Pennies (Dollar 1)

Who was this bastard who’d exchanged money for a life?

What did he expect from me?

And how often had he escaped with such a transaction?

“Let’s get the necessary introductions out of the way, shall we?”

I froze as the man’s voice broke the stagnant silence. His timing sent shivers down my spine, almost as if he’d heard my thoughts.

Did he expect me to talk without seeing him? Without watching his body language and picking up so much more information than I would if he kept me blind?

I’d promised not to speak again. Ever. But in this instance, it would be beneficial for me, not for him. I’d permit myself three words. A meagre diet of syllables before I went back to starvation.

“Untie me first.”

For a long moment, he didn’t reply. Then the slight rustle of his suit as he leaned forward and pushed my shoulders off the seat. My skin prickled beneath his touch, bristling with hatred.

Doing my best to move away, I wriggled to the edge of the plush leather, holding my wrists out to make it easier. With a quick saw, the stringed devils around my skin fell away, their teeth muzzled for another day.

The blindfold relaxed over my eyes, granting a smidgen of relief from the headache caused by its tightness.

The moment I was freed, the man reclined in his chair.

I blinked, fighting the glare of finally having vision again. He sat directly opposite me rather than across the aisle as I’d thought. He’d removed his mask, and the second I met his gaze, I wanted to slam the blindfold back on and have every sense forgotten.

I didn’t want to see, hear, touch, or heaven forbid, ever taste this man.

The English Lord mask he’d worn had been far too kind for the monster beneath.

Struggling to keep my face tight and unreadable, I tilted my chin. The urge to blurt plea bargains and terrifying questions formed a gag around my throat.

I was thankful.

He deserved no more words from me. He deserved nothing but a firing squad and my footsteps dancing on his grave.

Back when life was safe and my only concern was what TV show to view when I couldn’t sleep, I’d binge-watched police shows, forensic documentaries, and crime investigations. I loved working out the suspect before the presenter got to the real perpetrator, drinking in the DNA testing and glaring at each potential murderer on the screen.

A lot of the time, the person who’d killed looked like any other neighbour or family friend. Old or young, rich or poor, they were just a person.

A person with darkness inside.

However, when the camera zoomed on their features as the show’s conclusion revealed their comeuppance, one thing always linked them together.

Their eyes.

Something about their eyes revealed the truth, just like this man’s did.

Something was missing. I didn’t want to say a soul because I didn’t know entirely what that was. But it could also be something so much worse. An imposter. Not human enough to feel compassion and empathy. People who killed and raped were cold-hearted, pain-thirsting demons.

I’d been sold to that demon.

He smiled, showing square white teeth in a tanned face. His dirty blond hair pegged him as Swedish or maybe Norwegian. He had the same bone structure of the lanky Europeans with a long nose, pronounced cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes.

I guessed his age would be late thirties. An age where he could’ve been my father if he’d had children young.

Wait…

Did he have kids? A wife? A family?

We stared at each other, neither saying a word. It felt like a contest, battling for domination, but I knew better. He wanted me to walk into his trap. I already had by requesting he untie me. I’d done my part. The rest was up to him.

He grinned coldly. “Now that you can see me, let’s begin.”

Leaning forward, he dug pinching fingers into my kneecaps. No one had ever grabbed me there before, but as his fingernails sank swiftly into the satin of my dress and curled around the pieces of bone protecting my joints, I suddenly understood how vulnerable knees were. How easy to pop off and rip away.

I gasped, turning ice-cold in my chair.

“My name is Alrik Åsbjörn. To you, I’m Master A. Do you understand?” His fingers dug harder.

My lips glued together, refusing to speak. I had power over speech, but I didn’t over my eyes. They glassed with pain as he continued to hurt me.

“Don’t have anything to reply?” His jaw clenched as he dug deeper into my kneecaps. “What happened to the girl who bid one million for herself? I rather like that bitch.”

Agonising discomfort flared down my legs, but I didn’t break. I couldn’t. If he won this battle, then I’d lost the war. I couldn’t do that to myself so soon.

“Gone shy on me? Fine.” Removing his threat, he sat back. “You’ll talk. You’ll see.”