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Sliding out of bed, I close my eyes and follow the sound of weeping strings out of my door, down the corridor, and across the stairs that lead to the left wing of the house. I come to a halt at the first door on the right. It's cracked slightly and the dim light from the room seeps out into the hall, washing over my face.

Then I see him.

He is playing.

The violin.

He faces me, a metal stand with sheet music before him. I take a deep breath and swallow the balled up wad of saliva stuck in my throat when I notice he’s only wearing his drawstring maroon pajama pants. He’s wearing glasses too. They’ve got thick black, rectangular frames. I decide I like Elijah in his glasses. I think they make him look more sophisticated. More sexy. I feel the heat creeping into my cheeks as I stare at his the muscle definition in his abdomen.

And as he plays…

As he plays, I notice that his eyes are closed and he’s not even looking at the sheet music in front of him. He must have this song memorized. I want to close my eyes and let the lilting song that reminds me of a lullaby, pull me into a deep trance, but I don’t. Because I can’t take my eyes off Elijah.

His eyes bunch tighter, his brow is creased, and his lips are pressed into a firm line. A violin rests in the crook of his neck, and he moves with the melody, sliding the bow across the stringed instrument so gracefully and so elegantly that witnessing him like this brings tears to my eyes.

I’m moved.

Awestruck.

I can’t find words.

I’ve never seen him like this.

He’s caught up in the notes.

Lost in the moment.

I notice that music is hypnotic to him and as he creates more, he inhales a breath like the notes are a delicious feast and he’s going to chew them slowly, savoring every last flavor burst before they slide down the back of his throat to the pit of his stomach. His jaw tenses when the song hits a crescendo and even though I tell myself not to, I move forward. I gently push the door to his study open, stepping into the dim light and moving closer to skilled violinist before me.

Closing my eyes, I throw my head back and wait for more music to fill my ears and wait for my subconscious mind to start dancing in a waltz-like fashion. Then suddenly, the music cuts out and my eyes snap open to see a frustrated and confused looking Elijah Watson. I stare at him. He stares at me. For a whole five minutes we exchange awkward glances. Then finally, I say gasping, “You’re beautiful,” then I feel the slightest bit flustered so I add, “I mean you play beautiful—err—I mean you play beautifully.”

His eyes narrow, scanning my face and he bites the left side of his bottom lip. “What are you doing in here? “There’s a curious yet wary tone to his voice. “I gave you the right wing of the upstairs for a reason.” I know this. He gave me the right wing because he didn’t want me snooping around the left one. But tonight I couldn’t help myself.

He takes a step closer to me, hovering above me, his golden eyes penetrating mine from above. Breath escapes me and I bend backwards as he reaches over my head, grabbing the violin case from the chair behind me. I admire the way the muscles in his abdomen clench and grow taut as he lifts the case cautiously over my head.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, still partially breathless, “but I had to follow it. You know the music. Canon in D is such a lovely song.” The song cast a spell over me, luring me from my bed and the world of dreams.

“I’m surprised you know it,” he comments with a cocky smirk as he puts the violin into the case, lined with crushed blue velvet. “Most of the women I know are into more of the modern music.”

I want to tell him that I’m probably not like most of the women he knows, but I don’t. Instead I say, “I know all the classics. It is my favorite genre of music.” I think back to a few of the times where Daddy was at work and I had the classical station on. I think of how’d I close my eyes and pretend I was playing some sort of instrument; the piano, cello, it really didn’t matter, and perform my household duties, stopping in between to play my fake instrument. Aside from my memories with Damien those were some of the fondest memories of my childhood.

“It’s mine as well,” Elijah blurts as he fastens the metal snaps on the violin case.

I frown, staring at the closed up case, wishing he would take the wooden instrument out and play more, but I decide to examine the contents in his study instead. “So how long have you been playing?” I walk over to the shelf of books that spans across the wall and glide the tips of my fingers over the polished cherry wood.

“Since I was eight,” he answers. “I spent three years playing the piano before that and hated it. Just before I turned eight, I asked my mother if I could play the violin instead, being that she insisted that I play an instrument. Of course I’m sure she preferred that I continued with the piano,” he sighs, “but I’ve always been a fan of the instruments with strings. I play the guitar as well.”

I steal a glance at him from over my shoulder. His eyes follow me, touching my bare shoulders as I move down the shelf to the edge of the room. “Do you know any other songs?” I ask. “For the violin, I mean.”

“Several.”

“Can you play me another?”

“It’s after midnight. Aren’t you tired?”

“No.” I stop at the end of the massive cherry wood desk in the back of the study. The desk is wide and vaguely reminds me of a bed. Next to the desk is what I assume to me an antique globe. The colors on it are creams, browns, and almonds and they are all muted with age. “Can you play Claire de Lune?” I ask, placing my forefinger against the round orb. “It’s my all-time favorite.”

I can feel his presence behind me. I feel his warm breath trail down the back of my neck. Then he utters is a low voice, “Sadly no. It’s a brilliant and beautiful song, but it was composed for the piano. I’m sure I could play it if I attempted it, but I don’t think it would sound the same.” His fingers slide up my shoulders and I turn, facing him. His eyes sweep from my light purple satin nightgown back to my face. “Lavender is a good color on you.” His eyes are smoldering, filled with a blaze of lust. I shiver as I look into them. “It really brings out the violet flecks in your eyes.”


Tags: Lauren Hammond Asylum Romance