Dangerous Control (Dark Dominance 3)

Now New Year’s was a couple days away, but I wasn’t feeling very festive. I no longer fantasized about swooning in Milo’s arms as we rang in the New Year as a couple. We weren’t a couple, and we never would be. We were just friends.

Blue stirred, nudging me with one narrow paw, letting me know the other member of our pack was home. He somehow knew the moment Milo stepped on the elevator down in the lobby. “Thanks, bud,” I said, scratching one of his ears. “How do I look? Slovenly? Maybe I should at least brush my teeth.”

I’d been officially living at Milo’s house for a week, and I wasn’t a great roommate. I slept weird hours, ate all the Christmas cookies his mother brought us, and stole his dog’s affections so he’d keep me warm in bed. Well, Milo wasn’t going to do it, although he made sure to check in with me a few times a day. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do? Is the bed comfortable?

If the bed wasn’t comfortable, I wouldn’t have stayed curled up in it for fifteen hours at a stretch. It was a luxurious, king size bed in a minimal but beautiful guest room, with fluffy blue blankets and sheets. The ivory carpet cradled my feet in softness when I managed to haul myself out from under the covers. The whole room was like a den of coziness, and I was so grateful for it. I needed it to keep everything at bay, from the loss of all my worldly possessions, to Milo’s rejection of me as anything but a friend. One was more life-altering than the other, but both really sucked.

I was dressed, at least. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and felt more presentable. Blue’s yawn and the soft, rumpled sheets beckoned me back to the bed, and I picked out a book from the nightstand so it would look like I did more than sleep. When Milo knocked, I pretended to be engrossed in a JFK biography as I invited him in.

“Hi, Alice,” he said. “How are you doing?”

I peered at him over the book. He was in a dark gray sweater that accentuated his biceps, and jeans that accentuated…every­thing. He was holding a couple of department store bags.

“I’m good.” I tried not to breathe differently as he moved closer. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, as it often was when he returned from his violin studio. His luthier’s studio. That was the official name for a violinmaker, not that he had it on his business cards. Everyone knew what the Fierro family did. “How was your day?” I asked, trying to be a good roomie.

“Fine. Have you eaten anything? Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m good. Blue might be hungry,” I said, patting his head.

“I’ll feed him.” He looked at me a moment. “Have you watched any television? Seen any updates on the news?”

“No. I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it.”

He rubbed his forehead, then brushed back a lock of escaped hair. “I saw a story about the…” His face looked pained every time he talked about it. “The explosion. The investigators discovered it was a problem with the restaurant downstairs. They’d set up a bypass gas line to the fryer or something, some illegal line that wasn’t up to code. The guy responsible…”

His voice trailed off. I knew that the owner of the restaurant had died, along with many of my neighbors. I hadn’t known any of them, because I hadn’t lived there long enough to forge friendships, but they’d been people, perhaps just waking up and stretching, having morning sex, or brewing a nice cup of coffee. Then bang, gone. The whole tragedy seemed unreal, like a nightmare.

What if I had been there? How would it have felt to die that way? Would I have suffered?

He touched my cheek, drawing me from the darkness. “Don’t think about it,” he said. “Don’t dwell on what might have been.”

“It’s hard not to.”

The touch of his fingertips was gone, leaving too much room for cold. He lifted a couple shopping bags and placed them on the bed beside me. “I picked these up for you today. Nothing fancy.”

“You don’t have to keep buying me clothes.”

“I don’t mind.”

I took the bags, ashamed that I hadn’t gone out myself, or ordered something online by now. “At least let me pay you back.”

“Not necessary.”

I sat in the window seat to look through the pretty things he’d bought me: more warm sweaters and tops, and an upscale brand of jeans, along with delicate blouses and dark slacks I could wear to work. They were all in my favorite colors, price tags removed. I was already taking up space in his house and eating his food, and now he was buying designer clothes for me. I needed to crawl out of my misery hole and get back to life. “Thank you so much,” I said. “You’re too generous.”

“I just want you to be able to return my mother’s clothes.” He laughed. “It’s jarring to see you wearing them. Do you have money to…you know…get whatever else you need?”

He meant things like bras and underwear. Of course he wouldn’t buy me those, in case I misunderstood. “Yes. God, I have money. I’m fine. I can get some things today. I’ve just been…” I covered my face to hide my blush. “I’ve been wallowing.”

“I get it. I’d wallow too.” He glanced at Blue, who’d taken up near-permanent residence in my wallowing bed. “When do you think you might go back to work?”

“The Thursday after New Year’s. Met Orchestra management said I could take longer, but I need to get back to it.”

“What’s on the schedule to play?”

I swallowed hard, trying not to think about my Grapeleaf, exploded in a thousand shards of wood and varnish. Milo’s grandmother named all Fierro’s violins up until she died a few years ago, and she’d called mine the Grapeleaf because the wood had come from the Mediterranean, and because the tone “flowed like wine.” Notable instruments all had names, like children, and were tracked by enthusiasts, as well as the companies that insured them. I’d get money for the loss of my Fierro, but it wouldn’t be the same as having it. Somewhere, Fierro registries were being altered with a note next to the Grapeleaf entry. Lost in an explosion, early 21st century.

“I think it’s Brahms and Mozart.” Tears rose in my eyes. Stupid, that I couldn’t get over the Grapeleaf. It wasn’t like I’d lost a child. “I’ll send out some emails to my section mates. Someone will have a violin for me to borrow until…”

Until I found a new instrument, which seemed an impossible task right now, when I couldn’t even buy new clothes.

“I have so many violins,” Milo said. “Please, take one to use for now. Even the Strad, if you want it.”

“Good God. I couldn’t.”

“You have to play something. Come on. Come take a look at what I have.”

I got out of bed to follow him to his instrument room. I’d avoided thinking about the night we’d gone in there, even though the room was just down the hall from my bedroom. I’d pushed down all the memories of him holding me, kissing me, sliding the hard outline of his cock between my legs as he groaned deep in his throat. It was too weird to think about, because he’d been so polite and distant since then.

He ushered me into the room, leaving Blue out in the hall to wait for his dinner. Was it only a week or so ago that he’d showed me his Stradivarius? He opened other cabinets this time, took out a Cecilio and an Amati, a Guarneri, and a Knelling that looked very orange. He had a few Fierros too, and I played each one, but none of them felt like my Grapeleaf. I bowed a few notes on a Pressenda and felt more connection. Milo smiled knowingly. “Similar design, same type of wood as your Fierro,” he said. “Although it’s a bit older.”

I played a few more notes, did a run of scales. It was a great violin. I tried to smile, tried to look happy, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his dark eyes holding my gaze. “This is just for now. If you want, we can look for another Fierro together. I have some contacts who might be willing to sell one. Or…” He looked away, then back at me again. “If you want, we can make you a new one. I mean, I can make you one from scratch. It won’t be my father’s work, like the Grapeleaf, but I can tailor it to you, to

your exact specifications.”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. People waited years for a violin from Milo’s workshop, now that he’d made a name for himself. “Are you serious?”

“I’m very serious, Alice. I’d love to do it. I’d love the challenge of making the perfect instrument for you.”

Love to do it. Love to. I love you, even if we’re just friends. That’s what he was saying. The generosity of his offer brought tears to my eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “Seriously.” He waved a hand through the air. “This room is also dampness-controlled.”

I laughed then, instead. “Yes, please. I’d love you to make me one.” What could be more special than a violin he made me with his own hands? I’d treasure it beyond bearing. It would be, truly, my own heart, made by the man I loved. “You’re going to make me one? Really?”

“Yes. It’ll take a while, but if you don’t mind waiting a few months…” He touched the Pressenda. “You can play this in the meantime.”

I felt like I might choke on my emotions. My heart felt so full. “I don’t know what to say. I want to hug you. Can I hug you?”

He gave one of his reticent, reluctant smiles, the ones that made him even more handsome. I put down the Pressenda and threw my arms around him, and there was a little bit of tension between us, but also love. I loved him, even if he wouldn’t accept romantic love from me. I adored him. It was okay if he held himself a little stiff, a bit away from me.

He went to the kitchen and fed Blue, then put together a veggie and steak stir-fry for his dinner. All that perfection, and he could cook without breaking a sweat. I wasn’t that hungry, so I toasted some tortillas to eat with hummus.

“That smells good,” I told him, as we sat at his kitchen counter together.

“I have a secret recipe for the spices.”

“Really?”