She sucked in a breath, her chest flushing.
“So don’t feel shame for showing me what you’re worth. I already know what you’re worth, and it’s a lot fucking more than just sex.”
She looked at her hands in her lap.
I couldn’t help it.
She thought she could lock me out after tearing into my space and wreaking havoc? The least she could do was listen and communicate for once.
Striding toward her, I once again grabbed her chin, dragging her eyes to mine. “Is this about Dafford? About him trying to buy you?”
She flinched, trying to pull her face away.
I didn’t let her.
“If it is, I’ll make you a promise right here and now. I won’t sell you. I won’t lie and say I didn’t think about it. But I give you my word. I won’t. You’re mine for however long I decide.”
Her eyebrow arched as if to ask what would happen when I decided that time was up.
“Then we deal with that when we come to it. Things have a habit of changing. And decisions made now might be obsolete by the time we decide this—whatever it is between us—has run its course.”
She scowled as if she didn’t do well with open-ended contracts. She liked to see the finish line. To know what would happen in a best-and-worst-case scenario. Perhaps that was why she still held on to the idea of suicide even though she was too strong to ever give up. It was the power in having an end the way she orchestrated, no one else.
I could understand that.
Shit, I’d danced with the same possibility myself when everything turned to fucking pieces. But she didn’t get to decide that anymore.
“Now I’ve sworn never to sell you, I need you to swear something in return.”
She sucked in a breath, her teeth grinding beneath my hold.
“Swear you won’t end it. Don’t rob me of the chance to heal you.”
She snorted as if that wouldn’t be long. She stuck out her tongue, revealing a red line decorating the pink muscle. No more stitches and no more blood.
It was my turn to suck in air. “I’m glad it’s almost healed.”
She held up her broken hand that’d downgraded from bandage to skin. Her eyebrow rose as she wriggled her fingers.
I frowned. “Why are you showing me your physical injuries? You think now your tongue is functional and your bones are knitted together, I’ll decide what to do with you?” A slow smile spread my lips. “Oh, not quite, Pimlico. We have a long way to go before you’re healed” —I tapped her temple— “in here.”
She froze.
“Did you think I just wanted you physically fit?” I grinned. “I know damaged. I’ve been where you are—in a different way, of course. It takes time.”
As her eyes narrowed in judgment and questions, a plan slowly unfurled in my head. For so long I had no idea what to do with her. What I could do without damaging my own shaky foundations.
But now…I think I know.
“Stand up.” I stepped back, letting her go.
She drew in a breath, ignoring me.
I ripped off the sheet and grabbed her wrist, hauling her upright. “When I give you an order, obey. I won’t hurt you, but I’ll find another way to punish you if you don’t.”
She wobbled a little. Her hand slapped over her injured bicep, rubbing away the drying blood. Her flat stomach stopped heaving with manic breath, and her gaze only tracked to my cello once before landing back on me.
I waited until I had her full attention.
When her eyes settled on mine, and a sense of calmness filled her body rather than nervous fright, I murmured, “We’re going to do something. There isn’t going to be a time limit, and I won’t answer your questions about why.”
She stood taller, curiosity and apprehension budding bright.
“I told you when I first took you that I’d make you worth more than pennies—that you’d be worth fucking millions. Well, it’s time I made that come true.” My cock thickened with the potential dangerous but delicious game we could play. “I’m going to piece you back together, and once you’re whole, then I’ll decide your true value. And once that monetary figure has been reached…it will have to be repaid.
“In full.”
HIS SENTENCE WAS rude and belittling.
How much I was worth?
Who was he to tell me what I was worth? That was for me to decide, no one else.
And to pay him for my worth? What sort of sick con artist did I live with?
But I couldn’t deny my curiosity piqued. Even if I stood in the room where classical music was created. Even if Elder was the creator of every song that’d tortured my mind while Alrik tortured my body. Even if the cello squatted like a goblin in our midst ready to tear me limb from limb.