“I expect you haven’t damaged it, and you will return it to me. So, no. I do not want to kill you anymore, Scarlet.”
Her gaze brightens, and the quirk of a smile softens her features and relaxes her.
“If it’s so precious, how come you don’t display it in a case? Keep it safer?”
“The true crime would be to own but not play her. I couldn’t do it to her. Not after what she’s been through.”
“She . . .” Scarlet whispers.
“You’ve never heard of it, have you?”
She shakes her head slowly.
“It is said her owner was a masterful violinist. Back in a time when women were considered inept for such artistic endeavors, and limited to singing, she prevailed. Society tried endlessly to reject her, but she didn’t care. She continued to play for herself and whoever came to hear her song. Her husband adored her. Cherished every part of her and encouraged her talent. But as with every old story, or legend, tragedy strikes. Their house was broken into, the violinist was attacked and murdered, and her husband was powerless to stop it. Her blood was spilled all over her precious violin. Filled with pain and fresh grief, he began wiping it off, only the well-used instrument had lost so much of its lacquer that bare wood covered much of it.”
“Oh my god . . .” Scarlet whispers, transfixed.
“Yes. It’s stained with her blood. He added more when his morbid inspiration struck. Rubbed it in until most of the violin turned crimson. He even sanded the remaining lacquered areas and stained it there too.”
“That’s why it looks almost patchy. Weathered.”
“And that’s why I and many others refer to her as a ‘she.’ She’s not the best Stradivarius out there, nor the most famous, but she is the most tragic. And not playing it would be even worse.”
Scarlet nods, sadness brimming in her eyes as she looks down, drifting thoughts likely taking her to that love so tragically lost.
“What happened to him? To the husband?” she asks.
“He fell deep into his own art afterward. His style changed and twisted. Became raw and dark. From realistic, vivid, and soft paintings, he fell into the clutches of the morbid chiaroscuro.”
“Wait a damn minute!”
I smirk, seeing the understanding in her widening gaze.
“Holy fuck.” She rises to sit, blankets falling off her naked body now bathed in the warm hues of the fire.
I can’t help myself. I reach over and drag a finger from the base of her neck, following a slow path between her breasts, and stop right above her navel.
“Yes, kitten.” I confirm her loud thoughts. “Sheis Veralin Dubois. The painter’s wife.”
“Oh, god.” She crashes back to the bed, and I cover her with the blankets as the sadness takes full control of her beautiful features. She curls into me, naked body flush against mine as she grieves their story. “I can’t fathom such raw loss. The agony he must have felt. The violin...”
“I know.” I pinch her chin between my thumb and finger and bring her attention to me, peppering kisses over her soft lips. “But he immortalized her into the centuries. Carried her memory well beyond their deaths.”
Scarlet smiles gently, making her look much younger, softer, so much more delicate and in need of protection.My protection.
“Now tell me, kitten. What’s one of the most precious things you own?” I attempt distraction, and it seems to work as she giggles.
“An almost complete triceratops skeleton.”
My mouth falls open, eyes straining as I wait for her to tell me she’s fucking with me.
But it never comes.
“You’re serious,” I whisper.
“Yup!”
A ray of fucking sunshine stares back at me.
