Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

25

He had stood outside for ages, I realized. Unsure whether to press the intercom and ask me to buzz him in, instead he had waited for someone to walk out and let him make his decision in a snap.

But the stretch from the vestibule to my front door was long.

From the look in his eyes, I could tell it had taken him everything to come here – to face me after what he had done, to come look me straight in my brown irises that would never be blue, and not fall down.

His hand was clutching the sill, tightly.

"I had to see that you were okay."

His voice was raw and raspy, a mess to say the least. He looked all the same as I had last seen him, except he was wearing new clothes... but the same old trench coat. Not warm enough for winter. But warm enough for him.

I looked back up at him, raking my eyes slowly over his full appearance and swallowed with difficulty. He wasn't limping. Wasn't bleeding. Wasn't wounded from what I could tell, and the skin around his knuckles were healing up nicely. No infection. But no stitching either.

He had come here tonight to see if I was okay, but the way I saw it, it wasn't to reassure my comfort, but his own. What we had done in that bed had been worse than what he had done in that alley.

But we had both been willing participants there.

So many buts. So many excuses.

"I'm fine," I whispered, hugging the cold wood of my door. I wanted to say more, but as always, my tongue tied up when he was around.

I had hoped I would gain enough strength one day to fight him... fight that knot that always lodged in my throat, but today wasn't it. Today... today was about something else.

"Do you want to come in?" I opened the door more for his broad frame to slip through. When I saw his hesitance, I added; "Please." He knew I wasn't fine at all, but I still needed my answers. Still needed... closure.

He had left with a purpose, but had come with an equal one.

With a harsh exhale, his shoulders dropped. He walked in stiffly and reluctantly and didn't go further than the hallway as I closed the door behind him. Locking us in.

And here we were again, weren't we.

I edged around him and took the lead. He followed me like a soldier, taking the couch while I took the armchair. He didn't sit until I did.

And for the first time since our time together, I uttered another word instead of my usual. "Talk."

His fists tightened and threatened to break the healing skin on his knuckles. I was commanding him and his control didn't like it. They struggled under the pressure, but then he eased up.

"I don't know what to say."

It was my turn to ball up my fist. He knew more than what he was saying, but he didn't know what to say; That was the long and true translation.

"Tell me why they went after you," I said, trying to swallow past the lump in my esophagus again. It didn't budge. "Who were those men?"