Hadn’t I been patient and kind? Hadn’t I gone out of my way to build a thin crust of trust so Pim could walk over water without drowning?
I’d fulfilled my side of the bargain.
It’s time for her to fulfil hers.
BY DAWN, THE storm hiccupped and decided it’d had enough fun for the night.
Each rock slowly grew less violent. Each gale slowly lost interest. Elder woke from where we’d fallen into pockets of fitful sleep and unbuckled from the couch. Standing naked, he gave me a rueful smile as he strolled into the bathroom and stole a towel.
The boat still skipped and dived, but we’d either adapted to the instability, and our internal gyroscopes handled it better, or he’d taken whatever mystical powers his dragon tattoo had and enlisted its help—unseen wings flapping with power, keeping him airborne even as his feet stayed connected to the Phantom.
I hated how his body no longer looked like a weapon or instrument to deliver pain but something I’d like to touch. I didn’t know why I hated the switch of my conclusions. Wasn’t it healthy to finally look upon a man and only see a man—no matter how handsome and unique he was—rather than see a killer?
Elder didn’t know the jumble of my thoughts or how he distracted me while wrapping the towel around his waist. Raking a hand through storm blown hair, he said, “I’m going back to my quarters. I have work to do—if, of course, the satellites are still intact.” His eyes lingered on mine, then on the bed where snatches of desire smouldered.
I tensed.
If he told me he wanted me, I wouldn’t disobey. He’d earned sex after all he’d done. I might even marginally accept it. I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I wouldn’t loathe it like I had.
Only, he tore his gaze away, shut down whatever he’d been thinking, and rubbed his five o’clock shadow. “Rest. It was a long night.” Strolling to the door, he added, “I’ll come for you later.”
Without giving me time to wave or respond, he left.
The door closed, and every inch of adrenaline keeping me awake popped into tiredness. The thought of sleeping was the best concept ever, so I obeyed his command, curled up on my side with the seatbelt still trapping me in place, and slept a little more.
* * * * *
By midday, the sun took control of the world, burning away the last grey clouds, banishing the rain back to hell.
I woke irrevocably changed from who I’d been before the storm and untethered myself from the couch and my past.
Climbing on stiff joints and bruised bones, I stood on a calm boat and calm soul as if the two were linked with symbolism as well as fact.
The world was tamed.
My memories were tamed.
I’d survived.
Inhaling air still rich and damp from the clouds, I showered, dried, and deliberated whether to stay naked for my enjoyment or dress for his.
I opted to wear the navy and blue shift so I didn’t upset the staff who would no doubt be on repairs now the storm had passed.
By mid-afternoon, I found a perfect spot on the lifeboat canvas and basked in the hot sunshine. It shone stronger and brighter, as if to make up for the messy night before.
I hadn’t seen Elder, and I hadn’t sought him out. I was happy to be on my own, slowly learning who I was after all this time—now the dirt had been washed away.
By dusk, I retreated to my suite, pulled out the notepad, and opened the door to my heart, ready to converse with imaginary confidant.
Dear No One,
Last night, I was in charge.
Last night, I did what I wanted. I embraced my fear and let it do whatever it wanted to me. It terrified me but freed me. Does that make any sense?
When Elder joined me, I feared he’d tear me away. I expected him to drag me back and slam the doors. But he joined me, No One. It was as if he needed to face his demons in those clouds the same as I did. As if standing together with nothing helped scatter our pieces and realign them into a completely different picture.
I heard him, though. I heard his resolution before he left.
He’s run out of patience. Whatever self-control he’s exercised won’t last much longer because he knows what I do.
I owe him now.
Not just for the safety and time to heal, but for being with me last night. For no demands. For whatever emotion that links us.
Am I ready to answer his questions?
No.
Am I ready to talk to anyone but you?
Never.
Will he force me regardless?
I think so.
He wants my voice just like Alrik.
It’s up to me to decide if he deserves it.
I NEVER WENT back to her.
The storm had upset the automatic ballast, and I worked all day with Jolfer to fix it. Once that was done, I had important emails to reply to—after I’d reset the communication panels.
By the time night fell, I’d eaten a distracted dinner of lasagne and headed to my room to shower.
I had plans to go to Pim once I’d washed away the salt from the storm, but I wanted to re-centre myself first. I wanted to be sane, so the moment she opened the door I wouldn’t shove her against the wall and devour her.
She was playing havoc with my control.
Soon, I wouldn’t be able to be in the same room as her without needing to put an end to my frustration.
As fresh warm water cascaded over me, my mind tormented me with her mouth on my cock and the blowjob she’d tried to give. My hand gripped my length, begging to work for a release.
Even though it took every ounce of energy I had left, I pulled my palm away.
As much as I wanted to come, I didn’t want to waste the anticipation of whatever would happen when Pim finally did accept me, finally trusted me to do more than kiss her.
I groaned as the image of kissing led to touching led to slipping inside her.
My balls were rock fucking hard.
She’s driving me insane.
I needed to focus on something else—something I was immensely good at—before I lost myself to the obsession that would spring into place the moment I tasted Pim.
I’d battled it for too long.
The second I fucked her, I’d be forced to give in and then she’d see the real me. I snorted as I tilted my head to the spray. All this time, I’d been a gentleman. She thought she knew me. She couldn’t have it more fucking wrong.
The closer I let myself get to Pim, the harder it was to fight the urge to reveal who I truly was.
Stepping from the shower, I dressed in dark grey sweat-pants that sat low on my hips; I didn’t bother with a shirt. My wraparound balcony opening onto the main deck glittered with stars thanks to the open doors, and the heat from the aftermath of the storm drenched the air with heavy mugginess.
Heading to the specially designed closet where foam and braces had been painstakingly crafted to embrace my cello, I undid the straps and pulled it free.
If I hadn’t installed such a safe place, I doubted the cello would’ve survived last night’s catastrophe.
The weight and bulk were no longer cumbersome, but I remembered a time when the instrument had been a foreign stranger. Then my tutor had played that first note, corralled my unskilled fingers to press on the right strings, and boom, the curse in my blood took over.
I played and played and played.
Every spare moment, I sat until my legs went to sleep, hunger made me tremble, and my fingers bled for more music. No one could reach me. No one could stop me. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing.
As the cello settled like a compliant lover between my legs, my mind slipped backward into the quicksand of memories.
All my young life, I’d lived with something inside me—something stronger than I was, something that had the power to destroy me as well as save me.
I thought it would decimate everyone I loved until my mother took it upon herself to nurture it. My father agreed, and they gave me free rein to ev
olve my talent in music. I became obsessed, possessed, and utterly overpowered with the need to be as brilliant as I could. I’d read music until my eyes fogged. I’d practice and practice until my ears rang from the same notes, every second, of every hour, of every day.
Eventually, my tutor spoke to my father. He was afraid of my passion, afraid because I stopped eating, drinking, living. I only existed to master the cello in every way possible.
However, my father understood who I was, and instead of scolding me, he encouraged me.
I became worse.
Origami started much the same. One night, I picked up a piece of my brother’s homework left on the kitchen table. His assignment was to make a simple crane for a class project.
It took me all night, but I mastered the entire exercise booklet, leaving my origami creations of cranes and boats and butterflies outside my brother’s bedroom, so he woke up in a sea of folded colour.
After that, if I wasn’t playing the cello, I was creasing paper into anything I could imagine. I no longer needed guidelines and instructions. I was the instructions.
But then, I fucked up.
My childhood disappeared.
And my new life obsession was tracking down those who stole from me and steal from them in return. I’d hunt every person who’d ever put a roadblock in my path and kill them.
And I wouldn’t stop until I was the biggest, baddest, most untouchable one of them all.
The entire time my mind ran backward over good and evil, my fingers flew. Music poured. Violence was shared. Love was created. I didn’t play as audiences expected. I didn’t keep calm and close my eyes to visualize the notes better.
I let loose.
My body became quavers; my arms double clefts. I lost myself to the dark melody as I maimed and wounded it, changing and designing.
Sweat glistened over my naked chest; my fingers became damp as I struggled to race through a crescendo that made me rock fucking hard and almost at the verge of burning tears.
And then a flutter of motion wrenched my head up.
Pimlico hovered just over the threshold of my room.
Her mouth hung wide, her hands balled. She wore the white robe I’d given her when I’d pushed her from my room the last time. White—the colour of where I’d stolen her from. White—the colour of her innocence that’d been ripped away. White—the colour of lies and half-truths and fear.
My fingers clanged to a stop. My bow dangled, vibrating with the last note I’d played. I’d lost myself so completely I’d shredded half the horsehair. I did this often. I had an endless supply of strings to replace those I broke.
I could never control how deep I’d go, how monstrous I’d play.
And now, I’d done something I didn’t want to do.
I’d terrified Pim.
Again.
“Hey…” My throat was barbwire. Gently placing the cello against the chair, I stood on shaky legs. “I didn’t see you come in.”
I wouldn’t have seen a torpedo come in when I was in such a space. But Pim didn’t need to know that.
“You okay?”
She couldn’t tear her eyes off the cello even as I stalked toward her. The sum of her past darkened her eyelashes, her eyes bright with ghosts.
Ducking in front of her, I murmured, “Music can’t hurt you, silent one.”
She flinched as I tried to loop our fingers together. Scurrying around me, she bolted for my cello.
Again?
Balling my hands, I growled. “You know the rules, Pim. Don’t fucking touch it.”
Take away my cello and you’ll take away me. “I need something to play. It’s either that or you. Your choice.”
She skidded to a stop a few feet away as if the instrument would lash out and punch her. As if the strings would come alive and tie her down while the bow violated her.
Hadn’t she climbed over her mountain of hate last time she was here? How could music be so abhorrent on such a deep level?
I played for you…did it do nothing?
You want her answers. She’s already telling you.
Moving toward her, I held out my hands as she whipped her head to face me. “I think other methods are required to train that unneeded fear from you.”
She gnawed on the inside of her cheek.
Edging around her, I grabbed the cello and sat back down, holding the large instrument to the side. “Come here.”
She blanched, backing away instead.
“Don’t disobey me. I’ve been more than cordial. I’ve been patient and mostly kind. But if you don’t start doing what the fuck I want, I’ll show you what happens when I get pissed off.” I patted my lap again. “Come. Here.”
Glowering with temper, she sniffed.
Then grudgingly, unwillingly, she shuffled forward and stood in front of me; her eyes still glued to the cello in my hand.
“At least, that’s a start. We’ll work on your attitude later.” Opening my left arm, I nodded at my crotch. “Sit.”
Her eyebrows rose; a barely noticeable shake of her head. It pleased me and annoyed me in equal measure. Since taking her a few weeks ago, she’d built a backbone to verbalize her unwillingness after so long in captivity. That was because of me. After the storm last night, I’d seen where I’d gone wrong.
She needed events to push her past her comfort zone. She had to be dragged back to normal by any means necessary.
I’d given her the time to find herself again.
It was my turn to show her who I was.
Then we could move forward together.
Before my desire explodes and I destroy everything.
Her eyes narrowed as I waited for her to obey. Our silence battled and clashed with muted swords, but finally she huffed and turned to perch on the very tip of my knee.
That wouldn’t work.
I needed her close. I needed to feel her heart through my chest so I could monitor her terror levels.
“Remember, do what I say, and I won’t hurt you.” Lassoing my arm around her, I gathered her close, hoisting her from my knee to my thigh. She weighed absolutely nothing, and she gasped as her hip pressed against my cock which was still granite from playing.
I nuzzled her throat. “I’m hard because I play. But now that you’re on my lap, I’m thinking of stroking something entirely different to my cello.”
Fuck, just hinting at stroking something of hers made every drop of blood swell in my trousers.
She stiffened, froze, then turned lifeless on my lap.
That wasn’t allowed.
Resting my bow against my knee, I reached around her nape and gathered her hair to one side, pushing it over her shoulder. She flinched as my fingers grazed her neck. Seemed she still had pressure points hotwired to whatever that cunt had done to her.
Ignoring her tension, I soothed, “I’m not going to touch you. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
Her spine locked even harder, forcing me to admit my contradiction.
“I know I’m holding you close, but you have my word, I won’t touch you anywhere else than where I currently am.”
Her nostrils flared, doing her best to suck in a breath.
“Soon you will tell me in explicit detail what scares you so much about melodies—you’ll tell me if I’m right about it playing while you were hurt—but for now, we’re going to make you the creator, not just the listener.”
Her breathing quickened as my bicep bunched to drag the cello between my legs. I wasn’t comfortable with her on top of me, and the angle was wrong to play smoothly, but somehow, I knew Pimlico needed to do this if she had any hope of reclaiming yet another part of her.
Holding the tattered bow, I murmured, “Give me your hand.” I opened my left palm in invitation, waiting like I would with a scared bird to take a crumb from me.
Sucking in a deep inhale, Pim obeyed as slowly as if the world had stopped moving and one day had stretched to three.
I didn’t rush her. I forced
myself to be patient. Whatever progress we’d made together from the storm and pickpocketing session had been dulled thanks to my cello.
But when her touch finally connected against mine, she shuddered.
I shuddered.
Fuck, it was like her positive met my negative and created a current, flowing unhindered between us.
Her hand in mine was almost too much. My body clenched to claim more. It took every ounce of willpower to grit my teeth and keep my touch gentle.
Once I’d gathered tattered self-discipline, I fought the urge to inhale her. “Good. Let me control you.” I guided her hand to the fingerboard.
She struggled a little as I wrapped her palm tight on the veneer and her fingers pressed against the strings.
“Feel it? It’s not alive. It’s nothing but a lacquered shell and string.”
She shifted on my knee, bumping against my cock.
I locked down my muscles as the anticipation of having her so close while playing almost tipped me over. “It’s not alive until you do this.” I reached further around her, guiding her fingers to the right chord. Once she was in position, I softly dragged the half-ruined bow over the strings.
Sound leapt, echoing in the age-old cello—pouring rich and raw around us.
Goosebumps leapt over my skin.
I hadn’t had goosebumps from playing in years.
Pim jolted.
Wrenching her hand from mine, she clenched it with the other as if the cello had stung her. Perhaps, it had. Memories stung. Recollections whipped. She had to get past her mind to enjoy such simple pleasures.
Not saying a word, I grabbed her hand and replaced it once again on the fingerboard. She went stiff but didn’t try to pull away. She leaned tight against my chest, as if to get as far from the cello as possible. I fought my instinct to kiss her throat and played a B.
My eyes snapped closed as the robust, meaty note quavered. There was no better sound than this. No better magic than this.
She wriggled, but I didn’t let go this time. “Stop it. Whatever hold these notes had…let it go. Be that girl in the storm. Remember who you are and who you want to be.” I played an A then a D and a G sharp, introducing her ears to a range of highs and lows, savoury and sour notes, sweet and salty. And once we’d done a chord chart, I gathered her closer. “Let me guide you. Don’t fight it.”
Dollars (Dollar #2) Page 26
