I hesitated, torn between telling him who I’d seen on those stairs and keeping it to myself. Before I could make a decision, he continued, “What if there’s another attack?”
“We fight again.” We’d all seen enough war to know that.
Benedict pulled the car in front of the house. I looked up and found a light on in the studio window. I couldn’t see Thea, but I knew she was there.
“Should I come in?” he asked.
I shook my head. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I forced a smile. “Can you drive Sebastian home? I’d like to be alone with Thea. She’s never seen anything like that.”
“Yes,” he said hesitantly, “but, Julian, be careful.”
“I am,” I said tightly.
“This mate thing…” He glanced nervously at me. “You can’t expect the family to accept it. You know they won’t, especially if the bond isn’t…”
“Thank you for your concern,” I stopped him and opened my car door. A couple passing me stared at my blood-stained clothes. I needed to get inside to clean up before I went to her. The last thing Thea needed was to see proof of the violence I’d encountered.
“Julian,” Benedict called my name and I leaned down to the window, “is she really worth it?”
I looked back at the warm glow of the window and caught the faint notes of a cello in the air. I shut the door with a definitive “yes.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
THEA
Even the cello couldn’t calm my mind. I sat in the ballet studio. Something about it reminded me of practicing with the orchestra or peeking in on Olivia during rehearsals. It was a place that felt more like home than Paris did at the moment. As soon as Sebastian brought me here, I had traded my evening gown for a silk robe, dragged a footstool into the room, and began to play. Berlioz had seen that the instrument arrived in pristine condition, already perfectly turned, and I was grateful for his attention to detail.
The bow felt good in my hands as I began playing every piece I had ever memorized. My bare feet felt like ice on the cold wooden floor, but I didn’t care. I was determined to escape the prison of waiting. There was a time when music would have been enough to transport me to another place and time. Tonight, my mind and heart kept straying to Julian–wherever he was. Sebastian’s reassurances that he could handle himself only reminded me that the man I loved was fighting people who wanted him dead. What if they took him from me?
What if they took my mate?
Without meaning to, I began to play Schubert–the piece I’d been playing the night I met Julian. Death and the Maiden. It was almost enough to make me laugh now. I closed my eyes and let the panicked notes of the music reflect the turmoil churning inside me. It shifted between sad longing and fear and something that felt like a chase. I followed suit, my heart rising and crashing along with the score. The andante con moto began, and tears burned my eyes. I refused to open them. I refused to cry until…
Julian was next to me. He placed a hand on my shoulder gently and murmured, “Don’t stop.”
I’d been so lost in my thoughts and the music that I hadn’t heard the door open. I did as he asked. I continued to play as he knelt behind me and rested his forehead against my shoulder. I peeked in the mirror through my wet lashes. He’d stripped himself of his tuxedo, his hair wet, as if he’d just showered. And then it hit me–why he wanted to immediately bathe. My bow slipped for a moment, splintering the air with a missed note. Julian didn’t budge. I continued on. He looked as if he was praying. Was he? Later, I would ask him about what he lost tonight. Or rather, what we lost, because any grief he carried was mine now, too.
I paused as I reached the end of the andante, and he pressed a kiss to my back. “Keep playing, pet.”
The heat of his mouth lingered on my skin, the silk no match for his kiss. I continued. Now that he was here–now that I could feel him, each moment I played, I slipped further into a state of peace. After a few minutes, an arm wrapped around my waist. I barely noticed until his hands slipped my robe off my shoulders. My eyes shut as cool air nipped at my bare skin. I wore nothing underneath the robe, and Julian let out a slight hiss of approval.
“Keep going,” he instructed me. His mouth traveled along my spine. I sighed, trying not to tremble as he kissed my bare skin. He took his time, worshipping my flesh, and slowly returned to my neck. I felt a fang drag across my shoulder, and I sucked in a steadying breath. I had no idea if I could keep playing if he bit me. My core throbbed at the thought of him feeding on me as I played for him, and a soft moan spilled out of me. He paused, allowing the sharp points to press against my skin before he planted a kiss over the spot.
No bite.
He moved his mouth to my ear and spoke just loud enough for me to hear over the music. “I have imagined this since the moment I saw you play. Open your eyes while we play together.”
I sucked in a deep breath and allowed my eyes to flutter open. Julian rested his forehead against my shoulder as he moved his hand down. His fingers spread me open, and I nearly missed a note.
“Should I stop?” he asked.
I shook my head, determined to continue. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, and then he began to play. His fingers danced over my swollen flesh. I couldn’t see them behind the reflection of the cello, which blocked all but my shoulders up from view. But I felt each longing note. Music built inside me, rising and bringing with it a staccato series of throbs. Each beat of pleasure was violent and promising. I thought of the opera–of his fangs inside me–and I lost control. The bow clattered to the floor. I reached behind me and wrapped my arm around his neck as he orchestrated the final bars of our duet.
Cries spilled from my lips as he brought me to a crescendo and held me as I fell into his music.
When all that remained was the lingering rhythm of my pulse, he steadied me and took the cello from my hand. I saw myself in the mirror. Floral silk puddled under my spread legs, my sex glistening with the wet heat of climax, and every inch of my body on display. I stared at the stranger I saw there.
She walked with death.
She knew desire.
She craved the forbidden.
Julian returned and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders and his eyes sweeping across the body on display. I allowed myself the same pleasure. There was no mistaking him for a human. He had the body of an ancient god, not that of a man. His muscled chest was so well-defined, so perfectly chiseled, that it looked as if he had been sculpted from marble. He was simply perfection.
No words passed between us. But something else grew inside me. Not the constant hunger I felt for his touch. That was always present. This sensation planted itself in my chest as we watched each other in silence. It blossomed and stretched until I was sure I would crack open. I was changing. I couldn’t deny it. I wouldn’t.
I knew what I wanted.
I lifted my hand and placed my palm carefully over the hand resting on my shoulder. His nostrils flared at the audacious touch, but he didn’t pull away. It was the most intimate message I could send him.
My hands contained no magic. I had none to offer. I only had one thing to give him:
Myself.
Every bit of me. My heart, my soul, my body, and with it, my future.
“Take me to bed,” I murmured.
