The Taste of Revenge: Chapter 7

‘So it’s my fault now?’ I turn to Amo in disbelief, and he has the decency to look embarrassed.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Really?’ I cross my hands over my chest. ‘You just implied I was purposefully trying to split Thadeo and Camilla up.’

‘Noelle,’ he sighs, taking a bottle from the table and pouring himself a drink. ‘This is exactly your problem,’ he starts and I frown. ‘Everyone is always against you. You’re the only one who can do no wrong.’

My mouth opens and closes as I blink repeatedly. Did he just…

‘So you agree with Cisco. You think I’m doing this for attention.’

‘Noelle…’

‘Don’t!’ I put my hand up. ‘Stop before you say something you will regret, Amo. You are my brother, and I love you very much, but that’s it.’

His features draw up in confusion as he regards me, and my lip twitches in annoyance.

‘We cannot choose our families. That much is true,’ I tell him, my chest feeling heavy with disappointment. ‘But we can choose who we have in our lives. And I find I’d rather lose some people along the way.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘But I do,’ a sad smile plays on my lips. ‘You and everyone else are so quick to crucify me when you don’t know the full story. Actually,’ a dry laugh escapes me, ‘you think I’m making it all up, don’t you?’

‘Cisco’s been in contact with your therapist, Noelle. We know that you’re not… well,’ he chooses his words carefully, not realizing that the more he talks the more he’s breaking my heart.

‘So Dr. Chadwick is breaking patient confidence now?’ I counter.

He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Cisco is your legal guardian, Noelle and you’re under his conservatorship. He has access to your health records.’

‘And he still doesn’t believe me. And neither do you,’ I purse my lips, tears burning behind my eyes as I try my best to not show any weakness.

‘It’s not that,’ he says in an exasperated tone. ‘After what you’ve been through, it’s normal to have some residual trauma. Hell, you were the only survivor there. But you need to let us help you, and it won’t work if you’re always on the defensive.’

Shaking my head at him, I take a step back. And another. Until I turn on my heel, stomping out of the room and dashing up the stairs, Amo’s voice calling out my name just a lingering echo in the wind.

Why?

Why does everyone think I am crazy? Why do they think I’m suffering from some type of PTSD when in fact there’s only one answer to my behavior.

Anger.

I’m angry.

Angry at my family. Angry at the world. And angry at myself.

Maybe there is some buried trauma from everything I’ve lived. After all, I don’t think anyone would escape intact from Sergio’s loving hands.

But Cisco and Amo are trying to make me sound so unstable I can’t even take care of myself. So unstable I can’t be on my own.

Laughter bubbles in my throat at the realization they will never let me live my own life.

I mean, here I am. Legally an adult. Once married, now widowed. And I still have no control over my own person.

Just because one useless piece of paper says I need a guardian to take care of me—a piece of paper I have no doubt Cisco paid money to manufacture.

And why? Because he’s afraid I’ll sully the family name with my behavior? That I’ll tell everyone who will listen that they sold their barely legal sister to a sadist and promptly forgot about her?

I’ve lived through hell to get here. And yet, I’m still a prisoner.

My hands balled into fists, I can no longer control the tears of frustration that pour down my cheeks, or the feeling of uselessness unfurling in my chest.

Anger.

Yes, anger is good.

And as my feet carry me to the attic, the place that houses my once beloved treasure—the place that visits anymore—I finally let everything inside of me loose.

Closing the door behind me, a scream makes it past my lips as I release all the frustration I’d bottled up inside.

A hoarse groan echoes in the bare room, my voice responding to me and mocking me with the evidence of what I’d become.

‘Why? Why? WHY?’ I yell at the top of my lungs, my throat constricting, my vocal cords straining and wrenching an involuntary gasp from me as I fall to my knees.

Tears fall uncontrollably down my cheeks as my eyes zone in on the forlorn piano in the middle of the room.

Once, it had been the center of my world. But it, too, had failed me.

I will my feet to move, taking a seat on the bench, my palms making contact with the cold and dusty surface of the piano.

Closing my eyes, I simply let myself enjoy the proximity.

Oh, but how I’d dreamed about this at one point. How the memory of my piano had kept me warm at night when despair threatened to overtake me.

My love for music had been my one refuge.

Until he’d taken that away from me too.

Lifting the lid, I take in the keys, the white stained with yellow from unuse.

Dr. Chadwick had urged me to try to play again, and I wish for nothing more, especially since from a young age, playing the piano had been a medium through which I’d expressed my feelings.

All had changed when I’d been coerced to perform, forced to witness the debauchery that would take place at the , and forced to entertain Sergio’s reprehensible guests.

Bit by bit, even music had failed to rouse me—until I’d simply lost hope.

My fingers linger on the keys and although my mind rebels against it, my body yearns to play.

One second I’m just tracing the outline of the keys, the next my fingers press down, a low sound reverberating in the air.

I close my eyes, that one note filling me with so much warmth my soul weeps with joy.

‘How could I do this to you?’ I murmur softly, suddenly ashamed that I’d let it get out of shape, the sound rusty and out of tune.

Focusing on the matter at hand, I thrust all other thoughts out of my mind, my eyes only seeing one thing—the instrument before me.

Slowly, the sound begins to gain a familiar cadence, my eyes closing, my ears opening up as I simply let my fingers roam over the keys, producing a sweet melody that makes me yearn for oblivion.

And just as I start playing, I lose it. Everything I’d kept locked away—locked tightly inside of me—floods to the surface. Each note is imbued with every emotion I’ve ever felt—every tear I’ve ever shed.

I feel… liberated.

From Chopin’s Etude No. 4 to Bach’s Fugue in D minor, my fingers hit the keys with an intensity that makes me reel, the sound reflected back only inciting my anger further, the bass of the lower notes hitting my entire body as goosebumps appear all over my skin.

It’s only when the anger starts abating that the melody shifts, and I find myself giving into sorrow, Mozart’s Lacrimosa flowing from my fingertips.

Eyes squeezed shut, I continue playing, repeating the same melody all over as if I could not bear to part with it.

The slight eerie tune as well as the emotion it evokes in me make me unable to stop. It’s as if all my pain is oozing from me and into the piano keys, my wounds bleeding in the air, my sorrows materializing before me.

As I drown myself in the succession of notes, I simply become one with the melody.

It’s too late that I feel the presence of another person in the room, and my fingers suddenly still on the piano keys as my eyes take in the intruder.

He’s leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. He’s naked except for a pair of black pants that sits low on his hips, the contours of his muscles unmistakable. A lean frame hardened by muscle, the breadth of his shoulders is intimidating as his arms slowly flex, his biceps gaining contour even in the poorly lit room. Then there’s his chest… My lips part on a barely audible whimper as my eyes widen at his pebbled abdomen, a sculpted v leading down…

I gulp down, heat enveloping my cheeks. Realizing the direction of my thoughts, I snap my eyes back to his face. It’s then that I realize he’s staring at me—he’s been watching me ogle him all along.

Embarrassment burns at my cheeks, but it’s a natural reaction, isn’t it? It’s not every day that I see someone so attractive, especially with how little freedom I’m allowed by Cisco.

Shaking myself from my musings, I’m about to question his presence in the attic. But just as I open my mouth to speak, he moves. Faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, one moment he’s by the door, the next he’s in front of me, the moonlight from the tiny window hitting his face and eliciting a loud gasp from my lips.

I blink rapidly, as if trying to dispel what can only be a mirage appeared before me. Because there’s no way such a beautiful man exists. There are no other words to describe his visage. Angular features as if sculpted in marble, his golden skin is only complemented by the messy blonde locks curling around his forehead. Sharp jaw and high cheekbones, he’s all male. Yet there’s an ethereal beauty to him that’s simply ineffable. For all his male harshness, there’s also softness in his full lips, or the thick lashes that encase the most beautiful pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.

I’m simply rooted to the spot as I stare into his blue eyes, a shade so deep and clear it reminds me of the Mediterranean sea as it hits the shores of Sardinia. And as our gazes meet in a quiet staring contest, it’s like I’m suddenly pulled back into another time—one that promises only happiness, the salty smell of the sea and the echo of seashells. My heart aches in my chest at something ineffable, the atmosphere heating just as my breathing grows harsher.

My eyes take in his imposing body and the many marks that mar his sculpted muscles. He’s been hurt…badly. I don’t know why that one piece of information makes me swallow painfully, as if biting down on shards of glass.

He cranes his neck, his pupils visibly growing in size.

‘Who are you? And what are you doing here?’ I barely find my voice to ask.

But he doesn’t seem to hear me as he moves once more, this time coming around the piano, his hand caressing the instrument with innate reverence. I’m almost in his thrall as I watch his slow movements, their graceful quality belying his hulking size.

When he comes closer and closer to me—so close I can smell him, my nostrils flaring as I take in a masculine scent that is both threatening and alluring at the same time—it’s finally enough to make me react.

I swiftly rise from the bench, moving to bypass him, trying to escape this maddening proximity. There’s something inside of me that knows he is dangerous—to my body and to my senses. And one more minute in his presence could prove too perilous.

I don’t get to take one step when his hand circles my wrist, his skin hot against mine, the touch scorching. My head whips up, my brows lifting up in a silent question mixed with confusion at his actions.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, trying to escape his grip.

All efforts are in vain, though. Not when he seems to be over a foot taller than me and at least a hundred pounds heavier. If anything, my attempts seem to amuse him as the corner of his mouth quirks up, a slight arrogance seeping through.

He hasn’t spoken so far. He hasn’t said anything, yet the way he’s looking at me seems to convey everything. There’s an intensity in his gaze that leaves me reeling, and my knees feel weak under its scrutinizing pressure, ready to buckle at any moment.

But that doesn’t happen. Not when he easily pushes me back towards the piano, maneuvering me so that I’m back on the bench, far on the right side as he takes a seat next to me.

The bench is barely big enough to seat both of us, and his hard thighs brush against mine, his naked torso so close to mine I feel a blush envelop my features.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I repeat my question, and he suddenly turns to me, those beautiful blue eyes pinning me to the spot and making me lose myself in their depths.

God, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful man. He’s like an Adonis come to life, his golden skin and blonde locks only emphasizing his angelic—almost otherworldly—looks.

His lips part as if he’s about to answer me, but no sound comes out. His brows furrow in confusion, his pupils noticeably contracting, the black a harsh contrast against the pure blue of his irises.

He looks frustrated as his mouth cannot form the words he means to convey, and after a visible struggle, he decides to ditch verbal attempts in favor of non-verbal ones.

His hand is still on mine, and by some sort of sorcery, I don’t think I want him to remove it. That sentiment is even more evident as he moves, the absence of sensation leaving me bereft in a way that tugs at both my conscience and senses, a foreign feeling of familiarity unfurling in my chest. My heart is already beating at the speed of a thousand beats per minute, my pulse out of control. Yet he doesn’t notice.

He’s focused on his own objective, and as he pulls away from me only to come back, grabbing both my hands and pushing them towards the keys of the piano, his intent is clear.

He wants me to keep on playing.

A frown on his perfect face, his hands cover mine, pushing at the keys. Surprise envelops his features when he hears the sound.

He keeps on pressing my fingers against the keys, trying to emulate the previous melody in a strange manner, his rendition sloppy but impressive nonetheless.

Somehow, I know I should leave. That I shouldn’t spend another moment alone with this unknown man. But no matter how much I tell my body to move, it doesn’t want to obey me. There’s something oddly appealing about him, and while his gaze rests on the piano, his attention rapt on the instrument, mine is on him.

He must be an acquaintance of my brother’s. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, freely moving about the house.

I’ve never been good with strangers, and perhaps my past with Sergio could explain my apprehension towards men and their potential intentions. Yet in this stranger’s presence I don’t feel threatened. Not in the least.

Not even as I feel the intensity rolling off him, the way his muscles flex and expand under my gaze. His nakedness should have distressed me—it should have terrified me. Instead, I find it distracting—in the most delicious type of way.

His grip tightens over my fingers as he prompts me once more to play for him. And without even thinking, I do.

I let my fingers glide over the keys once more, Lacrimosa taking shape as note after note resounds in the air, the sadness of the melody imbuing the atmosphere with a lugubrious feel.

The sound strikes a chord in him—I can tell. Eyes closed, he tilts his head back as if he’s being transposed into the music itself. For a second, as I look at him the melody, I feel an affinity to him. Something that goes beyond the rational.

His entire body is attuned to the music and he sways to the chilling notes ever so slightly. While his hands are no longer pressing down on mine, his skin is still touching mine in a light caress—the lightest I’ve ever experienced.

There’s something about him and the way his presence alone seems to feed my song, making me play as I’ve never played before—as if I were whole again.

But just as I feel we’ve reached some type of understanding, his body tenses. His hand finds mine, urging me to do something more.

I turn to him, confused. Still, he does not say a word. He’s merely holding tight to my hand as he tries to convey something. I see his frustration mount at his inability to communicate verbally, and so I do something out of character—certainly something I haven’t done in years.

I sing.

I know the words to the melody. I’ve sung them often in the past.

But since my voice had been damaged beyond repair, I’d been afraid to even try to sing—terrified I’d hate my new voice even more than I already did.

Tentatively at first, my voice follows the melody as the words fit themselves to the notes in a quiet harmony. There is a harshness I expected, but some musicality remains.

It doesn’t take long for him to calm down, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathes in time with the breaks I take between the notes, almost as if he didn’t want to cloud his hearing with his own breathing.

My chest tightens with an unfamiliar emotion as my voice follows the piano melody, my eyes fixed on his form—and the way he reacts to my music.

At this moment, we’re one.

I’m one with the music. He’s one with the music.

There’s no space, no boundary. There’s only feeling. Feeling wrapped in musicality. Musicality wrapped in decadence.

My blood pounds in my veins, and I feel a flush envelop my entire body.

And as I give myself to the sad sound, I feel him move closer, his nose trailing very close to the surface of my skin, inhaling.

I keep myself still, but I feel him everywhere.

He nuzzles my skin, moving upwards, one hand grasping on to my hair and bringing it to his nose.

This time, he’s so close he could imprint himself on me.

Without even realizing, I jump up, my hands off the piano.

No one’s been this close to me in…forever. And the prospect of him coming even closer frightens me, so I take the easiest route.

I run.

But I don’t get far.

Not with his speed and the way his arms reach for me, bringing me to his embrace.

I stand no chance. I know that. It’s even more clear as I find myself plastered against his hard body, my head only reaching the middle of his chest. He continues his exploration of my hair as he stoops down, bringing his face in the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply.

I bring my hands between our bodies, my palms splayed on the hard planes of his chest as I push against him.

It’s all in vain. Especially as he backs me further into the wall, his hand grabbing both my wrists and pinning my arms above my head.

Dangerous. He’s dangerous.

Yet as I look into his dazed expression, I can’t muster any of my usual terror. If anything, I can’t muster any fear at all. There’s only a distant heat that seems to beckon me as he brings himself even closer to me.

So close, I can feel him everywhere, skin on top of skin, hardness against softness. A gasp escapes my lips as I come into contact with another part of him—equally as hard—and a slight tremor goes down my body.

‘Please,’ I whisper. But he doesn’t understand. No, he seems to have a single-minded goal as his lips make contact with the sensitive flesh just below my pulse point. The brush of his mouth against my skin is magical—made even more so by the warmth that accompanies it as he opens his lips, his tongue swiping over the throbbing vein in my neck.

My knees buckle and I whimper, his tongue and teeth teasing my skin in what can possibly be the sweetest torment I’ve ever known.

He groans against me, thrusting his hips towards me, his hardness making contact with my lower belly and startling me out of my reverie. The spell is immediately broken as sense returns and I see myself—at the mercy of a stranger, allowing him intimate acts befitting only a husband.

Before I can think it through, I bring my knee up, nailing him in the balls. With a pained groan, he releases his hold on me, and that’s all I need to make a run for it, pushing him backwards as I dash out of the room and down the stairs, locking myself in my room.

I ignore the way my pulse throbs. I ignore the way something else throbs. I ignore the tingle he left on my skin and the searing mark on my soul.

I just hide in my room, going to sleep and wishing it’s all a dream—a figment borne out of my faulty imagination.