Page 72 of Bite
“Do you play?”
He dips his chin once in a quiet nod.
“Would you play something for me?”
He considers me for a long moment, then pushes off from where he’s standing and prowls toward the piano. Stepping around the bench, he looks down at the keys, then up at me. “Come here.”
I obey too quickly, lowering myself beside him on the long bench. He places his fingers on the keys and begins to play– fluid, precise, each note ringing clear and oddly gentle for someone whose hands are capable of so much violence.
I don’t recognize the melody. It’s something unhurried and melancholy, the kind of song that sounds like rain on glass. Iwatch his long fingers move over the keys, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each chord.
After a minute or so, he suddenly stops.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask breathily.
He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “Play with me.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
“I’ll teach you.”
The idea of taking piano lessons from a vampire is so absurd I almost laugh– but instead I just nod, the knot in my chest loosening a little.
He smoothly pulls me onto his lap, guiding my hands to rest atop his. When he starts to play again, I can feel the music through his fingers– steady, fluid, alive. I follow the rhythm, watching the man beneath the monster emerge in each quiet note he strikes.
For the first time, it’s easy to believe he was human once.
As the music flows and our hands move together, something stirs deep inside me– a whisper of memory I can’t quite reach. Before I even realize it, a tear slides down my cheek.
James abruptly stops playing, turning me on his lap so he can see my face.
I swipe the tear away, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he murmurs, sweeping a strand of hair behind my ear. “Where did you go just now?”
I frown, eyes fixed on the keys. “There’s always been something about piano music. A memory, maybe. I think one of my parents might’ve played.” I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. “But if they had a piano, then they would’ve had something of value to leave me, and they didn’t.”
“Do you remember your family?” he asks, curiosity sharpening his gaze.
The question lands like a bruise. I search my memory, but all I find are fragments– a woman’s hand, soft and warm, guidingmine across ivory keys. Maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe it’s real. I’ll never know.
I shake my head. “Not really. It was always just me and my parents. After they died, I wound up in foster care since I didn’t have any living relatives.” My eyes flicker up to meet his. “But you already knew that.”
“I did,” he confirms. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”
“I’m sure you’ll get a lot more from a background check than you can get from me,” I mutter. “My social worker used to say that I blocked out my trauma on purpose, but I honestly just… don’t remember.”
He presses a key on the piano, the note echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Strange,” he mutters.
“What is?”
He smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just… you’re an anomaly, Taylor Holt. A mystery I’ve yet to unravel.”
The compliment makes me bristle– not in a bad way, I just don’t know what to do with it. I look away, tracing the pattern of moonlight on the black and white keys.
A sudden streak of black fur shatters the moment. Ozzy vaults up and lands squarely in the middle of the piano, gold eyes bright. James bares his fangs, glaring daggers at my kitten, who arches his back in response, hissing and spitting like a pissed-off muppet. The standoff lasts exactly one second before Ozzy bolts, claws skittering over the keys in a discordant explosion of sound.
I scowl at James, who looks entirely unrepentant. “Did you have to do that?” I huff.
