Closing the door, I faced Pimlico.
She wasn’t there.
My gut clenched as I spun to find her.
She’d climbed from the bed so silently I hadn’t heard.
My heart leapt into my throat as she stood over my cello, the horsehair bow tight in her hands.
Ever so slowly, so as not to spook her, I placed the tray on my work table before padding softly toward her. “Pim, put it down.”
She didn’t move.
If she broke it, I’d have to break her.
I wouldn’t even think about it.
Her gaze locked with all the hate in the world on the innocent second-hand instrument. The same instrument my parents had borrowed money to buy me. Her hand turned white around the bow. If she attacked it, I’d have to attack her. There was reason in this world and then there was irrationality. My cello was my one irrationality. It had too many things attached to it. Too many bad and good memories, too many scars and stories to allow a twisted woman to touch it.
She would fucking bleed if she hurt it.
“Pim!” My voice boomed as she pulled her arm back, ready to strike. To snap my bow. To shit on my entire past because she didn’t understand me.
She didn’t listen.
Her arm came down.
She gave me no choice.
I charged.
Grabbing her around the waist, I stopped the arching whistle of the bow before it could strike. Shaking with anger, I wrenched the priceless bow from her hand and placed it gently on the chair where I’d sat to play.
Dragging her away from the precious instrument, I clamped livid hands onto her shoulders and shook. Hard. “Don’t you ever do that again. You hear me?”
She turned wild in my arms, wriggling and fighting. A growl rumbled in her chest, but she didn’t yell or scream.
Her fighting was nothing. I held her effortlessly, but my temper rose to match hers. My insides curled with the urge to hurt. “Just fucking stop it.”
She didn’t.
Tears sprang from her eyes, tracking down her face.
But she still fought.
She scratched and kicked, connecting with my forearm to gorge tracks and my kneecaps with her tiny feet.
I bellowed, “Fucking stop.” Holding her ruthlessly tight, I marched to the bed and threw her onto the mattress.
She winced but didn’t stay down.
So I made her.
Slapping my palm against her chest, I shoved her onto her back. “Keep fighting and I will hurt you. You have my fucking word you will be in pain.” Breathing hard, I leaned over her, adding more and more pressure to where I held her in place. “Whatever trance or nightmare you’re in, wake the hell up. I don’t have the patience for this.”
She snarled, struggling to sit up. Her eyes once again gravitated back to my cello.
I grabbed her cheeks with my free hand. “What is it? Why are you acting like an idiot?” I dug my fingers tighter. “Goddammit, speak and spit it out.”
Her heart hammered beneath my palm holding her down. Her body lurched with terror and rage.
It wasn’t an act. Her fear stank my room with truth.
Pulling back, I removed some of the pressure. “I’m going to let you go. But if you go after my cello again, I won’t hesitate to do what’s necessary to stop you. Got it?”
She ignored me.
My patience wore out.
Pinching her face, I forced her to look at me. “Got it, Pim?”
Her eyes blazed blue fire.
“Nod for yes. This is one time I won’t let you get away with not answering me. Unless you truly want me to hurt you, then that can be arranged.”
We glowered at each other.
For a moment, I feared she’d make me hurt her to prove a point. To become like him.
But then saneness finally glimmered; she reluctantly nodded.
I rewarded her by letting her go.
Prowling away, I jerked both hands through my hair, doing my best to figure out what the fuck was going on.
“What were you doing running around the yacht naked and bleeding?”
She slowly sat up, dragging the sheet with her to cover her nakedness. I didn’t know why she did. It wasn’t because she was shy. Perhaps to make me more comfortable? She didn’t hunch, but she did keep her eyes downcast the more sanity returned to her.
Her body language spoke of regret and shame. Of confusion and a lostness that made my goddamn chest ache.
Regret, I could understand—I regretted so much of my life. But shame was not allowed.
Stopping my pacing, I snapped, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s about the other night, isn’t it?”
Her eyes met mine.
“Don’t feel shame for trying to show me what we could have together.” I gave her a wry smile. “Receiving a blowjob from you—even if I stopped it—felt fucking incredible.” Deciding to push her and see just how open she was to discussing sex as a mutual thing, not just an expectation, I added, “Your mouth…fuck, Pim. I dream about your mouth and finishing what you started.”