Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I stripped off the hateful uniform, standing in my basic, budget friendly white bra and underpants, breathing heavily, ready to scream.
I did not know what to do with myself. My skin itself felt foreign to me in this place. I was out of my element, trapped, and with no hope of escape or relief.
Until I saw it. The worn black case, curving gently to match the instrument inside. My beautiful violin was here. I tore open the case, on my hands and knees, and lifted the familiar heft of wood and taut strings into my arms, cradling it like a baby.
I stood and placed the violin under my chin, not caring if my playing made noise, not caring if it woke the whole house. Though I knew, deep down, that it was only Anton and myself at this hour. And his study was too far for him to hear.
I played, violently, but with a precision and passion I had not felt in years. I gave a fleeting thought about trying to keep it quiet and let it slip away like a leaf on a swiftly moving stream. I simply, and unequivocally, did not care if I woke ‘his majesty’, or anyone else.
When the sonata was finished, I collapsed on the bed, weeping, remembering what I was there for, and regretting my childish, hateful act of defiance.
I was a brat. I was here to save my father. My captor could have killed him, and me, without blinking an eyelash. But he had given me a chance.
It might be awful, humiliating, and challenging, but it was a chance.
I had no choice but to take it.
I dragged myself into the bathroom to wash my foolish tears away in a hot shower. I felt better the moment the hot water hit my tired shoulders and back, the heat running down my legs, soothing my spirit and my flesh. I slipped into a nightgown that had belonged to my mother and climbed into the enormous bed. I sighed at the feeling of the crisp sheets and firm mattress. I had never felt anything so luxurious.
I was not certain if it was exhaustion, physical or otherwise, or the comfort of the bed, but I fell asleep quickly, and slept deeper than I had in years.
Chapter 7
Anton
Idid not sleep a wink. The haunting, exquisitely played melody coming from her bedroom tore through my body like a pack of hungry wolves, tearing at my very soul. I had stood in the hallway, slowly climbing the stairs, afraid to disturb her or stop the glorious torment of hearing her incredible talent.
I knew she played for herself, and not for me. If anything, she played in spite of my hateful presence. The contradiction only made me want her more.
My desire for her was quickly becoming an obsession. I kept trying to put her in a box, a neatly labeled category, as I had done with every other woman in my life. Instead, she had neatly evaded categorization or compartmentalization.
And that was long before I had heard her play.
Never mind the video feed. Initially, I had the volume turned off while she played. I stared, transfixed as the beautiful, half naked beauty poured her heart and soul into what I recognized as Mozart Violin Concerto number three before I was drawn to hear her play, as close to her door as I dared to venture.
I knew I would watch her, listen to, again and again as the night wore on. But for now, I wanted to be as close as I could be. I wanted to listen to her, not the tawdry sound captured by the secret cameras I had installed in her suite.
She was the best musician I had ever heard in my life. I was stunned by her talent. Nothing I had ever heard compared to it. Not the symphony. Not famous recordings. Not the many operas I had attended over the years.
Our father had included art and music in our education. I could even play a bit of the piano, but not like Andrei could play the guitar, or really anything. And Alexei could sing his ass off, not that he ever really did. My true talent had always been painting, but my father had discouraged it after a certain age, calling it child’s play.
I still had all my paints and canvases, stashed away in the attic. I was no longer a child. My father’s word no longer held sway in such personal matters. Sometimes my fingers itched to pick up a paint brush and make art again.
Watching her, the itching intensified.
I watched her disappear into the bathroom and cursed my morals in not putting a camera in there, too. It had seemed wrong to do so. But now I was dying to see what she was up to. Taking a bath? Showering? She was in the bathroom for a long time. So long that I nearly ran down the hallway and demanded she come out. But the game would be over before it started.