CHAPTER FOUR
I wanted to see a master play, not get played, so I made a play myself. The grand piano was delivered to the common area while I was in meetings, and Michael reported that Edward had moved it into his room by himself. During feeding and group time, he ran scales on the fine instrument and performed an impromptu concert before the vampires returned to their cells. Once his door closed, Edward got down to serious business.
Michael handed me a USB drive with reverent care. "It's everything he's played since he's been in the room with the piano. I don't know what it is—I'm not into classical music—but it's the most amazing thing I've ever heard."
I took the drive and glanced at the clock. Edward had been playing for four hours. I tapped the recording against my lip, grabbed my white lab coat, and wrapped my professionalism around me as I went to his observation room.
Little, inconsequential things change lives. Entering the familiar room was the first step off that cliff. Setting my laptop on the counter next to the control board was standard procedure, something I'd done every day of my life for the last couple of months. I opened it as I sank into the chair and settled my gaze on Edward.
The piano was a work of art, a gleaming black beast crouched in the middle of the room, overwhelming, taking over…and obeying the lightest touch from the long, elegant fingers that controlled it with consummate skill. Like a lover, Edward coaxed and enticed with every stroke of hands and dexterous flow of fingers. His shoulders worked, feet moved, bringing forth every nuance and giving the inanimate object a life of its own. I was struck by the insight that both were inanimate objects, not human, not living, but both transformed by virtuosity—the music he brought forth as no one alive could.
My hand reached out to the control board, fingers resting lightly on the rocker switch that opened the audio from his room to the observation area.
I pushed it forward, turning it on, and everything I thought I knew, prided myself on, believed in, was utterly destroyed because of a boy—my captive, a vampire—playing a piano.
What touched my ears wasn't music, mere notes floating through the air and hitting my auditory nerves in a miracle of nature and biology. What came through the audio system was something more, a different kind of miracle. Textured and full, it was alive, fully dimensional. Not just auditory, not sensory, but rich and thick, full, death defying. It cleansed me, crystal clear in its purity and depth, bringing tears to my eyes and a stinging, brilliant pain to my chest. My breath hitched, catching and refusing to complete, not wanting to make the slightest sound that might disrupt the grandeur filling the small, dreary room and transforming it into an opulent feast for the senses.
It was so hauntingly lovely, so beautifully mesmerizing, that I felt it in every part of my body—the caress of it on my skin, joy in my head, sorrow in my heart, burning tingles between my legs, lifting in my soul. I sagged in my chair, glorious tears streaking down my face from my closed eyes, and simply absorbed the beauty assaulting my senses. The tempest eventually slowed, calmed, no less stunning but gentler in its force. One hand wiped the wetness on my cheeks, the other moved with no hesitation to the control panel, to a switch that hadn't been touched since Edward took residence in the cell beyond. I made no other sound, and the clearing of the glass was silent, but his fingers slowed and came to rest on the keys, his head lifting like the rising sun. He stared at the wall in front of him, completely still. I sat forward, wondering if I should speak but desperate not to break the delicate and wonderful spell his music had created.
He turned on the bench without rising, his lean, powerful shoulders pivoting, narrow waist twisting, eyes closed. He sat at that awkward angle for a few seconds before swinging long legs over the bench, so he sat facing me, facing the barrier. Lashes swept up slowly, revealing a glimmer of burnished gold, a sliver, and then the full force of his gaze was on me for the first time.
It was a whisper of touch, sensitizing, and then a stroke. The force of his eyes hit me physically, blood rushing to the surface of my skin, stirring nerves to a fever pitch and then easing them down, leaving my entire body shivering and straining for more. More music. More of his eyes. More of the sensation of sex, even though many yards and an impenetrable barrier separated us. I gasped, and that broke whatever strange spell had come over us. Edward didn't drop his gaze, merely softened it as his golden eyes roved what he could see, from the loose knot of hair piled on my head down to my chest before his visual exploration was stopped by the counter. I stifled the almost unbearable urge to stand and let him see all of me, desperately wanting his approval of a body I'd not had much use for before then, only as a conveyance and support for my mind.
I barely managed to hit the other button on the control board.
"Edward." My voice was husky. Aroused. "That was… I've never… Thank you."
His eyelids lowered along with his head, just the slightest bit, never taking those gleaming eyes from me as he continued his perusal. I refused to fidget but sat quietly, sure he couldn't hear the rough, rasping hitches of my breath as I fought to bring myself, my professionalism, back under control.
"I played it for you."
The words were so soft, so smooth, they blended into the notes lingering in the air, and I almost missed them.
"What? You did... What?" My coherence needed some work, and I fumbled for the bottle of water, taking a desperate swallow. It steadied me, and I was able to regain some of my equilibrium.
"I hoped you'd hear. I wanted to play for you, to thank you for sharing yourself with me. Your time and intelligence. Your company."
"Edward, I—"
I'd gone too far, lost too much of my professionalism, if that's what he thought… But he was right. While I'd done my job to the letter, observed every decorum and detail as it pertained to my research, responsibilities, and daily duties at the Institute, I couldn't deny the time I'd spent with Edward had taken on a definite personal slant. I spent time with him because I wanted to—almost needed to—and let our sessions become different from all the others I'd conducted over the years.
The most devastating realization was, even with that awareness, I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to change one single thing, give up even a second of our conversations and time spent together. And that was the real problem.
Me.
"I wrote that last piece in my head. I can't tell you what it means to me to be able to play it, to actually hear it."
"It's beautiful," I admitted. "The most beautiful thing I have ever heard. You do have an amazing talent, Edward."
"I wrote it for you. I'm glad you think it beautiful. It fits you, and that was even before you allowed me to know what you look like." His eyes once again glowed with intensity as he looked me over.
"You wrote it for me?" You think I'm beautiful?
"Yes." He lowered his gaze, finally, running a hand through his unruly hair. "I have lots of time, you know. Reading books and listening to others play music only occupies me so much. Thank you for this. If nothing else… Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I bit my lip, debating what to do. I was at a crossroads, where my next words and actions would dictate my future, how I would go on from there, with him, my research, and my principles. My head did epic battle with my heart, intellect against instinct. The decision I made was purely my own and easily won by the part of me that refused to be denied any longer.
"Play for me, Edward. Please."
His head bowed, tension leaving the set of his shoulders, as if he knew the momentousness of the decision I'd made. Or perhaps he was just glad to have a chance to play the instrument he clearly loved, use a talent that would be criminal to let go fallow.
"I will. For you… Yes. I will."
He played for me every day after our sessions, as if he knew that what he created rendered me speechless. I brought my charts and other work into his observation cubicle at night, after hours, ostensibly to finish, but we both knew why I was there. His music was addictive—he was addictive—and I was a willing junkie. I couldn't bring myself to stop. I wasn't complete, as nervous and jittery and on edge as that aforementioned junkie, if I didn't have those moments with him, moments that turned into hours as the days progressed.
I started staying later and later, eventually giving up my pretense of work and just absorbing the notes, emotions, and essence of him that only showed through his music. The sheer beauty of his compositions affected me so strongly that I couldn't bear to look at him. I'd sit on the floor, out of sight, out of reach of those amazing golden eyes and the burn of his gaze, letting the exquisite melodies wash over me. Tears streamed down my cheeks, the conflict growing unbearable as I tried to resist but knew I was losing the battle.
Vampires were monsters—cold-blooded, evil, unconscionable creatures. We'd learned it. We'd seen it. We'd experienced it. I knew what they were with every fiber of my reasonable, scientific being. My mind accepted it, was even intrigued by it. Their base, animal nature was why I was there, after all, working with the Institute and studying the vampire race. Humanity had to be protected from the superior predators, and my work was a vital part of that.
But my heart… My heart wondered. How could evil create something so unbearably beautiful? How could such an expression of grace, splendor, and joyous magnificence come from something so malevolent? My heart and mind were as divergent as those questions, and I couldn't reconcile them, just like I couldn't reconcile the young man who played with such heartfelt emotion with a heartless monster.
I sighed, wiping the tears from my cheeks and stood on shaky legs. Walking slowly over to the control panel, my fingers stroked the button on the intercom switch just as the final notes lingered in the air. He always seemed to know when I was about to leave.
"Goodnight, Edward," I said softly, just like I did every night.
"Goodnight," he returned, turning on the piano bench and ducking his head, just like he did every night.
But, unlike every night, I remained, my eyes on him, searching for something that would settle my conflicting feelings, searching for a truth I couldn't find. After a few long seconds he lifted his head, eyes wide and inquiring as they sought mine through the cleared, thick, protective barrier that stood between us. I caught my breath and placed my fingertips against the clear material. His breath caught as well—breath he didn't need, I reminded myself—and I forced myself to leave the room.
It's late and I'm tired, but not too tired to thank Sarahsumbrella and SunKing for their beta efforts or you guys for reading.