Merciless Vows by Faith Summers

25

Aria

Ihaven’t seen Lucca since the other night.

It’s late, and I shouldn’t still be up fighting sleep.

Part of me thought maybe Lucca would come and see me, just to find out how my appointment with Dr. Belmont went. He hasn’t, though.

Maybe it’s for the best. I shouldn’t think of him like that. I shouldn’t think of him as a normal person.

There’s nothing normal about us.

What’s really been on my mind is my consultation with Dr. Belmont. He gave me a lot of things to think about.

I’ve been sitting by the window gazing out at the courtyard, thinking about all that he said, my dreams, and everything else that doesn’t make sense.

I’ve been here for hours, watching day turn to night.

The ominous feeling of bad memories haunting me never left my being, and I try to process what I know.

The person who keeps popping up in my mind is Dad. There are so many things surrounding him that don’t make sense, and my life has been entwined in them.

When it starts to rain, I close the window and move away from the bay.

There’s no point staying up to battle through my thoughts any longer when I’m not getting anywhere.

I’m tired, so when my head hits the pillow, I go out like a light.

What wakes me is the faintest sound of music. It’s so quiet I don’t know how I hear it. Maybe it’s because I recognize the piece.

It’s one I’ve heard myself playing on one of the recordings of me at a concert.

What I hear playing now is the piano, though, not the violin.

I listen carefully just to make sure I’m really hearing what I’m hearing and not imagining it.

After a few seconds pass, I decide someone is definitely playing the piano—playing beautifully and with passion.

The piece is Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13, Pathétique: II. Adagio.

Sienna bought a compilation of what I was told were my favorites, and this was one of the pieces on there.

I’ve also seen recordings of myself playing it at concerts. However, when I watch myself like that, it’s not the music I focus on. It’s me. Me doing something with such intense passion and confidence. So intense that the version of that girl I am now feels terrified because I don’t know how to get back there.

There’s a piano in the sitting room.

Who would be playing at this hour?

The answer comes to my mind, but I don’t believe it. I doubt it could be Marylin or any of the other staff.

So it’s Lucca?

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I sit up again then slip off the bed.

I walk out the door and follow the music.

It calls to me like it’s calling me home, calling me to remember it and how we used to be.

The melody grows louder when I get down the stairs. His bedroom is closest to the front, which explains why I could hear it.

The sitting room is open. When I get to it, I find him inside, sitting shirtless on the little stool behind the piano while he plays. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, and I find myself staring.

Staring and wondering if I should go in when the embarrassing memory of the last time I saw him comes to mind.

The music, however, is what lures me to stay, and so is he. He’s keeping me here with the pull of that attraction.

There’s a cut under his eye and a bruise. I’m amazed anyone could get close enough to him to do that. What’s more surprising is how both fit right into his rugged appearance.

He hasn’t looked at me yet, so maybe he hasn’t noticed me.

Maybeit’s prudent to continue the lack of contact we’ve had, and hopefully, he’ll forget the last time it ever happened. I’m sure he could forget if he had a host of whores like Damien said.

“You just going to stand there watching?” he asks, lifting his head to look at me with those stormy eyes.

For one moment, I think of not answering and going back the way I came. But then I see that spark of desire amidst the storm. It roots me to the spot, and I savor it, either forgetting everything Damien said, or it could be that I don’t want to believe it.

It’s hard to believe that I could be just something to toss to the side when Lucca looks at me like that.

“Come here to me,” he beckons, and against my better judgment, I go.

His eyes roam all over my body when I walk up to him, and I savor that too.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano,” I state. “And play so well.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replies with a grin that’s barely there before it’s gone.

“No kidding.”

“My father taught me how to play, the way his father taught him, and every man in the Dyshekov family going back as far as anyone can remember. He taught all of us how to play so we all could do it and do it well.”

“That’s cool.”

Are we actually having a normal conversation? One where he’s not either laying down his law on me or torturing me with arousal and temptation.

It seems we are.

“Yes. Music is food for the soul. Sometimes it’s good to stop and feed it,” he says, and I feel like he’s told me that before. Maybe he did, and like everything else, I can’t remember. “It keeps you sane and sometimes stops the darkness from taking you.”

I wonder what happened for him to talk like that. He hasn’t spoken to me like that since being here, so I don’t know if that’s how he usually talks or if something actually happened over the last few days.

I think better of asking him and roll with the conversation. “I was told my mother taught me to play the piano when I was five,” I say, even though I assume he probably knows that already. “But because I wouldn’t listen to her, she sent me to have lessons. While there, I started playing the violin, and we realized I wasn’t listening because I was playing the wrong instrument.”

He smiles at that. “The piano is easier to refresh your memory than the violin; maybe you should try it.”

“Not if I can’t remember squat about music. I don’t remember the notes or where to find them. It’s as if I never learned. Like it never happened.” I’m surprised to hear myself open up so much to him.

“But we both know it did.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Sit next to me.”

Sit next to him? Should I?

His stare intensifies, and I realize he wasn’t asking. He was telling me to sit.

I sit, and my arm brushes against the edge of his powerful muscular one next to me.

A shiver of electricity rushes over my body at the contact, and he cuts me a glance out the corner of his eyes.

“Did you like Dr. Belmont?”

“I did. He’s nice.”

“How was your appointment?”

“Interesting.” He looks at me like he wants me to elaborate, so I do. “He thinks I’m suppressing bad memories. We’re going to work on trying to help me remember those.”

“Bad memories,” he mutters more to himself than me. “What do you think of that?”

We look at each other while he continues to play. The music soothes me, and strangely I feel like I can talk to him.

“I think he’s right.”

“See what happens. Your mind will let you in when the time is right.” He taps the side of his head and winks at me with the eye that has the bruise.

“Did you get into a fight?” The moment I ask the question, I feel foolish, especially when he chuckles.

“Yeah, we can call it that.”

His answer makes me wonder if the person who did that to him fought for their life before he killed them.

“When did it happen?”

“The other night.” He scans over my face with amusement. “Don’t worry, Printsessa, only drug dealers who sell shit to kids and rapists died that night. Does that make you feel any better?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t like me if I was something mundane and ordinary.”

“What makes you think I like you at all?” Even I know I sound like I’m in denial.

We both know I like him despite what I say and what I tell myself.

When his eyes lock on mine, I think he’s going to answer with some snarky comment. But he doesn’t. Instead, he answers by changing the tune to another piece of music. One that piques my attention straight away, although I’m not sure why.

The piece he’s playing is not one I’ve heard since I woke from the coma, yet I know it.

It feels like… it means something to me, something special. It feels like it’s something my heart remembers. That’s a different feeling from everything else.

“Do you recognize this piece? You look like you do.” His stare turns pensive and curious like he’s probing into my mind.

Without looking away, his hands glide over the keyboard. I only break eye contact to watch his fingers.

“I don’t know. I feel like I know it.”

“Think harder.”

I do, and as he plays, the name comes to me. “Clair de Lune,” I whisper.

The smile tipping his lips suggests I’m right. The gentle nod of his head confirms it.

“You know its name. Now, do you remember playing it, creating it?”

“I don’t.”

“Give me your hand, Printsessa.”

Tentatively, I hold out my hand, and he takes it. The warmth of his fingers encloses my entire body in heat.

As his large hands cover mine, he guides me to play the right-hand notes of the piece that feels familiar to me. Too familiar.

It’s not just the music, but him doing this. But it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit.

He supposedly saved me from something, so when would we have played the piano like this?

And there’s something about us doing this that feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done because I can feel the music through him.

I actually feel the power of it coming from the strength of him.

At that moment, I don’t just hear the music. I remember creating it.

I stare at our joined hands moving over the keyboard from one note to the next, and something strange happens as he moves my hand over to play the next note.

My fingers move on their own accord, and I do it by myself. I press the key and play the note. I play the next three by myself too. Then the shock of what I just did freezes me in place, and I pull away my hand.

Lucca stops playing and looks back at me, his eyes wide with surprise.

“My God,” I rasp out. My hands tremble, and the tremor goes all the way through my body. “I just played the piano.” And it was because of him.

It’s been over two years since my accident. I’ve had no end of therapy, and all he did was touch me for that to happen.

I have to stand and move away from him. It’s too much.

He’s too much in a way that I don’t know how to handle.

He stands too and comes closer.

“Aria—”

“When did we play that together?” He stares back at me without blinking, like I caught him off guard. “There was something about the music. Something about us playing that piece. Who are you to me?” I demand, but he doesn’t answer.

His silence, however, is enough.

The way I felt just now felt older, as if I’d known him for many years. The emotion was entrenched deep inside me, calling to me to remember the same way I remembered how to play the music.

It was calling to me to remember him.

“Why do the memories come back when I’m with you? Who are you to me?”

The stormy hue of his silver eyes sends a shiver through me. Then he reaches out, touches my face, and counteracts the cold with fire.

A fire that makes my heartbeat gallop as it rushes over my skin.

His gaze travels over my body, heating me up even more and numbing my brain.

No words need to be spoken to let me know what he wants, and he won’t be answering my question.

I know better than to ask questions I already know the answers to.

In this instance, the answer is simple, and that’s why he’s not telling me.

He doesn’t need to tell me how I feel about him. I feel it. How I’ve always felt is coming back to me

It doesn’t matter what I think or what situation we’re in. It doesn’t matter that I know how dangerous this man is or that I shouldn’t want him. Those things are just details, and right now, I don’t care about how complicated we are.

So when he lowers to kiss me, I receive the hunger in the kiss. I allow his tongue to dance with mine and devour me whole, and for the first time, I kiss him back with the same intensity.

I press my hands against the sharp edges of muscle on his wide torso and devour him too. I taste him, savoring the desire as it ignites up my taste buds and makes my head spin with dizzy delight. And when he slips his hands behind my head and angles my face so he can deepen the kiss, he makes me lose myself.

I’ve tried to have this level of control and awareness about me to protect myself. I’ve needed to with this vulnerable position I’m in for not remembering anything or anyone.

But that safety he offers tempts me along with all that he makes me feel, and I’m lost to the power he exerts over me.

Lucca moves with me until we’re up against the wall, and our bodies crash against it.

He pauses the wild kiss that’s possessed us and stares down at me.

“Nothing is going to stop me this time,” he promises with a sneer. “Nothing.”

Nothing, not even me, but he knows I won’t stop him.

When he slides his hand down my belly, pulling up my nightshirt so he can cup my sex, he rubs over my pussy lips and parts my slit wider so he can slide his fingers inside, right into the wetness that’s been gathering for him.

He adds another finger, and I gasp when he adds yet another, filling me up completely.

“Your cunt is so wet and tight. I’m going to enjoy being inside you,” he rasps with a wicked grin, and an alarming thought hits me at that moment.

I don’t remember how to do this—have sex. I don’t know how to.

I’m not a virgin, but I can’t remember what sex feels like.

“Lucca,” I mutter, and he slows his pumps. “I don’t remember what to do.”

The smile that lights up his face almost terrifies me. “Don’t worry about that. This time I’ll do all the work. I’ll teach you, and next time you can fuck me.”

Next time? And me?

My skin flushes, but he doesn’t give me any time to recover from his brazen words.

He withdraws his fingers from my pussy and pulls off my shirt, unveiling my breasts.

When my panties follow, I’m naked against the cool concrete of the wall.

He shoves down his pants, and his cock juts free, long and thick, ready to impale me.

I draw in a breath when I see it and hold on to his shoulders when he lifts my leg and hooks it around his waist.

He takes hold of his cock, and when he rubs the fat head over my entrance, I feel like I might die from the pleasure that pulses into my body.

He’s barely touched me, and I can feel the building heat of an orgasm.

With his eyes fixed on mine, he grips the edge of my waist and pushes his cock inside my pussy with one hard thrust that hurts as much as it forces more rapturous pleasure into me.

I come straight away, and he smiles. “Perfect, Printsessa. Just hold on to me and allow me to fuck you.”

As he starts to move inside me, my thoughts fade. His searing cock inside me, filling me up completely, is all I feel. He moves slowly, and I know he’s taking it easy on me. He continues to do so, giving me sweet pleasure that curls my toes until my walls adjust to take his width and thickness.

I feel the moment they do, and so does he. There’s a sudden release of the tightness constricting his pumps. Once it’s gone, he speeds up and starts to fuck me hard.

I moan into the wild, relentless thrusts he gives me and enjoy watching the pleasure on his face as he drives into me over and over again.

His eyes darken with the same pleasure I feel, and I witness something fleeting I might have missed if I weren’t paying so much attention to his face.

It’s his eyes; they soften and become less guarded, and deep within them, I look past the darkness and see light. Like I’m looking at the man deep inside him. The version of himself he keeps locked away in the dark.

He blinks, and the door to his soul is gone, closed. Locked away again, and passion fills his gaze once more.

It takes me too, and I hold on tighter as he drives harder into me, tunneling into my body as he fucks me into the wall.

Each stab of his cock sends me spinning into the realms of deep, raw, mind-numbing pleasure he’s now given me a taste of.

He fucks me even faster right into a spellbinding orgasm, and when I come again, his cock stiffens inside me as he comes too, growling curses in Russian as he finishes.

Hot cum floods my passage with a burst as he thunders into me, and I allow myself to remember this moment and how I feel right now.

The slick sweat coating my skin—mine and his, the buzz of fire consuming me, the pounding in my heart, that insatiable greed for more.

He pulls out of me, and his cum runs down my legs. He tugs his pants back up, and for a second, I think he might leave me here like this, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he catches my face again and kisses me harder than he did before.

“I hope you’re not tired, Printsessa; our lessons have just begun,” he says against my lips. I don’t get to tell him I’m not tired. I don’t even know if I could form the words to say anything.

When he picks me up, I wrap my legs around his waist, and that’s answer enough.

Our lips meet once more, and just for tonight, I want to forget my fears and allow this merciless man to own me.