Tonight was the first time I let myself go and poured myself into a song; mixing heavy metal with classical, I blended genres and lullabies to create my own.
I was tempted to put the large instrument back in its case. But as I stepped toward it, a rustle sounded from the bed.
Pim thrashed, her lips wide with silent screams.
Forgetting the cello, I dashed back to her and sat on the mattress. Tucking wild hair behind her ear, I murmured, “You’re safe. I’m here.”
Her thrashing turned worse.
I grunted as her leg connected with my side, but I never moved. My fingers wrapped around her cheek, holding her steady. “It’s me. He’s not here. Trust me.”
Her eyes flew open. In a microsecond, she tore herself away from my touch, ripped off the sheet, and shot to the head of the bed. Wedging herself against the flocked grey headboard, she hoisted her knees up and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking.
She didn’t look at me, though. Her fear wasn’t directed at me.
I followed her line of sight.
Her terror was toward my cello.
I stood, placing myself between them as if they were two lovers meeting for the first time. “It’s just an instrument. It won’t bite.”
She bared her teeth like a wild cat, a silent hiss on her tongue. Walking backward, I had an odd feeling she would like nothing more than to attack my prized possession and throw it overboard.
I wouldn’t let that happen. Under any circumstance.
Widening my stance, I blocked the cello with my body as best I could. “It’s just an object. It can’t hurt you.”
Her eyes flickered from me and back to the thing I prized most in the world. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, a thread of insanity clouded her gaze only for her to shake her head and snap back into the poised and incredibly strong woman I recognised.
Her arms slowly unwound, letting her legs fall to the side. Her breasts danced with shadow from the night sky above, but she made no move to cover up.
A quiet knock on the door wrenched her head to the side.
I held up my hands as if she’d sprout wings and smash through my glass ceiling. “It’s only the staff. You’ve dealt with them before.”
Her nostrils flared, her attention distracted between me and the cello as I crossed the room and opened the door. It fucking hurt to leave my instrument unguarded. I didn’t trust her.
Melinda stood with a white robe with the Phantom logo of a grey storm cloud, and a barely disguisable figure slung over her arm with a small tray, teapot, two cups, and a hot water bottle.
“Here you go, sir. I didn’t bring food; the tea should suffice for a fainting episode.”
“Thank you.” I took the items.
She reached into her pocket for a packet of painkillers. “Almost forgot.”
I took those too. “Appreciate it.”
“Not at all.” Her lined but pretty face smiled before she turned and headed back the way she’d come.
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.”