Page 22 of Thorns of Silence

I wasn’t a good man, and I was raised by an even worse one. Evil bred evil. I learned at an early age that darkness was part of us, just like the light. Fighting it was fruitless, so instead, I embraced it. The dark just feltright.

If there was a tiny piece of light that appealed to me—like Phoenix, who seemed to have balanced light and dark just right—I’d snatch it and hold on to it. Any-fucking-way. Right or wrong.

“That seems too… dangerous,” she supplied tentatively. Dr. Freud shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other and reaching for her pendant. It was her nervous tell. “It could become an issue.”

I ran my tongue across my teeth and resisted the need to lash out, but the tension in my body remained. “I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue is,” she started carefully, “that you could pose an even bigger threat to yourself”—or to others,she meant—“when she’s no longer around.”

“Well, that’s easily remedied. I’ll ensure she doesn’t go anywhere.” Fuck, I really said that out loud.

My gaze held hers, challenging her to contradict me, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as we stared at each other.

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then focused on her folder. “And if she’s ready to move on?”

A quiet tick of a bomb about to detonate drummed in my brain. She looked up from her papers, eyes wide at what I could only imagine she saw in me.An animal.Twisted.Sick.

Getting to my feet, I headed for the door.

“Dante, you will respect this woman’s wishes, right?” Her voice touched my back and my hand paused on the doorknob.

I glanced at her over my shoulder and flashed her a smile, pulling the door open and striding out. “Of course.”

Not.

ELEVEN

PHOENIX

My fingers danced over the piano keys, the vibrations of each note buzzing through me. Each one felt different, linking to a far-off memory.

My earliest memories of playing the piano were from when I was around three years old. I was told I had perfect pitch, the ability to identify or recreate a note without having any reference point. I didn’t lose my hearing until I was six, but by that time, music had become a part of me. Those early years were enough to ingrain the love for it into my bones. I knew how C-sharp minor sounded and the exact level of vibration it sent through my fingers when I played it.

By the time I became legally deaf, playing piano was my escape and helped me to feel some semblance of normalcy. To feel like the old me, before I lost my hearing. It helped that I continued with a private tutor. Even though I knew my prospects weren’t promising for a career later on, I’d always known music was my calling.

My sister had fashion, and I knew she took music classes only for my benefit. There was no backup plan for me. I’d always known the reality, that I would struggle in a symphony orchestra or with other musicians, but I powered through. There were setbacks, of course. Certain maestros who weren’t willing to risk their career—or energy—on a deaf girl, even though I wasn’t the first deaf piano player in the world. Not many wanted to take on the challenge.

My fingers slowed with the last of the notes, music fading through the buzzing in my fingers. I brought my arms down to my lap, letting them rest gracefully.

Maestro nodded, satisfied, and before he could say, “We’re done for the day,” everyone was up and bolting for the door, dragging their instruments along despite the fact that we’d be right back here tomorrow for practice. There was only one more week until the ballet company was due to perform with the live orchestra as part of the third-year graduation requirement.

It wasn’t the best gig, but it was something. And it was another step closer to the music industry.

I stood up from my spot, pausing for a moment to glance at the time on my phone. It was only five in the afternoon. Truthfully, I was purposely delaying, hoping not to run into any of the ballet crew. Especially that prick Erik, the principal dancer.

I met Maestro’s gaze as he packed up, and I groaned inwardly. I couldn’t expect them all to know ASL, but it made communication difficult at the best of times, exhausting at the worst.

He must have read my wish in my eyes.

“Do you want to practice a bit longer?” He spoke slowly, enunciating his words. I didn’t have it in me to correct him, knowing he was doing so for my benefit, but as long as he didn’t mumble, I could read lips.

“Yes, thank you.”

He headed out of the auditorium, leaving me alone.

Taking a deep breath, I brought my fingers to the key block, its smooth, cool surface the only therapy that worked without fail to soothe my heart and soul. I began playing again, letting each note drown out everything else.

I poured it all out. My pain. My regrets.