Thousands (Dollar 4)

I laughed icily, pinching the bridge of my nose to try to combat the headache caused by her insanity. “We’d never leave this room again.”

Her hands clenched. “I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe I wouldn’t be able to stop? That I wouldn’t ruin you? That I wouldn’t take utter advantage of you?” I chuckled again with every self-hatred I felt. “I know what would happen, Pim, and I’m not willing to be your little experiment to prove me right and you wrong.”

She pursed her lips, a touch of anger highlighting her cherub cheeks. Her hair glistened from the skylight above, sunlight pooling around her as if she was some guileless goddess trying to tempt me into damnation. “That’s what you believe. What about what I believe?”

“What you believe?”

The only thing I could believe was how senseless this woman was. She needed to leave. Instead, she stood there, daring to debate me on a condition I knew inside out. Trying to school me on my own bloody theories when she had no clue what she was talking about.

My forehead furrowed, deepening my stress headache. “Tell me, seeing as you’ve known me all of a few months. Tell me how wrong I am and over-dramatizing this condition after living with it for my entire useless life.” I waved my hand patronizingly. “Please, go right ahead.”

She clutched her fingers together as if gathering fortitude from herself. “You think you’ll slip into obsession. You think you’ll—”

“Wrong already. I don’t think. I know. And obsession is too light a word.”

“What would you use then?”

I barked a laugh at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Life-consuming addiction? Common-sense abdication?”

“Whatever it is—” Pim growled. “You said so yourself that you’ve found ways to master it. I don’t see you obsessively cleaning or folding or tiny tics and twitches you can’t stop.”

“That’s because you don’t look hard enough.” Even now, my fingers twitched in a chord from A minor to B flat, splitting my brain into two halves so it couldn’t form one concise thought and overpower me. That was a tool I’d always used—even as a kid.

Her lips thinned in frustration as she glanced at my constantly moving fingers. “I look harder than you think.” She eyed me up and down almost in pity. Goddamn pity. “I’ve been watching you, Elder, and I have my own theories about you.”

“And so far those theories have been entirely based on fantasy and not fact.”

She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think they are. And I’m willing to test them. To use myself as the experiment if it means helping you.”

“Helping me?” I snarled. “I told you, I don’t need helping.” The longer this conversation continued, the weaker I became. I was a fraud already—I’d admitted as much. For her to hack at my knees and make me fall even further wasn’t just cruel, it was barbaric.

Pointing at the door, I cursed the shake in my arm. “Leave. Now.”

“I’ll go. This time.” Her cheeks heated. “But next time? I’m not letting you say no.”

“Next time?” I laughed. “There won’t be a next time. This was all a mistake caused by you disobeying me.”

She headed toward the door, glancing over her shoulder. “And like I said before…if you think I’ll obey you on everything…well.” She smiled sadly. “I respect you, Elder. I care for you, and I’m willing to trust you to see if we could work together and have another element to this connection between us. But if you think I won’t disobey you again? If you think I won’t run to your aide when you try to banish me, or that I won’t speak my mind when you’re being an idiot, then you might as well charge full steam to England and say goodbye because I guarantee this is only the beginning. I’ve found my voice, and under no circumstances will I shut up just because you don’t want to hear the truth.”

“Fuck.” I stormed toward her. “I don’t have the patience to beat sense into—”

She held up her hand, back stepping over the threshold as if I was a raging bull and she was the bright crimson flag I wanted to rip to smithereens. “You don’t need patience. Mine has run out anyway, so I’m leaving. But I have a theory. I’ll say it as many times as required. This theory is based on fact and body language and other tools my mother taught me—not fantasy or whimsy. You might not like it. You can argue against it until you’re passed out on the floor. But one day I will find out if that theory is correct.” Her eyes glittered with tenacity. “I’ll put it to the test, and then one of us will owe the other a huge apology.”

I crossed my arms to prevent wrapping my fingers around her neck.