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When I finally turn, Evelyn stands in the center of the living room, violin in hand. Her face is unreadable as she raises the instrument to her shoulder, tucks it under her chin.
"You don't have to," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She doesn't respond. Just closes her eyes and draws the bow across the strings.
The first note hits me like a tsunami wave. Low and mournful, it fills the space between us, vibrating in my chest. I set my glass down, forgotten.
This isn't the polished performance from the garden or charity event. This is something raw. Something private. The melody starts slow, almost hesitant, before building into something that makes my breath catch.
I don't recognize the piece. Don't care what it’s called. All I know is that watching her play is like watching someone bleed out their soul.
Her body sways with the music, completely lost in it. Her face transforms—eyes closed, lips slightly parted. The violence of the past few days melts away from her features, replaced by something close to ecstasy.
My fingers tighten. I want to cross the room. Want to run my hands through her hair, feel the heat of her skin under my palms. The urge to touch her hits me with unexpected force.
The melody shifts, grows more intense. Her movements become more passionate, more abandoned. Sweat glistens on her neck, and I find myself staring at the pulse point there.
I've never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
My body stiffens, fighting against the pull of her. This isn't part of the plan. She's leverage against Ivan, a means to an end.
But watching her play, I can't remember any of those reasons.
The music reaches a crescendo, her bow flying across the strings with controlled violence. Then it slows, softens, until the final note hangs in the air between us like a question.
When she opens her eyes, they're wet with emotion. She looks directly at me, and for the first time since I took her there's no hostility in her gaze. Just vulnerability.
"That was..." I start, but words fail me.
Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. "My mother taught me that piece."
CHAPTER 13
Ilift the violin to my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. This is my world, the only place where I've ever been truly free. Even here, in Noah's apartment, with the walls closing in, the violin offers escape.
My fingers find the strings and I begin to play.
Not for him. For me. That's what I tell myself.
But I know it's a lie.
I chose Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. Something raw and emotional. Something that might reach whatever's left of his soul.
The photograph I found earlier—his mother with a violin—it clicks into place now. The way he watches me when I play. The hunger in his eyes isn't just for me. It's for something lost.
I close my eyes and let the music flow. Each note vibrates through my body, an extension of myself. I don't need to see Noah to know he's there, standing at the windows, frozen.
The melody soars, passionate and melancholy. I think of my own mother, sitting silently while my father pushed and pushed. I think of Noah's mother, who must have played like this once. Before whatever happened that left her son with just a photograph.
I feel him move closer. His presence is like gravity, pulling at me even when I resist.
"Stop." His voice cuts through the music.
My eyes snap open. Noah stands inches away, his face a mask of controlled pain.
"Why are you playing that?" His words come out strangled.
I lower the violin slowly. "Because you wanted me to play."