Page 19 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
The wordourscatches between my ribs. “Like what?”
He thinks for a second. “Something that doesn’t sound like mourning.”
I nod slowly and unlatch the case. The smell of resin and old wood rises up, warm and familiar. I lift the cello out and let my fingers find the weight again, the curve of the neck fitting perfectly into my palm. My bow feels strange in my hand, heavier than I remember.
“What should I play?” I ask quietly.
“Anything,” Artem says. “Surprise me.”
I think for a moment, then set the cello between my knees. The bow touches the strings, and instinct takes over. The first sharp, bright chords ofPalladiofill the room, rhythmic, alive, the sound of something building rather than breaking.
Artem stills. His hands slide into his pockets as he watches me play, and the faintest smile touches his mouth. He knows the piece, why I chose it. The music climbs, each note a defiance, a heartbeat. My fingers remember what my grief made me forget.
When the last chord fades, the silence that follows feels holy.
I lower the bow, my pulse racing. “Not perfect,” I murmur.
“It doesn’t need to be,” he says, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of him. “It’s the first thing that’s sounded alive in this place for a long time.” Then he adds, “Not counting when you’re screaming my name, of course.”
I roll my eyes but I’m grinning at his comment.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the back of my hand where it still rests on the cello. “Keep playing, Elena. Fill the room. Fill me.”
Something inside me loosens. For the first time since losing Lev, I don’t feel haunted when I play. I feel heard.
I keep playing, letting the music stretch and change beneath my fingers.Palladiofades into something slower, softer. Something I don’t remember deciding to play. My hands move on instinct, shaping an old melody that used to drift through my childhood room late at night.
A lullaby.
The notes fall like gentle footsteps across the air, wrapping the apartment in a hush that feels sacred. Artem leans against the window, watching me, his expression unreadable. The city burns behind him in gold and silver, but all I can hear is the sound of my bow, the sound of something beginning.
I don’t know when the thought hits me. Maybe in the quiet between notes, or in the way my pulse stumbles, but suddenly I realise how long it’s been. Since the masquerade. Since the world cracked open and we fell through it together.
My breath catches.
I play through it, pretending nothing’s changed, but the awareness blooms low in my belly. I’ve been late before, stress, exhaustion, but never like this. There’s a steadiness to it, a quiet certainty that sinks into my bones as the lullaby winds through the air.
When I finish, the last note trembles and fades. Artem doesn’t move for a long time. Then he steps forward, slow, deliberate, until he’s standing beside me.
“I know that song,” he says softly.
I look up at him. “You do?”
He nods, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth. “My mother used to sing it when Lev and I were small. Said it kept bad dreams away.” He reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I hope we sing it to our children too.”
The bow slips slightly in my hand. My throat tightens.
“Artem,” I whisper, heart hammering. “That… might be happening sooner than you think.”
For a moment, he just looks at me, the words sinking in. His eyes search mine, and then something shifts in his face, shock, awe, something dangerously close to joy.
He crouches in front of me, one hand finding its way to my stomach, tentative and reverent. “You’re sure?”
“Not yet,” I breathe. “But I think so.”
He exhales, a sound half prayer, half disbelief. “You’ve just given me the one thing I thought I’d never have.”
I laugh softly, tears catching at the edge of my voice. “You say that like it’s certain.”
