Page 34 of Owned Bratva Bride

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It was the second night after my encounter with Eduard.

And it was the second time I was wandering the hallways since then.

There was something alluringly forbidden about walking about in the dim lights. Underneath that, however, was the chance of running into Eduard again.

It was a possibility that made my body tingle with both anticipation and fear.

As I walked back to my room, I noticed a turn at the opposite end of the hallway. Curiosity got the better of me, and I walked toward it.

It wasn’t another long hallway, just a few steps, and I was standing in front of double wooden doors.

I pushed open one of the doors, and a mix of old books and dust hit my nose. The room was even bigger than I had imagined. As the door shut behind me, I felt like a child stepping into another time—an older one.

The lights were off, but the evening moonlight that slipped in through the large windows was enough for me to see every part of the room. Large bookshelves lined the east walls while instruments lined the west walls. Tucked beneath a stained glass window along the west wall was the instrument that caught my attention.

A black, gleaming, grand piano.

Walking over to it, I realized it was the only instrument that had no layer of dust on it. I took the sheet music from the piano, wondering who owned it. The handwritten notes in precise script made me think of Edward. But that was an impossibility. Then I saw the initials at the top corner of the last page.

Y.

It was Eduard’s.

It was difficult to reconcile something so human with the criminal who took me.

By sheer force of habit, my fingers came down on a few keys. The soft sound filled the room, almost encouraging me to go on. But then, I made an error, and then another. I stopped.

It’s been so long.

I went out of the room and back to my room.

After tossing and turning endlessly, I gave up and sat up.

My legs were taking me back to the double-door room before I made the conscious decision to do so. I heard sounds from the crack of the door before I got to it. Pushing it open, I was met with a surprising scene.

Eduard sat facing the piano, producing a soft melody too intricate for an amateur to put together.

I stood there, my face pressed to the door, watching him play like it was what he was made for. It was just a man and his ghosts, no mask or audience.

It evoked memories of my teenage years.

“Marielle? Oh, wow!” my dad exclaimed, coming down the stairs to where I played the grand piano.

“How…where did you learn that?”

“I’ve heard you play this many times,” I remarked casually, my fingers gliding over the keys.

“This is different, and you know it. You’re talented at this, Marielle.”

“I’m glad you have one proper talent,” my mom commented, joining us, my brother’s school bag in her hand.

Bringing my mind back to the present, he played on like he had no plans of ever stopping.