Her hand slides over my forearm, grounding me like I never expected someone’s touch to do.
“I walked in on him about to hit her again…fresh out of surgery from the last injury he caused…and I snapped.”
Wren’s thumb runs a delicate loop across my skin, and I just want to grab her, tuck her under me, and forget my past. Hers. And feel somethinggoodfor a little while.
But the real world always comes crashing back in.
“I killed him. Right there in the emergency room. Threw a punch that sent him crashing into the bed. He hit his head, snapped his neck, and that was that. The end of my career.”
“And the end of her abuse.”
A sardonic laugh puffs out of my chest. “Yeah, that too.”
After a silent pause, I take her hand in mine again. It’s amazing how she grounds me. “Tell me about the violin.”
This time, she laughs a little louder. A little more genuine.
“It was my grandmother’s. She was not a socialite. At least, not the way my mom is. Gran remarried into an important family, but she’d already had her independence. Had a career in the spotlight that couldn’t easily be undone.”
“She was a violinist?”
Wren nods, smiling wistfully. “Yeah. First chair in the Cleveland Orchestra. One of the first women to hold that spot.”
I grin at her. “So, that’s where you get it from.”
She blinks at me. “Get what from?”
“All of that fire.”
This time, her laugh is warm, wrapping itself around me and making me want her even more. Heavy thumping boots and apop, pop, popsound overhead. Wren flinches, and I stand, gesturing for her to stay put.
I go into the hall and listen. No shouts. No blood. Judge appears in the door, meeting my gaze.
“Just some pests. False alarm.”
Nodding, I retreat back to Wren, who’s standing by her violin at the dresser.
I slowly close the distance between us, and she doesn’t move until my chest meets her back.
“It’s funny. I feel so safe here most of the time, I forget that I’m not. Not really,” she admits.
My hands come down on her shoulders, the touch slapping through us both. Turning enough to sink my nose into her hair, I take in a deep breath of her scent—sweet and powdery. Palms sliding down her arms, I relish in the way she shivers.
“Play. It’ll give you strength. Help you process.”
She nods, and I finally pull myself away from her, giving her the space to pull the instrument out, tuck it under her chin, and play the most chilling piece I’ve heard from her so far. It’s magnificent the way she connects with it so wholly.
Her one possession. Her thread back to her grandmother. The supportive link she had in her family. And lost.
How long ago was that?
I can’t see her face for the first half of her song, but the way she naturally sways and moves with the bow has her turned toward me. Tears make her cheeks shiny, and I’m stuck in place for as long as she’s abandoned herself to playing.
When the notes stop, I’m untethered, grabbing the violin and bow before she drops them, setting them down, and catching her before she collapses. Her tears come harder, wetting my shirt. Her fingers scramble against the cotton, and it burns me when her grip finds purchase.
Every sob drives my rage, the one that sent me after that husband at the hospital, after my own father… I want to go after Grant Dalton in a serious way. After her parents and the world that seems designed to crush women like Wren.
The thoughts circle darker and darker until Wren goes quiet.
