Page 19 of Claimed By Desire

Then he turns away and leaves the kitchen.

I watch him go, hating myself for still wanting him, despite how much of a bastard he is.

Chapter 7

Natalya

The piano soundsperfect.

I forgot how good it feels to play a real instrument. Not that falling-apart upright and it’s horribly out of tune strings. No, the baby grand in the formal sitting room is absolutely pristine, and I think someone had it worked on recently, because it sounds immaculate.

I’ve been engaged for two weeks, and all I’ve done is shove presents into my closet, ghost around the house like I’m haunting the place, and sit down here on the bench and work on the music I started writing back in Paris.

Which isn’t so bad, all things considered. It’s like I came back home only to resume doing exactly what I’ve been doing for the last year.

At least I have Lev. It’s been nice, having my brother around. I miss Stepan so much it hurts sometimes, but talking about him helps. Me and Lev sit out back most nights, share a couple drinks, and swap stories about our older brother. I think it’shelping him process as much as it’s helping me, and with each passing day, I feel a little bit lighter.

The grief isn’t fading, but I’m able to keep moving.

I’m still lonely, but at least I have my piano back. It sounds just like my childhood. Like hours and hours of practice. I can practically smell my tutor’s perfume, this awful floral stuff. Her name was Ms. Irina and she was probably in her forties, although she was ancient to my kid self. She put me through drills exhaustively, pushed me to improve, was hard on my mistakes, and she turned me into the pianist I am today. I wonder whatever happened to her.

Some days, when I’m at my worst, I think about calling my old friends. There’s Irina and Maria and Katya, all girls I went to school with. We were close for a while, but we were starting to drift apart a little bit around the time I was engaged to Valentin, and then they completely disappeared when I ran away to Paris.

Like everyone else, they obeyed my father’s strict injunction against contacting me, and now I have no urge to rebuild those friendships. Back in Paris, I would’ve given a finger to have a conversation with any of them, even boring old Maria; now, I couldn’t care less.

It’s sad, really. I thought coming home would fix everything. Instead, I’m just as lonely as I’ve ever been, and I keep waiting for someone to actually see me for who I am, instead of who I’m supposed to be.

Hasn’t happened yet.

I’m starting to think nobody’s ever going to care about me for who I am, and not for who I am on the outside.

I push away the misery, aware that I’m just making myself spiral, and keep playing. It’s Saturday morning, one week before I get married, and I don’t know how much time for piano I’ll have after I’m a wife.

There’s a noise behind me. I have a sudden full-on sense of deja-vu as I turn around and find a man standing in the doorway. Though this time I’m fully dressed in tights and an old sweatshirt, since it’s always freezing in this house.

Adriano Marino watches me from the doorway. He seems vaguely amused as he gestures in my direction.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“Uh, thanks.” I stand up quickly, oddly embarrassed, even though I don’t need to be. “I didn’t know you would be here today.”

“I’m here on business to see your father, but I thought I’d come say hello to you first.” He glances at the piano one more time, but he doesn’t mention it again. “How are things?” he asks, sounding almost bored.

“Things are good. Thank you for the gifts.”

“Gifts?” he asks, eyebrows raised like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then he laughs. “Oh, shit, I forgot. I told my assistant to send you some things. I hope she didn’t go overboard.”

I feel my stomach drop down into my feet.

All this time, I thoughthewas the one sending presents. I’ve been torturing myself over them, alternating between feeling like an ungrateful asshole and a selfish prick, and now I find out thathe didn’t even know.

“No, they were perfect. Give your assistant a raise.” I try to play it off the best I can but I feel heat rise to my cheeks.

IF he notices my embarrassment and discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. “Will do. Glad you like them though.”

I force myself into meaningless small talk. He mentions some business about importing vintage Rolex watches, and I pretend to be interested. He doesn’t ask me any questions, and he seems bored and aloof the whole time, like he’s thinking about something else. It’s not rude exactly, and he’s not doing anything wrong, but there’s no spark between us.

It’s like we’re performing in a play neither of us particularly cares for.

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