. Loose leaf sheet music, symphonies, orchestrations, standalone songs… All very loosely organized by genre.
In what would normally be a sitting room sat my prized possession: A Baldwin baby grand.
I grabbed blank sheets of music paper and a mechanical pencil. There was something I was itching to write. Something that had been beating in my mind since the moment I had met this complicated and intoxicating woman.
It started with a melody, just in my right hand. It was low and simple. Not even a pretty melody, really. It was just there, making its presence known. Then there was another melody, similar, but not the same. It was the left hand, playing low grumbling notes, slow and uncomplicated. The two hands started to crawl together, meeting somewhere near middle C. And right when they were about to overlap, they darted apart, the two melodies becoming syncopated and clashing, before coming together again, one following the other until the final, sweet note that lingered in the air, fading slowly like the last rays of the sun.
I scrawled it on the page like a madman, willing myself not to forget it.
I played it again, feeling a new and strange resolve happening in my chest.
My woman needed her father. He needed him back by her side to cure her of this manic despair. But how could I help with that? How could I bring the man she loved, even if it was as a parent, back to her even sooner?
A plan started to formulate in my head, but it was like trying to catch dust that was dancing in a ray of sunlight.
I finished the song, the scrawl jagged on the page. It was a movement, but I knew there’d be more. Maybe hours more of music still left to write before it was complete.
I started the next piece, and it was dark. Climactic. Staccato.
It was as if my hands were possessed, banging out a sensual but menacing melody. The world fell away from me and all I had was this tune. This symphony. I could imagine cellos, flutes, and drums and a soprano holding notes above it all.
By the time I was halfway through, I had resolved to do what I was always meant to do. What Eoghan had said was my fate. I could get the girl, give her what she needed, and shackle myself to the place I was born to be.
