Having powers is a lonely path by default. Every comic-book fan knows that, right?
Snow stands and walks to one of his cabinets. He takes a book from a shelf and brings it to me.
It’s small, and the cover is full of colors; honestly, it looks like a children’s book, which is a little odd. The title readsFate’s Seed, with the subtitleAlien’s Legends. The author is listed as BN Marlow.
I stare at the cover: a swarm of colorful fireflies encircling planet Earth. What is that supposed to mean? I don’t read children’s books, but I accept it out of politeness. Our silence is strange enough.
Snow waits a beat as if expecting me to dive right in, but I just keep the book on my lap, probably looking stiff.
A minute passes.
Feeling awkward, unsure what to do, I finally get up and walk toward the piano.
My eyes land on sheet music, a pen, and then the keys. I’m curious if Snow wrote the music just before I came. I throw him a quick glance. We’re standing close now; he’s just three feet from me, his head slightly lowered, his eyes on the chair by the piano. His scent, like a heather meadow, subtly hangs in the air. Very pleasant, and I take a discreet sniff. What if I lean in and inhale him? Touch the hard planes of his perfect alpha body, lick his skin…
Uhh, what?!
I force myself to calm down and glance at him again. I wonder what he’s thinking, what’s in his head.
My eyes move across his cheek and jaw to the tendons of his neck, and land on… his gland. It’s smooth, no mating marks. For some weird reason, I fix my eyes on that spot with crazy intensity. So close… Could I reach out and skim my fingers over his light golden skin?
But as I stare like that, I notice something super quiet, a sound. Snow hums, so softly, so subtly. What is it?
Why does he do it? Is he hypnotizing me or what? The melody is slow and kind of sweet.
I want to ask so much, about so many things, but it will cost me pain. So I don’t.
Instead, I shift my gaze to the keyboard.
Well, here’s another way to use my power.
I shift the air particles, compressing them until the keys press down as if on their own. I can’t play a melody; I don’t know much about music notation or sight-reading, but I let a few random sounds ring out. I even try to mimic the melody he’s humming, but with poor results; I have no idea what the notes are.
Snow leans lightly against the piano, watching the moving keys.
And then he reaches out his hand, and his fingers play the exact melody: the short, sweet line he’s been humming the whole time.
But those definitely weren’t the notes I clumsily played. How did he know what I was trying to do?
Our eyes meet, and I decide to smile.
I force my facial muscles to move, and they actually do it. He answers with a small, similar smile.
Okay, let the pain rain on me.
I need to ask.
"Did you compose it for me?" The words slice my throat like broken glass, but I push through it.
Snow closes his eyes, his fingers sliding over the keys; he looks incredibly sexy, as if lost in the melody, pale strands framing his perfect face, and then he slowly nods.
"Of course I did, Summer."
And he keeps playing. I wait for an explanation, for something more, but it’s just not him. I guess he’s quiet by nature; I’m quiet because of my trauma.
I close my eyes, wanting to join him in that melodic bliss, but I can’t. The moment I do, I fall into the darkness of my past. They did it to me; they cut me out, made everything hard for me…
Anzo Ferro.
