Page 43 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

And then, as the climax approached, the music became more erratic. My own sorrow blending with the haunting legacy of Amaranthe, culminating in a crescendo of raw emotion. The cello screamed out my pain where I couldn’t, told a story I felt too terrified to revisit.

But every stroke of the bow dragged those memories to the forefront, making me relive them.

Tears flow freely down my cheeks as I play, the music a direct reflection of my soul’s deepest anguish. I lost track of time, so immersed was I in this cathartic act.

And then, suddenly — silence. My fingers stop, and the cello lay silent in my lap, the final note still resonating in the air. I tried to catch my breath, my heart beating so fast it felt like I had run a marathon.

The weight of my cello became too much, and I gently set it down. I take a moment, wiping my tears, trying to regain my composure and feel drained, emotionally spent. As if I’d purged a lifetime of pain in a matter of moments.

In that heavy stillness, I feel a presence. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up, signaling that I wasn’t alone. Before I can turn around, a familiar scent envelopes me, oddly comforting and familiar — Mikhail.

I didn’t need to see him to know that he’d witnessed my raw, unfiltered display of pain. And honestly, I was too tired to explain what he had just seen.

His presence offers a warmth that I didn’t realize I was craving. It was clear he had been standing there for a while, absorbing every note, every tear.

Strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me effortlessly. I hold on to him, seeking comfort in his arms. As we exit the music room, I bury my face into the crook of his neck, finding solace in his scent; a mix of sandalwood and a hint of citrus.

Reaching our bedroom, he gently lays me down on the soft comforter, settling himself beside me.

Wordlessly, he holds me, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my back, calming the storm raging within me, and I nestle into his embrace. The events of the day, the haunting music, and the revelation of my shared pain were too overwhelming.

But here, in this moment, it’s just the two of us.

MIKHAIL

There’s something about the sheer vulnerability of music that can strip a person bare, lay them out for the world to see.

When I discovered Gabriette lost in her haunting cello performance, something within me shifted. The air in that room had been heavy, charged with raw emotion, and I’d felt an unbidden urge to shield her from her own turmoil.

So when I cradled her in my arms throughout the night, not one thread of doubt pulled at me. It felt... right. The weight of her against me, the rhythm of her breath as she slept. It anchored me in ways I’d never imagined.

This isn’t just about fulfilling a role anymore. It’s deeper, more visceral. It feels as if this woman, despite everything, has started to burrow her way into my cold, often calloused heart.

It’s been hours since I found her in that music room, her raw emotions laid bare, resonating through her cello. Seeing her so vulnerable, every protective instinct in me had surged forward. She needed someone, and without a second thought, it was my arms she found refuge in.

She hasn’t spoken a word about it. Neither have I. But in the stillness of the room, with her heart beating steadily against me, I can feel a shared understanding forming between us.

I’ve always been the one in control, the unwavering pillar that others lean on. But as dawn breaks, the first golden rays spilling into the room, I find myself at odds with my own feelings. There’s a warmth in my chest, an affection that has been growing steadily, threatening to overtake the defenses I’ve spent years constructing.

Fucking hell. Why now? Why her?

I glance down at Gabriette, her features relaxed in sleep. She’s so different from the defiant firecracker I’ve come to know. In this stillness, there’s a hint of vulnerability, of past pain that has etched itself onto her very soul.

And it’s that pain, so palpably echoed in her music last night, that now pulls at something deep within me.

I’ve noticed the subtle signs, of course. The occasional flinch when I touch her without warning, the shadows in her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking. Something happened to her. Something that left a mark.

Goddamn it. The realization irritates me, not because of its implications, but because I care. I’m starting to fucking care about Gabriette, and that terrifies me.

I’ve lived most of my life maintaining a distance from those who could be used against me. Emotional ties are liabilities I cannot afford. I’ve seen what attachments can do, how they can be exploited, twisted into chains that bind and control.

My great-grandmother is a testament to this.

Yet here I am, getting fucking attached to a woman I barely know, a woman I was ready to use as a pawn, feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time. Vulnerable.

It feels right to have her close, to be the one she turns to. But she’s starting to become a drug, an addiction I didn’t anticipate, one I didn’t want, but one I’m not sure I can resist.

Her soft form against me feels like a fucking brand. It’s almost maddening how right she fits in the curve of my body, like she was carved just to fill this space beside me.

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