Protecting You - Complete

Chapter 7 - Ana

I was right on the cusp of sleep when I heard Christian whisper, telling me he was going to pick me up and calling me baby. Then he lifted me in his arms and carried me to my bedroom. I could have opened my eyes and told him I was still awake, but I enjoyed the feeling of my head resting against his shoulder and my side pressed against his front. The distance to my bedroom was not long enough, and all too soon Christian was lowering me onto my bed, pushing the duvet back and laying me on the crisp sheets. For just a moment I hoped he might climb in beside me, but he smoothed my hair back from my face and pulled the duvet to cover me.

"Sleep well," he whispered, leaving the room and closing the door firmly behind it.

It was much later, just past 3:00 am according to the glowing digits from the bedside clock, when I woke to hear music. Piano music. Played beautifully, the melody was nonetheless mournful. Melancholy was probably the best way to describe it. Unsure whether it was a recording or live, I slipped out of bed, not needing to dress as I was still in the outfit I'd changed into before dinner.

With bare feet, I padded down the hallway toward the great room. The room was in complete darkness, other than a floor lamp beside the piano bathing it in a pool of light. A Fazioli, Christian had told me when I'd asked about it earlier. I knew nothing of pianos, however, if it was here in Christian's apartment, it was undoubtedly the best of the best.

Speaking of Christian, he was sitting at the instrument, his face partially lit by the floor lamp beside him, his eyes focussed on sheet music in front of him. Clad only in a pair of sleep pants, his fingers positively flew across the black and white keys, coaxing subtle yet complicated swells and waves to complement the main melody he was playing. It was simply mesmerizing to listen to, so leaning unseen against a doorframe in the corridor's darkness I watched this beautiful man as he made beautiful music.

At times he closed his eyes, playing the piece from memory. This melody was obviously familiar to him—I doubt any player could be so competent with such a complex piece without considerable practice—still he made it look simple.

I'd been watching Christian play for quite some time when the melody ended. Taking a sip from a crystal tumbler I'd not noticed on the piano seat beside him, he started in on another piece. Something contemporary, he appeared to be playing it by ear. I knew the tune instantly, but with the translation to piano, I could not recall the words. It wasn't until he reached the chorus that I placed it. 'I Want to Know What Love Is' by Foreigner. One of Carla's 1980s favorites from her teenage years, she played it regularly in my childhood home in Montesano.

As the words came to me, I could feel a sadness—almost despair—radiating from the man I observed. It was as though he was pouring out his innermost thoughts through music, and I felt like a voyeur witnessing it without his permission. So, before he finished, I tip-toed back to my room, changing into a beautiful silk nightdress he'd insisted I'd needed before climbing back into bed. It was only as I pulled the duvet over myself that I noticed the music had stopped and all was, once again, quiet.