13
Mine
Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president…
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Yanking up Lucas’s sleeve the next week, a smile tugged at my mouth. The burn was healing well. “You did as I said!”
“Yes, as I continue to not be an idiot, I did tend to my injury.”
The sarcasm was easy to ignore while I shed the infuriatingly warm clothes he made me wear. Taking off my outer layers no longer intimidated me. Perhaps I was stupid to trust him, but if he ever attacked, I’d lose anyway. Might as well be comfortable in the meantime.
I faced him that night with the same vigor as usual. As time passed, my discomfort with him faded. I grew familiar with his body in a way I had with no other man, not even Jayden. Notintimateper se, but I learned the shape of him. I memorized how he moved. I’d begun to decode the mysterious colors in his eyes.
Not only that, but I luxuriated in the protection my name provided me.
His sister was Sophia, and she had died. I was Sophia, and I was still alive.
I wasn’t afraid to exploit that psychological advantage to the edge of his sanity. Hewantedme alive. The power dynamic had shifted just slightly in my favor, and we both knew it.
But still…
Why had he willingly handed over such a telling truth?
That question festered, and I knew I’d never get the answer.
Around the summer solstice, I finally convinced him to play me the piano. He avoided and diverted me every other week, but I was tenacious. I needed to see his hands do something other than hurt or kill things. He sat at the piano only because I dragged him into the room and forced him onto the bench. Back straight, he stared daggers at me.
I leaned my elbows on the piano’s lid. “You can either play for me now, or listen to me complain every week until you do.”
“Your stubbornness is going to get you killed someday,” he said with the barest shred of humor.
I pointed at the keys. “I wrestle with you for you. You will play for me.”
He glanced at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath and donning a victimized expression, he set his hands to the keys, and played?—
Chopsticks.
“Do it right!” I flicked his ear. He glared at my hand, and it occurred to me that he had killed people for lesser slights. “Please?” I added in a small voice.
After a moment, he replaced his hands on the keys, and out poured the most melodic, haunting song I’d ever heard, one that pulled his fingers up and down the keyboard like a wave.
Fascinated, I followed his hands.
Practiced. Scarred. Talented.
And it occurred to me… This music was beautiful. These hands were capable of great things. If he wanted, he could probably paint masterpieces or skillfully operate on the most delicate structures in the human body. Sadness crept over my skin with prickles and goosebumps as I ruminated over the horrors he’d chosen to create with them instead. The song curled about me, stirring something deep inside. Something evocative—almost graphic—in its hopelessness. It crooned my ruin until tears pricked my eyes.
When he finished, he peered at me with nothing other than a raised eyebrow. I cleared my throat and wiped away the rebellious tear, hoping he’d mistaken it for something else.
“I wrote that for Sophie,” he murmured into the silence.
My mind conjured an image of a younger Lucas playing songs for the enjoyment of his little sister, and a spark of heat erupted in my chest, reminding me of the warmth he’d buried in my cheek.
“You…wrote that?” What emotions did Lucas keep hidden behind his tiny smirks and aquamarine eyes? Powerful ones, if that song was any indication.
His hands spread over the keys, but he didn’t play any of them. “Before she died, obviously. She—” He cleared his throat. “She called it her sad girl song.”
