Symphony of Light and Winter

by Renea Mason

  Dumbfounded, I managed nothing more than a stunned stare.

  Placing his lips lightly against my hand, with deliberate slowness, he lingered. I hoped he didn’t notice my shiver, but the sly smile pulling at the corner of his mouth told me otherwise.

  He released my hand and tucked his behind his back, gave a slight nod, and walked toward Overton.

  I watched as Peters whispered something to him. I didn’t move.

  Overton glanced at me and placed his drink on the counter. “Peters” stole one last look over his shoulder. His brow furrowed one last time when our gazes connected. Finally he turned, and they made their way down the hall to the exterior doors as the musicians completed the final stanza.

  I watched him until they were out of sight. I moved to the far wall and slumped on the red leather bench.

  I needed Clarence’s confirmation. Or Olivia’s. I refused to cry over a delusion. My closest friend, besides Clarence, and the daughter of our wealthiest patron, Olivia spent a lot of time hanging around the office. I thought for sure she would make an appearance. She loved crashing my gatherings.

  Clarence took a seat beside me. “So, how’d you do? Did you land Willoughby? What about tall, dark, and dangerous? That man should be illegal.” Clarence tried to hide his grin, but failed.

  That confirmed he was real at least. “I don’t want to talk about it. Have you seen Olivia? I thought for sure she would drop by.”

  “I saw her in the lobby before the performance. She said she was going to stop by to see you.”

  “I haven’t seen her, but I really need to talk to her.”

  “She came with her dad. It’s possible he had to leave. He is a busy man, with City Council and the company.”

  “Yeah…you’re probably right. What about you? How did you fare?”

  “Overton seemed distracted. He told me Peters is a business partner. Said he’d donate something, but he kept watching Peters. I’ll follow up with him midweek.”

  In the corner, the musicians packed their instruments. I waved. “Thank you for the beautiful performance.” A few free hands raised in acknowledgment.

  “Well?” Clarence prompted.

  I put my face in my hands and spoke through widespread fingers. “I got the fifty thousand from Willoughby.”

  “Fabulous news! You didn’t have to get naked!”

  I moved my hands away from my eyes enough to glare at him. “But I did indulge his oral sex fantasy while on my knees wiping scotch from his pants.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t ask you to help him take them off.”

  I cringed.

  “Did you get money from the Peters guy?”

  “No. Long story.”

  He shot me a puzzled look. “What’s wrong, Linden?”

  Taking a deep breath, I tossed my head back and stretched my neck from side to side. “Nothing. I’m tired. Go ahead and take off; I’ll close up here. We can talk about everything on Monday. Have a good weekend, and be careful on your way home.”

  Giving a sympathetic smile, he patted my shoulder. “You too.”

  I willed myself not to cry. A long night’s sleep was in order, courtesy of the sleeping pills Clarence gave me after a bad string of nightmares.

  Exhausted from dealing with Mr. Undead, I removed my shoes, letting the plush carpet comfort my tired feet, and made my way to the restroom. The concertgoers and staff were long gone, making the hall eerie. Under normal circumstances, I would be reveling in the fortunate events of the evening, but encountering Cyril—rather, Mr. Peters—caused an old wound to fester. I wondered what the hell he was. A ghost? Long-lost twin? Or had I finally gone crazy?

  I reached behind my neck with both hands and unclasped the necklace irritating my skin. Using my behind to bump open the bathroom door, I slipped inside.

  The restroom was left over from a time when women escaped from overbearing men to powder shiny noses and gossip about how much other women gossiped. The walls were covered in a garish color best described as grandma-was-a-whore pink. I placed the necklace and my shoes on one of the worn sea-green velvet benches as the door on its pneumatic hinge creaked closed.

  I shivered from a resurgence of the strange current that radiated through me earlier. Maybe Cyril wasn’t the cause. Maybe I was getting si—

  He held me against the wall with such strength my feet no longer touched the ground. Supported by the crushing force of his body, the compression caused my breasts to escape an already bulging blouse, and mashed my nipples against the horrid paint. His chest rose and fell against my back. He spoke, not with the same American accent he tried to deceive me with earlier, but rather the tones of the British Isles mixed with something ancient and familiar. “Who are you?” His breath, hot against my ear, and a soft, rich voice contrasted with the violence of the leg wedged between my thighs.

  He restrained my hands above my head in the steel grasp of his fist. I attempted to answer him, but couldn’t force enough air into my lungs. He growled. His chest rumbled.

  The intense heat of his body was a dramatic contrast to the cold wall on my exposed skin. My nipples hardened to painful peaks. He brought his free hand to my throat, cradling it in warning. The next moment he spoke in low, punctuated notes. “Who…the…fuck…are…you?” The words reverberated, sustaining the menace.

  I managed only a whimper, too shocked to form complete words. His grip loosened, but he did not release me. I swallowed hard. “Lin—”

  “I know your name, Mrs. Green. Don’t take me for a fool. Now tell me why you have seen fit to steal from me?” He inhaled a sharp breath. “How dare you take what was not freely given. Do you have any idea what you have done…” His last words were uttered on a groan as he lowered me, shifted, and then rubbed his swollen arousal against my ass.

  The friction of his body did strange things to me. My head clouded with images of our earlier life together, making it difficult to form rational thoughts. Flashes of a fantasy I once had of him where he took me against the glass wall of his cabin penetrated the fear.

  I mustered as much air as possible and issued my indignant response. “You don’t have any right to complain about things that aren’t freely given. Hypocritical of you given our current position, isn’t it?”

  He growled and moved his leg, still seated between mine, in a slow and rhythmic friction against my sex. It was a dare. He was egging me on. He wanted me to defy him again; it was evident in his every movement.

  I groaned and slammed my eyes closed, trying to ignore the heat building in my stomach. Another deep inhalation made it easier to speak. “What exactly do you think I stole from you?”

  He moaned as he slowly licked my neck from nape to ear and whispered, “Everything. You, my little thief, need to convince me that I shouldn’t take it back.”

  Never had anyone touched me in such a way, and my traitorous body couldn’t care less about right or wrong, good or bad. It was need. The need to be touched. To feel alive. The need for him. Damn the consequences. I shivered as his breath blew cold across the wet trail his tongue left on my searing skin. He shifted, wedging his clothed erection firmly into the cleft of my ass, while his heat penetrated every place he touched.

  He grabbed my chin with the hand he once had at my throat, and turned my face. In the mirror, our reflection was a disturbing yet erotic sight. Seeing myself pushed against the wall made the vision terrifying, but at the same time arousing.

  As his body blanketed mine, a voice in the back of my mind whispered, Surrender. His height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and well-defined muscles were all discernible through his custom-made black suit. His hair framed the sharp angles of his masculine face—straight nose, square, shadowed jaw, and full, sensual lips.

  My red locks had fallen free from the pin, and my skirt had worked its way around my waist. With three small freckles exposed, the lacy strap of my thong highlighted my bare ass.

  His body cocooned mine, but it was the ever-so-slight swirling moti
on of his hips rubbing his cock between my cheeks that precipitated my groan.

  I raised my eyes to make contact with the brilliant pools of blue. Finally he broke the silence, but not his gaze.

  “Are you going to start explaining, or do I need to find other means of persuasion?” He thrust his hips in warning.

  I moaned. Somewhere deep in my mind, beyond the fear and intense lust, I knew I should start talking, but another part of me wanted to feel, more than anything, what it would be like to be fucked into submission—to be possessed by him. I had been cold and alone inside for so long. He was life, sex, and death in one dangerous package.

  Fortunately, the sensible side of me won the battle. I forced myself to think as clearly as possible. “Cyril, I…I…mean Morgan, ah…shit… Whatever your name is, tell me what it is you want. I’ll give it to you.”

  He laughed, low and mocking. “You can’t give it back. Did you not consider the consequences?” He lowered his face to my neck and nipped gently. “Was it your goal to weaken me? I will not suffer weakness!” He bellowed a whisper, his mouth close to my ear. “The Awakening was wrong. I thought it might have been the ritual, wondered if the magics were incompatible. Then I felt you tonight and all the pieces fell into place. Your attempts to compromise me will not work. The question now is what to do about it? Perhaps I should kill you?” He blew a soft stream air into my ear, sending shivers through me. “Or I could take my time and savor you first?” He paused and ran his nose along my throat. His rough stubble scraped my skin, leaving behind a sinful burn. “Oh, the possibilities. I bet you’d even thank me for it.” He placed a kiss under my jaw. “But before I decide, I need to know how you did it? Are you one of Myghal’s? Tell me!”

  I had no doubt about his conviction. He was dead serious.

  I trembled. Wetness flowed freely from my eyes as anger consumed me. Like a woman possessed, I couldn’t stop myself. Sealing my fate, I rambled, “What about me, you bastard? How dare you demand answers? It’s been ten years. I watched you die! I would have given my life to save you.” I panted. “What are you?”

  He shifted and his grip softened.

  My body shook. I sucked air through my teeth. “They found me covered in blood, with no explanation. The police thought I staged everything for attention, assuming it was a suicide attempt, because all evidence, including your body, disappeared. The only thing they saw was my sliced wrist. If not for Michael, they would have taken me to the psych ward.”

  He showed no emotion, but his attention remained focused on my lips.

  “The coma lasted seven months. Not one doctor could explain it. A psychotic break, they called it.” Tears cascaded over my cheeks and landed on the tops of my breasts. “Michael tried to convince me you didn’t exist. I suffered your death in silence. No one believed me, but in my soul, I knew you were real.” A sob caught in my throat, but I choked it back. My body stiffened, steeling my resolve. “So, fuck you! Go ahead. Kill me. I don’t care. Because what you did to me makes dying the lesser of two evils. You cursed me. Anyone close to me dies. You stole my future, you son of a bitch.” I tilted my head to give him better access to my throat.

  He inhaled a shaky breath.

  Rigid, I awaited his response, wanting it to be over. “Take what you want because the only thing I own is my regret at ever meeting you.”

  He didn’t move and remained expressionless.

  “But I should warn you, if you fuck me, it might not end so well. The last man didn’t live to regret it.”

  He said nothing while watching my cleansing tears expel grief, anger, and regret. My chest heaved with rapid breaths, bracing myself for his strike.

  His hold loosened, releasing my hands from above my head.

  My arms hung limp at my sides in defeat. He bent, placing tender kisses along my neck. He grasped my chin, turned my head, and captured my lips. His kiss started soft, but built as he rocked against me. He kissed me like a long-lost lover, the lover I had always wished him to be. There was no doubt about it now. He was Cyril.

  His kiss was nothing like our first. Full, soft lips laced with electric sin traveled straight to my depths. I had dreamed of experiencing him as much more. Not the chaste kiss he placed upon my lips while dying, but rather a man desperate to affirm life.

  I inhaled. His scent intoxicated me, clouding my head and igniting the liquid heat between my legs, welcoming him.

  He paused and tilted his head as if listening for something, then resumed his kiss. His teeth tugged gently on my lower lip as he caressed the edge with the tip of his velvet tongue.

  His mouth met my lips, neck, cheeks, and shoulders, in a shower of passion-filled caresses.

  I expected sharp teeth to pierce my skin at any moment. Instead, he ground his erection against me. He moaned, sighed, and panted rhythmically in my ear. His knee seated between my thighs became saturated with my arousal as he rubbed sensitive flesh, keeping time with his breaths.

  His thrusts against my body suggested the need for release. Thinking of his impending orgasm brought me closer to the edge. I closed my eyes, feeling the escalating warmth. To feel him shudder and groan from absolute pleasure would be too much. “Oh, Cyri—”

  A loud female gasp stunned me. Margie, the orchestra assistant, stood with her mouth gaping at finding me nearly naked and pressed against the wall by a commanding stranger. It didn’t help that Margie had the well-earned title of office gossip.

  He peeled away and turned me to help right my clothes, positioning himself between Margie and me as if to shield my modesty. I tried to steady my breathing. Slapping his hands away, I peered around him to glare at Margie, who remained frozen in place. I tucked in my breasts, pulled down my skirt, cleared my throat, and attempted to speak through gritted teeth. “Something you need, Margie?”

  “Oh… No. Sorry, Linden.” She headed for a stall. Wait. She wasn’t leaving? Bitch!

  His disheveled appearance, accentuated by a light coat of sweat and a large wet spot on his right knee, made my breath catch. His pupils dilated and his breathing labored as he stared back with eyes ringed in sapphire.

  I blushed and shook my head to dislodge the lust. I stared at him and whispered, “I guess you’re going to have to kill me quietly or increase the body count?”

  His gaze raked over my body before he bent to place a light kiss on the top of my head. Searching my face for a moment, his lips pulled at the edges in a wicked smile.

  He bent, speaking close to my ear in an overly formal tone. “Mrs. Green, nice to make your acquaintance. It certainly has been a pleasure meeting you. Good evening.” He turned and left, his departure a blur.

  Too stunned to follow, I stood transfixed.

  Margie vacated the stall, pushing past my motionless form, and began to wash her hands. I wanted to slap her and thank her at the same time. Exiting the restroom, she appeared rattled, but the smirk didn’t go unnoticed.

  Standing still, trying to gather my wits, my body trembled from overstimulation and fear. So much deserved contemplation, but my mind kept repeating the same words over and over again.

  What the fuck?

  Chapter Two

  Aftermath

  The mental haze surrounding me proved thick and dense. I didn’t remember getting into the car, or the drive home. So preoccupied. My five-year old Pontiac felt like a refuge from the evening’s events.

  Not sure why my mind chose that moment to crumble, but as I opened the door, the crisp night air whisked in, and my last remnants of strength shattered. Tears began to flow as I faced my new reality.

  He was alive. Not a dream—had never been a dream.

  My vision clouded. I walked up the stairs from the street lined with elegant, oversize Victorian mansions dating back to the turn of the twentieth century, to my small, first-floor apartment. The peeling paint I asked the landlord to fix three months ago no longer screamed at me. It was a shame he continued to let the maintenance on the beautiful old home slip, but I had
bigger problems.

  After closing the door, I took a deep, cleansing breath and began my ritual. I removed my coat, hung it on the door, and tossed my keys into the wooden bowl I had carved in high school shop class. Lastly, I switched on the Bose music system that sat on a table just inside the door. Chopin’s Impromptu filled the air.

  Tears streamed down my face as I paused on the way to the kitchen to stare at the painting above my sofa. The soothing colors couldn’t penetrate my mood. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of red wine I opened two days prior but never finished. Normally I drank red wine at room temperature, but I had no desire to wait for the soothing elixir to warm.

  Resting my elbows on the counter with the glass in hand, I sobbed. Tears dripped from my chin, making ripples in the wine as they fell one by one. My life resembled the disruptive waves the salty droplets made on the smooth surface. Neither the wakes nor the tears should exist.

  A sensation, much like free fall, permeated my chest. Standing, I took a gulp of wine and made my way to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was far from pleasant, my face pale and splotchy with redness. For a moment, I wondered if I had hallucinated the entire evening, but the brush burn from Cyril’s five o’clock shadow was evidence. His grasp on my neck had been forceful, but the only blemish remaining was the circular irritation left by Michael’s necklace.

  I washed down two sleeping pills with wine. As I pulled the shirt over my head, his scent, heady, masculine, and raw, stopped me. It was mixed with something else. Perhaps cologne, maybe soap or aftershave, which added a touch of spice. I finished undressing but lifted the discarded clothing to my nose, inhaling deeply. I sighed. The pain in my chest eased and a sense of calm rushed over me. How can the aroma of such a turbulent man bring me peace?

  On one hand, I hated him for what he did. He controlled, accused, and dominated me. On the other hand, for the first time in ten years, I felt alive, as though looking through my eyes instead of those of a stranger.