Dark Notes(110)

Two words don’t erase years of abuse and bullshit. However, his actions today, his choosing me over Lorenzo, hit hard and true, fracturing the ugly barrier between us.

A fracture doesn’t bring down a wall. But it does leave behind a precious weak point, one that will always be there. Whenever I think of him, I’ll feel that fracture and remember it fondly.

Emeric studies our interaction, his expression neutral, his caresses lingering on my ankle.

Shane lifts a hand and reaches for mine, making an awkward hesitation in the space that separates us before hooking our fingers together.

He smiles sadly, squeezes my hand, and whispers, “Fuck you, Ivory.”

I squeeze back. “Have a nice life, Shane.”

He pulls his hand away, then his gaze, and walks out the door without looking back.

A pang of loss tightens my chest. The urge to stop him tenses my legs.

But he broke into Emeric’s house. He beat me for years. I’m no longer a victim. With those reminders, I let him go.

Emeric follows him out. When he returns a few minutes later, he strips naked, slides into bed behind me, and curves his body around mine. I revel in the warmth of his skin and twine our legs together, melting against his chest with a sigh.

Instead of demanding I talk or eat or take my medicine, he touches his mouth to my shoulder then my neck and jaw. When I turn in his arms, he teases my lips apart and sinks his tongue in to slide against mine. The scruff on his chin rubs softly. Cinnamon flavors his breaths, his lips a firm pressure of sensuality.

His mouth is the best place to get lost in.

With my hand on those sexy indentations in his waist, I nip, lick, and taste, taking my time, following his lead. It’s a kiss without expectation, a melding of lips simply for the comfort in the connection.

We maintain that gentle mood for the remainder of the evening.

The next morning begins with a fight.

He says we’re not going to school. He can do what he wants. I’m going. He thinks I need rest and refuses to leave me home alone. It’s Friday. I can rest over the weekend. If we both miss another day, we might as well announce our relationship over the intercom.

We argue for an hour. I win. It turns out to be an uneventful day. And fruitless. My concentration is shit. Emeric might’ve been right about one thing. I need rest—the mental kind.

By Saturday afternoon, the sore spot on my stomach where Lorenzo kicked me turns a violent shade of purple. Emeric’s horror at seeing it is the impetus for our inevitable conversation.

We soak in the tub, my back against his chest and his legs bracketing mine. As I walk him through what happened, he swirls soap over my skin, his fingers massaging and soothing. I give him every gritty detail, my voice strong at the beginning. When I tell him about my brainless attempt to use my safe word, his body turns to stone beneath me. My voice wavers from there. By the time I recall those final moments with Schubert’s body in my arms, I crumble against him.

It hurts. That little fur ball was such an essential part of my life, and I ache in his absence. But I’m not broken. Not like I was when I lost my dad. It’s easier this time. I feel it in every touch and glance Emeric gives me, that much-needed support of another person holding me up during those times when I struggle to stand on my own.

That night, he snores softly behind me, his chest pressed to my back, our limbs entangled, bodies aligned. I can’t join him in sleep, my mind too restless, thinking about his reaction to using my word with Lorenzo.

Nothing has changed between Emeric and me. We haven’t had sex since that day, but I’ve had a bladder infection. His lingering glances still make me purr. His kisses curl my toes. What I don’t know is how I’ll respond when he straps me down, grips my throat, or raises that belt. I trust him, unequivocally. But do I trust a word—any word—enough to use it again?

Before I met him, Scriabin’s sonata was a black mass in my mind, the place I went to when terrible things happened to my body.

Over the past five months, those dark notes have become synonymous with Emeric and the safety he gives me. Did I ruin it by using it with the wrong man?

I play the sonata in my head, but I don’t feel it. I need to hear it.

Sneaking out from beneath the heavy weight of his arms, I listen for his even breaths then tiptoe to the music room.

With the door shut, the room is supposed to be soundproof. I sit behind the piano, soaking in the silence and clearing my head. After a few calming breaths, I run my fingers over the keys and ease into Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.

It’s rough at first, the melody banging through the room in a disjointed rhythm. But I keep at it, transforming my interpretation from eerie and neurotic to something more nebular and meditative. The sonata drifts around me in a cloud of notes. My mind absorbs it, reflects it.

It feels safe. The kind of safe that enwraps me during my darkest times. It’s doing that now, melting away the room, fogging my headspace, and immersing me in dissonance.

Except I suddenly don’t feel like playing it. I rest my hands in my lap. The sonata is a place to go to, a word to speak, when I’ve reached my limit. But do I enjoy it? Not really. It doesn’t…thrill me.

I want to try something different. Something beyond Chopin, Rachmaninov, and Debussy.

My attention shifts toward the door, and I startle.

Emeric leans against the frame, arms relaxed at his sides, his phone in one hand. He’s been in constant communication with his PI over the past couple days. Probably tracking Shane. Maybe something involving Lorenzo, as well. He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask.