by Skye Warren
“You’re supposed to rest,” she says, her voice moderated enough to be bland. She doesn’t say, you’re doing this to hurt me, but the words drift in the air between us.
I’m not doing this to hurt her. I’m doing this to hurt myself, and it’s just her terrible luck that she’s grown to care about someone like me. “And you’re supposed to stay in the apartment.”
She’s not listening to me. Instead she’s rummaging in the box that contains our first aid materials. It takes her too long to sort through the bandages and lotions. Long enough to get her emotions under control. “Take off your shirt.”
My body has the predictable response to those words, even though she says them cold enough to freeze any normal man. I’m not a normal man. She could hate me, probably does hate me, and I’d still want inside her so bad it aches. I pull the blood-stained T-shirt over my head. Bright red spreads over a white bandage. “You don’t have to look at it,” I say, my voice low. She’s inches away from me now, head bent so I can’t see her expression.
“Stay still.” Gentle hands remove the bandage. She doesn’t flinch at the way the skin has blackened around the edges of the wound. I know I’m not taking care of it well enough. I’d tear down a soldier under my command who let it fester. Your body is your most important weapon, I’d say. You wouldn’t leave your gun outside to rust, would you? Part of me wants this wound—a physical manifestation of fear, a reminder of how close I came to losing her.
Antiseptic sharpens the air. She holds a dry washcloth beneath the wound. Then she tips the bottle of rubbing alcohol towards my abs, letting the burn wash over me.
Pain blinds me, flashing white hot behind my eyes.
I hiss a breath that turns into an unsteady laugh. Usually I dampen the washcloth with alcohol and apply it that way. Instead she’s using it to catch the excess. She wanted to hurt me, and damned if I don’t want to applaud her for it. “Looks like the kitten grew claws.”
Her only response to my taunt is to keep pouring. She must want to empty the whole bottle. Some of the alcohol seeps through the washcloth, cool against the denim of my jeans. Sharp agony lances my side, as if it’s pulling from deep inside me—my gut, my balls. Every part of me tight and hard.
I grasp her wrist to make her stop. The bottle falls, landing on the hardwood floor with a hollow sound, a swell of alcohol from its mouth. Finally, finally, she looks up at me.
Her eyes glisten with tears. My heart stops. She’s crying. For me?
“I’m not worth the tears. Find something else to cry about. Someone who didn’t have one foot in hell before he even saw you, sweetheart.” I’m still holding her wrist, and I can’t make myself let go. Now that I’m touching her soft skin, now that I’m feeling her pulse in my palm—it feels like gulping down air after an eternity spent underwater. Salt breeze touches my lips. The same salt that touches hers.
“Stop it.” Tear tracks glisten on her cheeks, but she doesn’t sound sad. She sounds furious. “You want to kill yourself? Then do it, but don’t you dare do it protecting me, understand?”
I drag her close—close enough that I feel her body heat. Another centimeter and I’ll seep fresh blood onto her white lace shirt. “So I’m not allowed to make sacrifices, but you are?”
“That’s different.”
“Do you dream about it?” I search her eyes for the grief she must feel, but I find only heat and resentment. She doesn’t want to want me. That makes two of us. I dip my mouth close to hers. “The violin? The shape of it in your hands? The scent?”
“No.”
I walk her back toward the wall, empty between two open windows, one of which I used to enter the apartment moments before she arrived. “Little liar. You probably lie awake at night wanting it, moving your hands beneath the sheets to the music in your head. It doesn’t give you a moment of rest, does it?”
She shakes her head, slow and melodic, her gaze never leaving mine. “I’m fine.” Her whisper breaks, because she’s lying to me. “I don’t need the violin.”
“Such a brave girl,” I murmur, pulling her flush against me. The heat makes me groan. The pain makes it sweeter. “You gave up your violin for me. Except you know I would never approve of that. I’d never have let you do it if I were conscious.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I know you’re mad about that, but—”
“Mad? Yes, that seems to be something we missed during our days of guardian and ward. The part where you break the rules and I have to punish you. Should I send you to bed without dinner?”
“But you have to agree it was the safest thing to do.”
“Maybe I should turn you over my knee and spank you.”
That takes her aback. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She should know better than to tempt me. I drop my head. Her lips cushion my own. Her scent invades me, climbing so deep it’ll never leave.
My palm cups her head, cradling her, turning her so I can slip my tongue between her lips. Her body stiffens. She’s thinking of pushing me away.
I move my other hand to her back, tucking her close.
After a moment, she melts into me.
She tastes like sunshine and melancholy and a sweet endless guilt that I never want to relinquish. I sip on her sigh of pleasure, drunk with it.
Samantha
It’s the first time he’s touched me in passion since the shooting. The first time I’ve touched him back for the pleasure of it. There’s something darker about this pleasure. An undercurrent of anger that tightens his muscles. It isn’t only lust that moves us now. It’s something more primal.
The same thing that makes my finger move beneath the sheets at night.
How did he know that? Why did he say it? For the same reason I poured that alcohol on him. To hurt him. To heal him. The two purposes tangle together, opposite and equal.
“You don’t get to punish me anymore, Liam.”
“Don’t I?” He’s talking about more than a guardian. He’s talking about the way a man can punish the woman who loves him—the way he’s held me at arm’s length has hurt me more than a spanking.
“Will you never forgive me for giving up the violin?”
“I’ll forgive you when you pick it up again.”
My eyes narrow. “It’s wrong of you to force me this way. It should be my choice.”
His hand lifts mine in a courtly manner, almost as if he’s going to kiss it. Then he examines my hand. Green eyes weigh their worth. My stomach churns. He dips his head. His lips press to the pad of my thumb. Not a smooth surface of skin. I have calluses from playing for hours. I’ve bled for my instrument. It still feels like I’m bleeding.
“I can’t make you play again.” He presses a kiss to my forefinger. “And you can’t make me heal. So we arrive at this impasse, little prodigy. How will it end?”
“You could end it.”
That earns me a grim smile. It kisses the point of my middle finger, where the calluses are the hardest. The raised skin should be too hardened to feel his lips, his breath. His tongue. “Why would I want to do that? Maybe I enjoy being in this prison with you.”
“Enjoy it? You don’t even touch me. You don’t kiss me.” My voice breaks at the end, and I can no longer pretend it doesn’t make my heart shatter every time he looks at me in that remote way.
His lips press against my index finger. “I’m kissing you now.”
“That’s not—” He sucks my pinky finger into his mouth, his tongue moving over the tip in a way that’s more explicit than if our bodies were naked. A shudder runs through me. The air shimmers with long-suppressed desire. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He bites down on the plump of my palm, his teeth scraping against my skin, the sharp contact sensual in a base, animalistic way. I want his mouth in other places. I want him everywhere.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force down the turmoil far enough so I can think. What did he ask me? How will it end? “Josh is looking for the people who f
unded my father.”
A nip on my wrist. The pain makes my eyes fly open. Liam shakes his head slowly, almost sadly. “He’s not going to find them. You’re the only one who can do that.”
Shock leaves me breathless. Or maybe that’s the way his mouth skims my forearm. “How am I supposed to do that? By being your bait? That means more people shooting at us?”
“Are you worried I won’t protect you this time?”
“You can’t make me go!” Except the words don’t feel sure, not when he’s looming over me, not when my back’s against the wall. He’s the physical manifestation of power. He’s the bow against the strings; I’m the music he makes. “You aren’t even healed yet. You aren’t—”
“We’re going to Paris.”
Paris. The city of love. We aren’t going there for anything so romantic. It’s also the city of light. If we’re in hiding here by the sea, that will be our stage. “She thinks you’re my father. Madame Tissot. She thinks I’m your daughter.”
He doesn’t flinch. He’s too solid for that, but I feel the flicker in his soul. The guilt a man like him should never be allowed to have. The Achilles heel. Me. “You’ll play the violin again. You’ll play for me, Samantha. As long as I want. Forever. Understand?”
Something in me trembles at the word. Forever. “No.”
“Yes,” he says, hot against my inner wrist. It feels like I’m branded by him, as if he signed this devil’s bargain with a breath. “I’ll keep you with me, even if it fucking kills me. It just might, Samantha.”
“What if I don’t come with you? What if I refuse?”
“I may not spank you, little prodigy, but I won’t have any problem picking you up and walking you down the road until we get to Paris.”
Acid churns in my stomach. I want for this nightmare to end, but not if it means putting Liam in danger again. Not if it means playing the violin on stage again. My whole being shies away from that thought, like a night creature from the light. It’s like I’ve become afraid of the bow. Afraid of the music. As if they’ve become gunshots. “Why does it matter so much to you if I play? Is that all I am to you? A machine to produce music?”
“A machine?” He licks the point of my pulse. “No. You’re afraid. They wanted you to be afraid. That’s why you sent your violin away. I’m going to get it back for you.”
A quiver in my stomach. It might be too late already. I’m not the girl who stood on that stage in Carnegie Hall. Liam North presses an open-mouthed kiss to my hand—an ordinary hand. It used to play the violin with enough skill to rival anyone alive.
Now it’s useless, useless, useless. “No.”
“I’m not going to touch you until you play the violin again.”
Surprise steals my voice. “Excuse me?”
It’s annoying that he’s being so high-handed but all I can think about is the pressure between my legs. I want him to touch me, and he knows that.
“Play the violin, and you can come.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
My skin feels tight with arousal. “You’re really going to leave me like this?”
“Yes. Although you don’t have to wait for me to help you.” He pushes it down, beneath the loose waistband of my linen skirt. “Touch yourself.”
“Now?” Sunlight filters through the pale curtains. Arousal thrums through my body. He kissed my hand in the most sexual way, but that was different. That was… passive. I could accept what he did to me. This makes me a participant. From the gleam in his green eyes, he wants to see it. This isn’t only about the violin.
“Yes. Now. Play a song for those clever little fingers. The way they move beneath the sheets. The way they hold the strings against the board.”
A flush heats my cheeks. “You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I do. You haven’t been practicing, have you? You need discipline. It’s my job to give you that. We’ll start now. Today. Practice on your pretty little pussy.” As if to punctuate his command, he nudges my hand farther down my skirt. Private curls touch my fingertips. What am I thinking? Nothing, nothing. When he gives me an order, I’m trained to obey. I may not be the girl who performed at Carnegie Hall, but some things haven’t changed.
I cup my sex beneath my panties, startled to find myself wet. It’s one thing to be turned on. Another thing to be drenched when all he’s done is kiss my hand. The same hand that brushes my clit. It’s almost like he’s kissing me there. Almost, but not quite. It would change everything, for him to really kneel in front of me. For him to touch me in this place. Oh, but I can touch myself. He watches my hand move beneath the free-flowing linen, his green eyes dark, his jaw clenched. It’s a form of power, performing for him, even though I’m small and defenseless against him. Maybe that’s what he wanted me to feel. Maybe that’s what he wanted to remind me about playing the violin.
Or maybe he just wanted to see me climax.
His eyelids are heavy now. His lips a grim line on his harsh face. “Play the song you composed, little prodigy. I’ll know if you don’t.”
“How?” I demand, the word almost voiceless. My fingers already do what he wants. “There isn’t a bow. There aren’t any strings. You can’t hear anything.”
“I’ll know.” He’s implacable. Enough that my fingers form the positions, brushing my clit and then moving away. Brushing my clit and then moving away.
My breath catches. “Don’t make me do this alone.”
He’s standing a foot away from me, half-naked and bleeding—but somehow coated in armor. I can’t touch him. “You’re always alone when you play,” he says softly, almost sadly. “I’m the audience. The only thing I get to do is watch.”
Stricken, I try to pull my hand away. He really is punishing me.
He holds my hand between my legs, implacable, merciless. “Play the notes, Samantha.”
A sob escapes. “You won’t kiss me. You won’t.”
Emerald eyes show no mercy. He watches the fabric move as my hand plays, the notes pitch perfect, the music halted and strained on every breath. I come in a harsh pulse that’s almost painful, and he does kiss me then—not on my lips. He brushes his lips on my forehead, a balm and an indictment all the same. I’m alone in the tight little orgasm, muscles clenched hard enough it feels like I’m crying.
CHAPTER THREE
Bach and Handel were born in the same year and only lived 80 miles apart, but they never met.
Liam
The French countryside rushes past in a blur of greens and browns, an impressionist painting come to life on a speeding train. The server pushes a steaming cup of coffee across the counter.
Black. I take a sip. Not nearly strong enough, but it will have to do.
With habit borne of necessity I scan the surroundings: a man in a suit, a family with a crying baby, an older woman sitting alone reading a book.
Each person analyzed for risk and stored in my memory.
I study the menu for something to order Samantha. San Pellegrino. Perrier. She probably prefers tea, but she already had two cups this morning. Any more than that and she’ll get jittery.
Christ. I’m thinking like her guardian again. Will I always try to take care of her? She isn’t my ward any longer. Thank fuck, because I still remember the look of ecstasy on her face. I want to press her into the seat, to spread her legs and kneel in front of her, to make her cry out over the rhythmic thump of the train. “Earl Grey.”
The French were never particularly fond of tea. Even cafes only have machines to make coffee, which are never quite enough for tea. Which means a train car definitely isn’t equipped. The tea bag bobs at the top at the water, which isn’t hot enough to sink it. I take a spoon and push it down so the leaves will soak.
First class isn’t especially luxurious on a train, but it does mean our box is almost empty. I return to the seat opposite Samantha, who’s on the phone. She gives me a weak smile in thanks. The sip of steaming liquid ma
kes her eyes close in pleasure. My body tightens, and I look away.
“Something small.” She gives a small, self-effacing laugh. “I’m sure that’s all you can find for me right now. I really am sorry for the way I disappeared on you.”
Her agent, then. I raise my eyebrow, which she pretends not to see. I hadn’t told her to set up a performance, but it’s a natural next step if we’re going to use her as bait. She could probably be great at military strategy with that natural intelligence. The cryptographers would have a field day with her memory. Of course I’d put her underground for good before I’d let that touch her.
She’s beauty in a world of violence. Without music, there’s no point fighting a war.
A notch forms between her brows. “But Harry March isn’t touring anymore. Why does the record label want to start it back up? Who’s going to be the headliner?”
I know the answer before the agent says it. Samantha Brooks. She’s always been the headliner. She didn’t have the fanbase that Harry March did at the beginning of the tour… but she always had the talent. She always had the star power. Thanks to the successful North American run of the tour, she also has a following now. The drama of the shooting at Carnegie Hall only increased her celebrity. Every day the North Security servers sort through hundreds of press mentions. The important ones filter through Jameson, our resident analysis and information aficionado, who passes on the top bits to me.
Samantha blinks, clearly stunned. “I can’t carry an entire show.”
Of course she can. Though she won’t have to. There will always be an orchestra behind a soloist. Probably the gymnasts from the prior show. They might be able to find some European musician to join, but it will be Samantha’s stage. It always has been.
Whatever her agent says makes her suck in a breath. “I played there once.”
My mind begins working through the venues she played as a child prodigy. Those performances ended abruptly when her father died. When I got custody of her. That was a decision that many people would criticize, but I’ve never regretted it. She needed school and friends her age. She needed some semblance of an ordinary childhood after a nuclear wasteland.
