Page 51 of The Sound in Silence

But I heard her voice. Throaty but also soft. Packed of a fear I want to protect her from. To help her talk again without the heavy emotion dragging her down.

She mumbles incoherently and shifts, rolling until her face is shoved into the pillow, a position I’d normally smirk at, but my insides are still numb because there’s nothing amusing in her display of fear.

It was great enough to break through her other fears, the ones the trauma’s created. The ones preventing her from speaking with anyone but her sister.

Ariella’s mutism was a fact I was prepared to live with when I agreed to marry her. A challenge we’d overcome together, and learning sign language is one step in that direction—albeit an unseen step at the time.

But it’s now more. There’s something deeper there I wish to help her unfold, tohealher from her struggles, so she doesn’t have another nightmare ever again.

Do I mention this in the morning?

No, I decide. I won’t because I get the sense, she’d hide from me even more, simply to prevent me from witnessing her nightmares. Or she’d attempt to move out of our room. And do I really want to mention that she’s likely reliving the moment she lost her mother?

Based on the intel my men discovered, we’re days away from the anniversary of her mother’s death, reminding me to reach out to Nico. For Ariella’s sake, I doubt he’ll deny my request to return to Montreal, so she can be with her sister on the day.

Once Ariella’s silent, I return to lying on my back, staring at the white ceiling until sleep decides to come. It never does, and after a few more minutes, another whimper bursts through the silence.

Fuck this.

Despite everything I said earlier, my actions come from a place of wanting to care for her. When’s the last time anyone actually held her, told her it’d be okay, and let her cry it out? Has she had a solid cry in the near three years since the accident?

I want to be that for you.

Want and need are very different things, though. More so, whatshewants. People are typically easy to read, but Ariella, fuck, I can’t piece her together.

Looping my arm around her waist, I pull her to my bare chest, tightening my hold so she can’t go anywhere. She won’t know about this, not if I wake before her, which is likely since I’m an early riser.

She whimpers again and tries to pull away. A weak attempt only lasting the blink of an eye before she sighs and settles.

It’s there, late at night, holding my new wife for the first time, I realize what I refuse to act on.

I’m too intrigued by her to completely ignore her.

Ariella

Iwent to bed alone, and when I wake, I’m still alone. Based on the dip in the mattress, Erico had come to bed at one point, but after a quick pat, the sheets are cool, which tells me he’s been gone for a while.

Likely woke to avoid you.

It’s that low thought making getting out of bed arduous, but if I don’t, Erico will wonder, and if he looks close enough, he might see what others don’t.

So I go through the motions. Get out of bed, shower, tie my wet hair up, and dress in the first thing my hands touch—jean shorts and a simple blouse—before slipping downstairs, keeping my steps as quiet as possible. No one’s around, which feels odd, but the silence is pleasant, as is not having staff wait on me.

After pouring a mug of coffee, I walk the length of the house toward the music room. It’s too early for a swim, and music’s my only other option in this large place. At no time do I see Erico, but it’s not all that surprising, even if a stupid part of me was wishing to.

He’s probably gone by now. Returned to the city for work and his condo, far away from me.

As expected, the large room is empty, with only my piano tucked in the corner. There’s nowhere to rest my mug, other than the floor because I don’t want to risk staining the piano, but perhaps I’ll ask for a small table.

When I reach the piano, there’s a coaster on top, and with a silly smile, I rest my mug on it. Someone foresaw this issue. Carlotta is extremely likely, but somehow, I feel it was Erico, playing his games again.

Once the coffee’s in its new place, I lift the bench’s lid, having found it to be a storage space, ideal for keeping my notebook in. At first, I nearly didn’t, since it’s the book I’ve clung to for so long, the pages only I’ve read, and having it in here means it’s vulnerable to others’ eyes. But if I’m to live out my life here, I can’t keep my possessions in a tiny bag I guard forever.

My heart slows with ease when I retrieve it unharmed and open to the last page I was working on, trialling a few new notes and rewriting lyrics as I’ve whispered them to myself.

* * *

Hours pass, or that’s what it feels like, when the door opens and my back prickles with the knowledge of who’s intruded.

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