Page 44

"Not that piece."
I hold his gaze. "Your mother played, didn't she? That's why you've been watching me. That's why you took me."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I saw the photograph," I say. "She had a violin."
Noah's hands clench at his sides. Briefly I think he might lash out, but instead he turns away.
"She used to play every night," he says, his back to me. "Just for me."
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't the cold, calculating man who kidnapped me. This is someone else. Someone broken.
"What happened to her?" I ask, though I'm afraid of the answer.
Noah doesn't respond. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken pain.
"Play something else," he says.
I hesitate, then lift the violin again. This time I choose Bach's Partita No. 2. Something precise and structured. Something that won't tear open old wounds.
As I play I watch Noah's shoulders relax slightly. He turns back to face me, his eyes never leaving my hands as they dance across the strings.
I understand now. This obsession isn't just about me. It's about what I represent. A ghost from his past that he can't let go.
I lower the violin as the last notes of Bach fade into silence. Noah still watches me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"Happy now?" I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
He doesn't answer, just keeps staring like he's trying to memorize every detail of my face. The intensity makes my skin tingle.
What is wrong with me? This man kidnapped me. He's dangerous—I've seen what his hands can do. Those hands that killed Ivan's men without hesitation.
Yet when he talks about his mother, when that mask slips even for a moment, something inside me immediately responds. It's terrifying.
"You play like her," Noah says. His voice is rough, like the words are being dragged out against his will.
"I'm not her."
"I know that." His jaw tightens. "Trust me, I fucking know that."
The harshness returns to his voice, but I've seen beneath it now. I can't unsee it.
"Noah—" I start, not even sure what I'm going to say.
He steps closer and my heart hammers against my ribs. I should back away. I should be afraid. Instead I'm rooted to the spot, caught between wanting to run and wanting to...what? Touch him? Comfort him? The thought is absurd.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't try to understand me. Don't try to find something good in this."
"There's nothing good about being kidnapped," I snap, anger flaring to protect me from these confusing feelings.
"Then why did you play for me?" His question hits like a slap.
I have no answer that makes sense. Nothing about how I feel makes sense. He's a monster. A killer. The enemy.
But he's also a boy who lost his mother. A man who looks at me like I'm both salvation and damnation.
"I don't know," I whisper, and it's the most honest thing I've said since arriving here.