Page 44 of Vicious Games

CHAPTER 18

ROMAN

As I entered my darkened home, I recognized the thick chordal textures of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp minor. It was an extremely dark and emotional piece.

I told my butler to give the staff the night off and waved him away as I approached the open plan living area where Aurora was playing. As night had fallen, the stained-glass windows above her were devoid of their usual bright jewel tones and instead loomed over her like a dark, disapproving presence. A century earlier, there would have been solemn worshippers kneeling in this very spot, as they begged an unforgiving God for mercy. The staff had lit several gold candelabras in the room, which cast an unearthly glow on the scene.

Aurora’s deft fingers raced over the ivory keys as she swayed to the music, eyes closed. A surge of pride warmed inside my chest. The clever girl was playing the advanced and complicated piece entirely from memory.

As I stepped closer, there was the sour tone of a missed note.

She knew I was here, watching her.

Still, she gave no indication and continued to play.

It was a macabre piece, filled with anxiety and despair. The melody was meant to mimic the somnolent bells of a funeral while the rapid tempo of the B section was meant to inspire a heightened sense of fear and angst.

Her playing this piece spoke volumes.

I settled into a high-backed oxblood leather chair by the banked fire and listened.

Forced myself to listen would be more accurate.

I listened as my sweet girl poured out all her fear, anxiety, and trauma onto the ivory keys.

I had done this to her.

And, if I followed through with my plans, would do much worse before all was said and done.

The candles illuminated her pale face. I watched with terrifying fascination as the play of emotions she could not contain swept over her features.

As the music heightened to a crescendo, it washed over me like a wave of shame and revulsion. I was drowning in the dark waters. Aurora’s notes were wrapping around the both of us. I tried to shake off the disturbing thoughts, but they clung to my soul like a spider web.

My God, I loved her.

I love her.

Never in my life had I experienced the true, heart-wrenching pain of another individual. I had always been immune to such weak emotions, hardened by a lifetime of neglect and detachment. I had convinced myself that what I felt for her was above love. To me, love was a frivolous waste of an emotion. I had wanted her above all others from the moment I first laid eyes on her, but that wasn’t love. It was obsession, a drive to possess a treasure. It was supposed to be nothing different from the emotion I felt when I acquired a hard-to-obtain company, or new technology, or bent someone to my will.

It was a rush of power, not love.

It was never supposed to be love.

I glanced at the sideboard in my study, visible through the arched doorway. Fuck, I wanted a drink. I shook my head. No, I swore I would never drink like that in front of Aurora. A casual drink before attending an event, yes. A celebratory drink at a party, sure. But I never wanted her to witness me drinking in anger or when stressed. As it was, it tortured me that she’d seen me drunk and raving last night.

Love.

Even my cold, logical brain could not deny that the very thing I just described was a sign of love, of caring. Fuck.

I love her.

I rubbed a palm over my face.

I was not prepared for this. The reality I had been deluding myself into believing, that the only reason I wanted to propose to her was because she would make a good mother to my future children, was absurd.

Goddammit, I wanted to propose because I wanted her as my wife, in the purest sense of the word.

Not the mother of my children.

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