Sonata

by Skye Warren

  A grin. “You did promise me something on the window.”

  “We don’t need a window for that.” I pull her up so that her knees straddle my face. I pull her hips down and make good on my promise. She gasps at the sudden switch. It’s not two separate things, my love and my desire. They’re like the emerald set in gold filigree, each part empty without the other. I use my tongue to make her moan—more, more, more. Until she’s pressing her body down in urgent pulses. Until the rushes take her over. Moisture spills down my chin. Christ. She’s wearing my ring. I should fuck her in a bed. Instead I flip her over so she’s on her back, the thick carpet her only protection from marble floors. I push her legs wide. Next time we’ll use a bed. For now I need to be inside. I plunge into her, savoring the wet heat, cursing my pleasure at the way she encases me. “My little prodigy. Mine.”

  Her head dips back, and I lick her neck in a primal claim.

  “Play me a chord.”

  To make sure she obeys me, I flick my thumb against her clit. She bucks against my body, trapped between my weight and the rug, the sound of her ecstasy sweet in my ear, the sexual strains the perfect counterpoint to the hard thrusts I use to find my end.

  Bethany

  I stare at the door the way that Samantha stared at her violin, in silent challenge. It’s a losing battle. It’s nightfall when I finally stride across the room and turn the knob. The hallway seems to hold its breath. Complete silence. It sounds loud in my ears.

  I’m sure Liam is comforting Samantha…

  Actually, it’s probably the other way around. He looked haunted when he pulled her out of that well. Romeo went in search of his handsome servant as soon as we got back. I’m sure the married couple who live here are together.

  I’m one of the few people in one of these rooms alone. There’s one other person I know I’ll find by himself. The darkness peaking under his door gives me pause. What if he doesn’t want me here? Of course he won’t want me here.

  A soft knock.

  No answer. No sound of movement inside.

  What if he’s having complications? I know from my time in Cirque du Monde that hits on the head can always turn serious. He won’t appreciate my concern, that’s for sure. I push inside anyway. The tightness in my chest won’t let me leave.

  Pitch black.

  My eyes slowly accommodate to the darkness. Sofas and side tables stand like sentinels. I creep past them to the bedroom door. Draperies in both rooms have been battened down against the moonlight. The shadows on the bed don’t move, not even to breathe. They don’t make any sounds, but I feel his presence anyway, his intense life force held in stasis.

  As I step closer the shape of him emerges from the night. His arms and shoulders—bare. That probably means he’s naked under the heavy blanket. His strong features in rare repose. A frown mars his forehead. It’s the only sign of awareness. The only sign of life. Even his chest barely stirs with each exhale. I put my knee on his bed, which feels like a violation. Then I touch two fingers to his brow. A small caress between enemies. After a moment his expression smooths into that deep slumber.

  I come from a family of superstitions. Joshua North would surely mock me if he knew about the voodoo and the tarot cards my mamere read. But he can’t mock me now. The orange bottle on his nightstand shows the reason why. I doubt his usual reflexes would allow me to sneak up on him this way. He took pain medicine, which I can only imagine means he was in absolute agony. Otherwise he would resist it. He doesn’t have his usual defenses, so I’ll watch over him. I settle into a chair on the side of the room.

  Superstitious or not, I’ll keep the evil spirits away from him for tonight. I stay there until my shoulders become stiff. Until my right foot falls asleep. By the time the early sun peers between the slats in the drapes, I’m already gone. He never needs to know I was here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Liam

  Footmen carry our bags through the service exit while I lead Samantha down the broad staircase. Isabella and Bethany wait at the bottom to say goodbye. I leave them to their hugs and promises of texts. The doors to the library stand open, like sentries. Frans stands at his desk, reading something on a tablet, a frown marring his forehead. He looks up when I enter.

  “Thank you for letting us use the jet,” I say, crossing the room. North Security consulted on the safety and security of the aircraft, as we have for many of our wealthy clients. I’ve placed the necessary order to purchase our own, but it will be several months before it’s fully outfitted. It became necessary now that our most famous client needs to travel for her musical appearances.

  Frans accepts my handshake. “I don’t think Isa and I will be traveling soon.”

  Probably not, considering the paparazzi camped outside the chateau’s gates. The ramped up security we put in place for Samantha’s visit will remain until the furor dies down. Every newspaper features a photograph of a young woman masterfully playing a violin, along with headlines that proclaim Conspiracy Uncovered and International Scandal.

  “Thank you also for bearing witness.” Frans is as dangerous as any man on my payroll, but that’s not the primary reason I brought him along two nights ago. It’s his word that won’t be questioned, even in the highest circles of the European governments. The aristocracy doesn’t have the weight it used to, but some of the conventions are alive and well.

  “Hell. I spend over two million a year on security. Not to mention the pomp and circumstance. If there wasn’t some upside it would be unbearable.”

  “Considering my company accepts much of that two million, you could say I benefit from your title in multiple ways.”

  A low laugh. “The US government lost a brilliant strategist when they let you go.”

  I walk to the window and look out, crossing my arms. They didn’t want to let me go. I was more than a strategist. I was an operator, an assassin. I was anything they needed me to be. A weapon made of flesh and bone. It was only Samantha who got me out. She felt like a responsibility to bear. Something I had to do out of guilt. Instead she’s become my salvation.

  “You’re upset this isn’t more resolved,” Frans says, his voice low so the women still bubbling with friendly chatter and laughter don’t hear him.

  “There’s more at stake than political corruption and the future of the world,” I manage to say in a light tone. “Samantha won’t be at peace until her father’s actions are fully revealed.”

  “It takes longer than six months to take apart a conspiracy that’s been decades in the making. And I wouldn’t be so sure about Samantha not finding peace. The women. They’re stronger than us that way. They make their own happiness.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience.”

  “I am a married man.”

  “For what? One month now.” My amusement fades. “I do wish you well.”

  “And you, my friend.” He puts the tablet in front of me. Buried off the front page is a small piece that describes how two men of unknown origin have been taken into custody. Officially, information is being withheld in the interests of national security. The article resorts to innuendo with surprising accuracy. The diplomatic community is in an uproar. Russia demands the release of the two men. The United States claims no knowledge of their activity. Security clearances everywhere are being evaluated, as it becomes common knowledge, if only in the intelligence community, that a massive conspiracy has been perpetrated. How high does it go? the article asks at the end.

  Frans is right. I might wish it was completely resolved, but with roots this deep in the political landscape it will take time to pull them out. “In two weeks the statement we pulled from those men will be leaked to a US newspaper.”

  A pause. “Understood. I’ll tell my contacts they have that much to get their house in order.”

  The important thing is that Samantha is safe. I leave the library to find her waiting for me on the front drive. Already the clouds have cleared. The events of that night are public kn
owledge in private circles. Reporters already connect her father’s actions to the attempt on her life. They’re digging through his travel dates. They’re looking at his contacts. Rather than silencing Samantha, they’re trying to distance themselves from the whole debacle now. It won’t work. Already men who were interns and lackeys ten years ago are coming forward. Demanding immunity. They don’t want anything to do with the old regime, and they’re willing to sell out their former bosses to ensure that they won’t be connected.

  The important thing is that Samantha is safe, and that has to be enough for me. What did Frans say? That the women made their own happiness. Yes. That does describe her. Her eyes shine with relief and anticipation of a lifetime to come.

  I’m helpless in the face of her hope. I always have been.

  I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. My eyes close—in relief and anticipation of a lifetime to come. My eyes close in hope. “Thank you,” she murmurs, as if I saved her two nights ago. How did I ever think I could walk away from her? It wasn’t a question of love. I loved her since I held her in my arms, her small body ravaged by poison.

  It wasn’t even a question of lust.

  It was warfare, plain and simple. A war that I fought for as long and hard as my soldier’s heart could bear. Like most wars, it wasn’t lost in a single battle. There were losses along the way—following her in the apartment in Nantes, taking her to see the sights in Paris. Fucking her on the balcony. It died a little at every battle, the part of me so determined to be alone. As if that made me stronger.

  She’s the winner in combat, the warrior, the one to whom I wave the white flag.

  Surrender. It’s never seemed like a sign of strength until now.

  Samantha

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  The cold water seeps through my skin. It sinks into my bones. The blackness closes around me until it’s hard to breathe. Panting fills the air around me. Mine. The faint slush of the water sounds painfully loud to my sensitive ears.

  There’s no relief. It’s endless. Forever.

  “Samantha.”

  Is that Liam? He seems far away. He won’t know that I’m down here. If no one finds me I’ll spend my last days in this pool of freezing water. I’ll spend my last hours here.

  “Samantha.”

  Liam. I try to call out to him, but it feels like I’m paralyzed. I can’t move my lips, my tongue. I can’t make a single noise. What if he’s too late? What if I’m already dead? He would find me lying here eventually. I know he wouldn’t give up.

  It would make him so sad. He would grieve me.

  Suddenly I’m moving. Light blinds me. Shivering wracks my body. An explosion of sound like the roar of thunder. No, like a plane. The humming underneath my seat reminds me of where I am. I open my eyes to look directly into an intense green gaze.

  “You’re safe now,” he says, his voice rough, as if he’s been yelling.

  Maybe he has been.

  A nightmare. That’s what it was. A nightmare that I was trapped underneath the Palais Garnier. It wasn’t real, even though I feel chilled to my core. As if he understands that, Liam wraps his arms around me. He pulls me close until it’s hard to know where he ends and I begin. “I’m sorry,” I say, forcing the words out. The feeling of being paralyzed hasn’t fully left.

  A stewardess appears holding a blanket. He accepts it without a word, wrapping it around me. The plush warmth enfolds me. The rise and fall of his chest comforts me. His voice comes low and steady this time. “It may take some time for the dreams to stop.”

  I remember walking into his room at Kingston…

  A form writhes on the bed, large, menacing. A wild sound of rage. Of pain?

  “Liam?” I whisper.

  My eyes adjust so slowly, revealing a feral animal, revealing a man in sleep. White sheets are tangled around his waist. His shoulders are thick with muscle. He grasps the sheets, the pillows, fighting something. My heart clenches at the realization.

  Liam North is having a nightmare.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. Tension ripples beneath my palm. He’s facing down, fighting some invisible enemy, sweat a faint gleam across a landscape of strength.

  He goes still.

  “It’s just a dream,” I say, soothing. Only it doesn’t feel like a dream. There are terrible demons in the room, as living and breathing as I stand here. Maybe more.

  A crash of motion, and then I’m pulled, twisted, pinned onto the bed. I land hard on the expanse of cool sheets. Breath leaves me in a rush. A large body cages me from above, an arm pressed across my neck. It’s not hard enough to keep me from breathing, but I definitely can’t move.

  “Liam,” I say, gasping. “Liam!”

  He trembles above me, around me. He’s become my whole world—and it’s a dark place to live. His breath saws through the air like a serrated blade.

  “How dare you,” he says, his voice guttural.

  He’s asleep, he’s still asleep, and I don’t know how to wake him up. Only then his hand moves from my neck to my jaw.

  His thumb brushes over my cheek. “Samantha,” he mutters.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, more for whatever horrors haunted him in the nightmare than for waking him. Someone should be here every night, to pull him back to the land of the living.

  “I could have hurt you.” He sounds hoarse but coming awake. “Do you have a goddamn death wish, Samantha? I could have killed you.”

  I’m trembling underneath him, still trying to make sense of how I ended up on his bed, how I ended up between his thighs, the heavy weight of something on my stomach. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” I say, the words coming breathless and unsure.

  The smell of him—earth and musk and salt. It’s all I can think about, the way he surrounds me. The way he moves over me. This is how it would feel if we made love. Even his arm across my neck… it’s meant to be a violent act, but it feels sensual. My nerves pick apart every sensation: the heat of him, the rasp of hair across his forearm, the throb of his pulse.

  This is every erotic dream I’ve ever had, everything I see when I close my eyes, my hands between my legs. It would be perfect—if he wasn’t still trembling from aftershocks. What kind of terrible thing would make Liam so scared he would lash out like an animal? He’s the most controlled person I’ve ever met.

  He dips his head, his lips against the curve of my ear. “I would,” he murmurs, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “You aren’t safe with me.”

  How far we’ve come from that night. I’m the one with the nightmares now. There’s no one better to comfort me. No one who understands them better than this man.

  “Yes,” I whisper with certainty. “I’m safe now.”

  He holds me with quiet assurance. There are no words to make the memories go away. Only human touch will do that. The certainty that I’m alive. The knowledge that I’m not alone. “I love you, Samantha Brooks,” he says, giving me the words I asked for on the train, proving that I’m wrong. There are words that make the memories fade away. They’re a beautiful music, infused with truth. Spoken with an instrument as old as my Stradivarius. Written on paper as worn as the parchment from Debussy.

  “I love you, too.” It doesn’t matter how many stages I stand on. This is the performance of my life, speaking four simple words while I’m tucked in his arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Samantha

  How many afternoons have we worked this way?

  I sit on a plain chair in the middle of an overlarge music room, playing until my fingers turn red and bruised. Liam works quietly a few yards away, his office door open, the extensive grounds of North Security’s training field through the window beyond him.

  It’s a peaceful existence, one that’s about to become a lot more chaotic.

  Time to let Liam in on that secret.

  I set the bow to the strings and play a song I’ve never played before. It takes Liam a three-count before his head rises. A whole
refrain before he gets up and crosses the room. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slight frown. “What’s that?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t you recognize it? You need to get online more.”

  The bow runs through the refrain again. It’s a simple song, after all. Made for children to enjoy. Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo. He has no idea. It’s adorable. There’s going to be a lot for him to learn, though ironically, he has more experience being a parent than me. We’ll learn the rest of it together. “Baby makes three,” I say softly.

  He stares at me, dumbfounded. “No.”

  “I should have explained,” I say, teasing. “About the birds and bees.”

  “Not this bird.” He kneels in front of me, placing a hand on my still-flat stomach. There isn’t fear in his eyes now. Only love. “Not this bee. Samantha, is it true?”

  “It’s true.” My eyes fill with tears. They’re ones of joy. Not pain.

  He’s made of muscle and scar tissue. A fortress of a human being, but he renders himself vulnerable for me. He rests his head in my lap, exposing his nape. I ruffle my fingers through his pale brown hair. This is how we make a family. Not with haunting memories but with music.

  This is how we compose our future—one note at a time.

  EPILOGUE

  Samantha

  Water laps at my ankles, surprisingly cold on a warm day. A breeze whispers against wet skin. I compose a letter in my mind. Dear mama. No. Dear mother. Also no. To whom it may concern, I’m getting married today. I’ve lived long enough without actual relatives. I don’t think about it all the time, but right now, there’s a family-shaped hollow in my heart. Isn’t this when they come together? A mother to help me dress. A father to walk me down the aisle. A church full of people to throw rice. There’s no church. No aisle. There is a dress, although it doesn’t have a train or a veil. White silk flutters in the wind, threatening at any moment to break from my grasp and get entirely wet.