himself.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods, smiling smugly like an adolescent boy. “I am now.”
“Oh, Christian,” I scold and reach up to gently stroke his lovely face. “I was
talking about your nightmare.”
His expression freezes momentarily, then he closes his eyes and tightens his
arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw. My heart lurches and twists
once more in my chest, and I clutch him tightly, running my hands down his
back and through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, alarmed by his reaction. Holy fuck—how can I keep up
with these mood swings? What the hell was his nightmare about? I don’t
want to cause him any more pain by making him relive the details. “It’s okay,”
I murmur softly, desperate to bring him back to the playful boy of a moment
ago. “It’s okay,” I repeat over and over soothingly.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says quietly after a while, and he pulls away from me,
lea一ving me empty and aching as he rises from the bed. I scramble after him,
keeping the satin sheet wrapped around me, and bend to pick up my
clothes.
“Lea一ve those,” he says, and before I know it, he scoops me up in his arms. “I
don’t want you to trip over this sheet and break your neck.” I put my arms
around him marveling that he’s recovered his composure, and nuzzle him as
he carries me downstairs to our bedroom.
My eyes spring open. Something is wrong. Christian is not in bed, though it’s
still dark. Glancing at the radio alarm, I see it’s three twenty in the morning.
Where’s Christian? Then I hear the piano. Quickly slipping out of bed, I grab
my robe and run down the hallway to the great room. The tune he’s playing is
so sad—a mournful 245 | P a g e
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lament that I’ve heard him play before. I pause in the doorway and watch him
in his pool of light while the achingly sorrowful music fills the room. He
finishes then starts the piece again. Why such a plaintive tune? I wrap my
arms around myself and listen spellbound as he plays
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