Dollars (Dollar #2)(85)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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.