He grabs her jaw. “I’m not a softie.”
Jenna snickers. “Soft like a furball.”
Dad rolls his eyes, and then all three of us laugh. It’s good to see her like this, happy and playful.
65
The Competition
Jenna
My hands are shaking, my palms sweaty. I clench and unclench them, then shake them.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to Killian, peering out at the two young men playing one of Dvorak’s Slavonic dances with immaculate proficiency and deep musicality. It’s just the two of us behind the stage, waiting for our turn to perform, and I think I’m going to tuck my tail and run at any moment.
Killian slips both hands around my waist and leans in behind me. “Close your eyes.”
Although he whispers, there’s an unmistakable command to his voice that makes me draw a sharp breath, my eyes falling shut instantly.
“There’s no one else here. It’s just you and me. The crowd doesn’t matter, the judges don’t matter. Those two guys don’t matter. All that matters is pleasing me. And Dad. He’s watching too.”
His words loosen some of the tension twisting in my gut, but it’s not enough to steady my hands or stop the ground from shaking beneath me.
“What if we don’t win?” I whisper.
“We’ll win,” he assures.
I turn around in his arms and repeat with more urgency, “What if we don’t win?”
He slips a hand to the back of my nape, gripping tightly. “Then Dad and I are gonna take you back to the hotel, shove our cocks inside you, and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”
Heat spreads to my cheeks, through my body. But I still can’t forget the horror scenario that this might all be for nothing. “I’m serious, Killian.”
“So am I. Nothing changes if we don’t win.”
“Are you sure?” Suddenly, I realize it’s not the idea of going home empty-handed that scares me; it’s the idea of disappointing Killian. The instinctive fear of him pushing me away is still seated deep inside me. It’s getting better with each day, but there’s still a long way to go.
Killian gives me a small shake, bringing me flush against his body. “If we don’t win, I’m gonna put a collar and a chain on you—tail as well—and keep you crawling on the floor and eating from a bowl for a whole week. Just to make sure you don’t forget that you still belong to me. I’ll even lock the chain to my own wrist and throw away the key to make sure you stay at my side.” His jaw tics, eyes burning with a feral intensity that scares me.
But the fear is nothing like the one I just felt when thinking about the stage. This fear is warm and urgent, setting fire to a part of me that makes me squeeze closer and burrow my head against him. “Now I don’t want to win,” I murmur.
The audience starts clapping, but I barely notice as Killian grips me tight. “Too bad, because we’re taking home that trophy.” He holds on for a moment, then leans back to face me. “Are you ready?”
I stroke the sides of my hair, checking that no hairs have strayed from the French braids I’ve made. “I’m ready.”
Killian takes my hand and brings me onto the stage. The gesture is not polite or comforting. It’s demanding and controlling, and it’s just what I need. I don’t glance at the crowd or even the grand piano. I just look at his hand, wrapped around mine, leading me on. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he steers me in front of the piano bench and makes me sit down. I should be embarrassed—a whole crowd is watching him boss me around—but I can’t bring myself to care.
When he sits beside me, he places his hand on my nape again—not gripping tightly as before, but the possessiveness is clear. Leaning close, he whispers, “When we win, I’m still going to put you on a leash and give you a tail.”
He releases me, and I stare at him with wide eyes.
He offers no excuse, just a firm nod at the keys and a stern, “Now play.”
I don’t even think, I just act. The instinct to submit to him and obey is stronger than any nervousness. So I place my hands on the keys and play—for him and for Ian, who I know is watching from somewhere in the crowd. I drift off into a space devoid of time and place. All I know is Killian. He’s all around me: his dominant energy, his scent, and his hands flying over the keys, leaping over mine and around my back to catch deep notes. I still don’t understand how he can play like this and still hit every single beat. I still don’t understand that I’m here with him. My bully and the man who ruined my life. Now the man who says he loves me and, each and every day, proves just how deeply.
But I don’t need to make sense of anything when I’m at his side. I just need to feel. Him and the music.Us.
When we stop playing and the crowd starts clapping, that surreal feeling hits me like a freight train. My hands had just calmed, but suddenly, I’m shaking again—all over.