I leaned slightly closer, and my breathing slowed, the rapid, shallow gasps evening out into something closer to normal. I was still tense, still ready to flee, but the urgency of it had dimmed.
Lucian's hands moved through another passage, this one climbing higher up the keyboard, creating notes that sparkled and fell like rain. “My mother taught me to play,” he said conversationally, his tone casual, like we were old friends catching up rather than strangers navigating the complex dynamic of being an Alpha and an Omega. “She said music was the language the soul spoke when words weren't enough.”
My throat felt tight. My mother had said something similar, had told me that singing was how we told the truth even when we were afraid to speak it aloud.
“Do you play?” he asked, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the keys.
I shook my head. “Just sing.”
“Just,” he repeated, with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Singing is one of the hardest, most vulnerable forms of music. It requires you to use your body as the instrument.”
His words settled over me like a blanket, unexpected and warm. No one had ever described my singing that way before. No one had ever made it sound like something valuable, something worthy of respect.
The music shifted again, moved into a melody I almost recognized, something that felt like it was built from the sameemotional language I used when I sang. Loss, longing, and the stubborn refusal to give up, all woven together into something beautiful precisely because it held all those contradictions.
My hands, which had been clenched in my lap, gradually relaxed. My fingers uncurled, resting loosely against my thighs. The constant vigilance that had been humming through my nervous system dimmed, not disappearing but settling into something less exhausting.
Lucian played through several more passages, each one a conversation, a question, and an answer.
Finally, his hands stilled, the last notes hanging in the air between us like visible light. The silence that followed wasn't empty or uncomfortable. It was full, pregnant with everything the music had said, with all the understanding that had passed between us without words.
He turned to look at me fully then, those ocean-colored eyes meeting mine with an intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't.
“Thank you for listening,” he said.
I swallowed and found my voice. “Thank you for playing.”
The smile that crossed his face was genuine, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle slightly at the corners. “Anytime you want to listen, I'm here. This room is always open to you.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak past the emotion clogging my throat.
The fragile bridge of hope that had formed during those minutes of music still held, still connected us across the piano bench. It wasn't much. It wasn't acceptance.
But it was a beginning.
And right now, that had to be enough.
Chapter Eight
Lucian
The following morning, after sharing musical dreams with our Omega. I awoke to hear the delicate melody of her voice. Of air shimmering over vocal chords, and kissing the music with her blissful presence.
The morning light slanted through my bedroom window, painting everything in shades of pale gold. I checked the clock on my nightstand, six fifty-two. Early, but not unreasonably so. She'd probably been awake for a while. Maybe she hadn't slept well in the unfamiliar space despite the lock on her door and all our careful assurances of safety during dinner last night, not that she stayed for very long.
I pushed back the covers and sat up, running my hands through my hair. My body felt heavy with sleep still, that pleasant weight that came from actually resting instead of just lying down. I grabbed a pair of joggers from the chair where I'd draped them last night and pulled them on, not bothering with a shirt. The penthouse was warm enough.
The hardwood floor was cool under my bare feet as I moved through the hallway. Her voice grew clearer with each step, and I could pick out more details now. The slight breathiness on her higher notes, like she wasn't fully supporting them with her diaphragm. The way she rushed through certain transitions,anticipating the next interval instead of fully resolving the current one. Technical issues, easily fixed with proper training, but underneath all of it was that quality Kade had spoken of. That raw, honest beauty couldn't be taught.
I paused outside the music room, my hand on the doorframe. The door was open, and through the gap I could see her silhouette against the window. She'd found the sheet music I'd left on the piano, some basic vocal exercises I'd printed out when I'd briefly considered taking voice lessons myself. They were sitting propped against the music stand, and she was following them with complete focus, her body angled away from the door, sitting on the bench.
I pushed it open slowly, giving her time to register my presence without startling her.
The morning light filtered through the acoustic panels in thin lines, creating patterns on the polished floor that shifted as I moved. Her slim frame looked even smaller in the oversized t-shirt she'd slept in, her brown hair falling loose around her shoulders in waves that caught the light with hints of copper.
Her hands gripped the sheet music with white knuckles, holding it like it might try to escape if she loosened her hold even slightly. I could see the subtle tremors running through her fingers, slight earthquakes of nervousness or fear. Her shoulders were drawn up toward her ears, every muscle held tight with tension that made my own muscles ache in sympathy.
She hit a note, and it wavered, her voice cracking slightly on the transition. She stopped, took a breath, and started again. The same note, the same waver. Frustration radiated from her posture; from the way she hunched forward slightly over the sheet music.
