Chapter 9
960 Words
Elena
The toast was cold by the time she finished it.
She wasn’t even sure why she kept eating—just that stopping felt harder than continuing. Each bite was mechanical, unthinking, but also… grounding. Like maybe, if she focused hard enough on chewing, she wouldn’t have to think about anything else. Not what she was doing here. Not what he was turning into.
When the plate was empty, she stared at it for a while.
Then at her hands.
They weren’t shaking.
And that scared her.
Because if she wasn’t trembling anymore, if she wasn’t afraid like she used to be… what did that say about her?
Was she slipping?
Or was she simply tired of fighting the tide?
She got up slowly, legs stiff from being curled up all day. The room was still, soft with the kind of late afternoon light that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.
She didn’t think. Didn’t plan.
She just opened the door.
No one was outside.
No guards. No footsteps. Just quiet.
Not the scary kind. Not the haunted kind. Just… quiet.
Like the house itself was waiting to see what she’d do next.
She followed the faint sound of music—low and rich, like it was floating down the hall on purpose, trying to find her. Her bare feet padded softly across the floor, heartbeat matching the slow rhythm of the notes.
And then she saw him.
Damiano.
Sitting at a piano.
His back to her, sleeves rolled up, head slightly bowed as his fingers moved across the keys. Not perfect. Not polished. Just… honest.
She hadn’t known he played.
Hell, she hadn’t known he could do something like this—something that wasn’t sharp or cruel or calculated. Something that didn’t come with an edge.
It was jarring.
She didn’t mean to speak. Truly.
But the words slipped out before she could stop them.
“You’re not half bad.”
He flinched—just barely—then turned his head, eyes catching hers across the room.
She expected the usual—some slick smirk, some offhand comment meant to deflect. But instead, he just… smiled. Small. Surprised.
Like he hadn’t been expecting to see her. Like maybe he wasn’t sure she was real.
“I taught myself,” he said, voice a little scratchy. “There was a piano in the place I stayed after my father died. It helped.”
She crossed her arms loosely, leaning against the doorframe. “Helped with what?”
He paused. “Everything I didn’t have words for.”
Her chest tightened.
She hated how easily that got to her.
“You hide often?” she asked, softer this time.
“I used to,” he said. “Now it’s harder. You don’t let me hide.”
The way he looked at her when he said that—it was almost too much.
Too raw. Too real.
She looked away.
“What is this room?”
“My mother’s library,” he said. “She’d sit in that chair over there and read to me. Fairy tales. Old classics. Stuff I never understood but liked the sound of.”
He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back just a little. The golden light hit the side of his face, softening all the sharp lines, making him look—God, she didn’t want to admit it—human.
“She used to hum,” he said. “All the time. Even when things were bad. Especially when they were bad.”
There was something about the way he said it—like he was speaking around a lump in his throat. Like saying it out loud made it real again.
And suddenly, she didn’t want to be at the door anymore.
She moved toward the piano. Sat down beside him on the bench, careful not to brush his arm.
“Play something else,” she said, almost a whisper.
He glanced at her, eyes unreadable. Then nodded.
His fingers found the keys again, slower this time. Softer. The melody stumbled at first, then found its rhythm. It wasn’t fancy. Wasn’t perfect.
But it felt like something.
Like grief wrapped in lullabies.
She didn’t close her eyes this time.
She watched his hands. The way they moved. The way they hesitated, just slightly, when the emotion behind the notes got too close to the surface.
And for the first time since all this began, she didn’t think about escape.
She just was.
Just existed in the moment. In the music. In the impossible closeness of sitting next to the man who had taken her… and somehow still managed to look like he didn’t know how to keep her.
When the last note faded, he didn’t move.
Neither did she.
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was tender.
Careful.
Something new.
“You scare me,” she said suddenly, not sure where it came from.
Damiano looked over. “Because of what I’ve done?”
She shook her head slowly. “Because I don’t hate you the way I should.”
He exhaled, something flickering in his eyes.
“Elena…” he started.
But she didn’t let him finish.
Because if he said the wrong thing, it would ruin whatever strange, delicate thing had just bloomed between them.
Instead, she stood.
“I should go.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
But as she turned to leave, she heard him whisper soft, almost broken:
“I don’t want to be someone you have to survive.”
She paused in the doorway.
Didn’t look back.
Just let the ache settle in her chest like something she didn’t have the strength to carry… but didn’t want to put down either.
- Writer
