He nods, unfocusing his gaze as he allows himself a moment to think.
The room is bathed in a soft, muted glow as he rests the violin on his collarbone, relaxing into the hold and setting his jaw on the chin rest. It was hard to visualize a hardened and cold man like him playing such a delicate instrument, but here he is, his composure unraveling bit by bit as his fingers settle on the strings. Hidden layers come to life before me.
Lifting the bow, he draws it across the strings with a grace I didn’t know he had in him. The first note hums low and deep, vibrating in the quiet space between us. I feel the sound more than hear it at first. It reaches inside me, finding sensitive places I forgot existed. His eyes fall shut, lashes casting soft shadows on his carved cheekbones as stray strands of hair fall over his features, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks...serene.
Each stroke of the bow is fluid. He’s carving emotion out of thin air, each note a revelation that technically doesn’t exist within him.
Yet here they are, emotions on full display.
His hands move deftly, guiding the violin with an entrancing confidence. The faint sway of his body pulls me into his rhythm. An enthralling melody spills from his fingertips. Sharp at times. Piercing. Then it falls to a murmur. Gentle. Almost shy. Right there, in those movements, in his strained expression, I see how fiercely he guards himself. His soul. His trust. Maybe his heart too.
My chest tightens with a strange ache. I hadn’t expected this side of him—the unconscious vulnerability, the soul he hides beneath every harsh line, every cold glance. Yet here he is, exposing himself in a way his words and logical mind never could.
I couldn’t look away, even if I tried. His brow furrows as he leans into a haunting note, his jaw clenched with concentration, his fingers coaxing out sounds that are both raw and impossibly tender. The music swells and fills every corner of the room. I’m holding my breath, fearing he’ll stop if I exhale too loudly.
This moment, this version of him—it’s utterly ravishing. A man unraveling, yet completely in control.
When he opens his eyes, there’s a flicker of something unguarded in his gaze. Just for me. And I realize that I’ve seen him, truly, maybe for the first time.
Carter
A loud, distant knock startles me awake from potentially the best sleep of my fucking life. It takes me a second to acknowledge where I am, but fuck is it amazing to wake up with Scarlet next to me, with her delicate, warm hand resting on my chest.
“Love,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The knock sounds louder the second time around.
“Mmm...” she moans, nestling into me and making me want to scream at whoever the fuck dares disturb us.
But I can’t. This is her house. And...shit, that could be her family.
Who am I kidding? It could only be her family.
“Scarlet, someone’s at the door.”
Her eyes flutter open, an endearing smile slowly settling on her lips. The third round of knocking startles her, and her eyes go wide as she rushes out of bed.
“Fuck. Sorry.” She runs her hands through her hair and slaps her face a few times, her sleepy look fucking adorable as she attempts to wake herself. “Okay, I’m going...” She rushes toward the open bedroom door.
“Kitten!” I call after her.
She stops and whips around.
A grin tugs at my cheeks as I gesture down her body. “Maybe throw something on before you answer the door?”
“Shit. Oh, for fuck’s sake. At least you’re discovering early on that I certainly am not a morning person.”
I chuckle as I watch her fumble around for a robe, and then I start getting dressed too. She disappears out the door as I finish, and voices drift in from the living room. One of them—male—sounds rather urgent. Barefoot, and with my shirt annoyingly untucked, I walk out of the bedroom to be by her side.
A man stands in Scarlet’s house, hands settled on his hips, stance a little bit too aggressive for my taste.
With heavy steps, I head straight to her as she fumbles with the espresso machine on a small coffee station. But I slow down when I recognize the resemblance. Short stature, mahogany-brown hair, dark-brown eyes that look so much like hers. He’s taller, older too, but he’s definitely her brother.
“Who exactly are you?” he asks.
“Don’t be fucking rude, Marc. I told you he’s here.” Scarlet slaps his shoulder after she turns the espresso machine on, and it rumbles away. She steps next to me when I’m close enough, wrapping her arm around mine. “Carter, this is myvery rudebrother, Marc.”
Neither of us makes any movement toward a polite introduction.
