Chapter 7

Anton

Idid not sleep a wink. The haunting, exquisitely played melody coming from her bedroom tore through my body like a pack of hungry wolves, tearing at my very soul. I had stood in the hallway, slowly climbing the stairs, afraid to disturb her or stop the glorious torment of hearing her incredible talent.

I knew she played for herself, and not for me. If anything, she played in spite of my hateful presence. The contradiction only made me want her more.

My desire for her was quickly becoming an obsession. I kept trying to put her in a box, a neatly labeled category, as I had done with every other woman in my life. Instead, she had neatly evaded categorization or compartmentalization.

And that was long before I had heard her play.

Never mind the video feed. Initially, I had the volume turned off while she played. I stared, transfixed as the beautiful, half naked beauty poured her heart and soul into what I recognized as Mozart Violin Concerto number three before I was drawn to hear her play, as close to her door as I dared to venture.

I knew I would watch her, listen to, again and again as the night wore on. But for now, I wanted to be as close as I could be. I wanted to listen to her, not the tawdry sound captured by the secret cameras I had installed in her suite.

She was the best musician I had ever heard in my life. I was stunned by her talent. Nothing I had ever heard compared to it. Not the symphony. Not famous recordings. Not the many operas I had attended over the years.

Our father had included art and music in our education. I could even play a bit of the piano, but not like Andrei could play the guitar, or really anything. And Alexei could sing his ass off, not that he ever really did. My true talent had always been painting, but my father had discouraged it after a certain age, calling it child's play.

I still had all my paints and canvases, stashed away in the attic. I was no longer a child. My father's word no longer held sway in such personal matters. Sometimes my fingers itched to pick up a paint brush and make art again.

Watching her, the itching intensified.

I watched her disappear into the bathroom and cursed my morals in not putting a camera in there, too. It had seemed wrong to do so. But now I was dying to see what she was up to. Taking a bath? Showering? She was in the bathroom for a long time. So long that I nearly ran down the hallway and demanded she come out. But the game would be over before it started.

Finally, she emerged, wearing the plush robe that were always waiting in all of our guest suites. I swallowed thickly as she slipped it off and put on a modest nightgown, catching a glimpse of her smooth, perfect flesh.

"Goodnight, sweet Mishka," I whispered as she got into the enormous bed.

I carried the monitor with me as I silently passed her bedroom on my way to the attic. It took all of my will to resist the urge to open the door, climb into bed with her and pull her into my arms.

But I could not. It was too soon. Instead, I would paint her. The attic was clean and finished, but the low ceiling and dormers made it feel snug and private. Secret.

I pulled a drop cloth off of my old easel and took a deep breath. A swell of something welled up inside me. Inside my chest. It felt like coming home to myself. Remembering who I was. All because of her.

I looked around and located my old tools, including a jar of paint thinner and rags. I set everything up, with the monitor propped on a stack of boxes. Then I rewound the feed until I found a moment of her playing that captured her beauty and passion.

I picked up my paint brush for the first time in almost twenty years, and began to paint.