Pennies (Dollar 1)

But as time crept onward, it forewarned me. I fortified myself better, numbed my body, and won just by breathing. I began to understand who he was past the whips and chains and found him incredibly lacking. He was the epitome of a disgusting, spineless coward who kept me in line with violence.

I’d entered his home believing I could remain strong.

That was before the first rape.

The first beating.

The first kick and punch and whipping.

My disobedience lasted longer than I thought, but it all screeched to a stop when he showed me the photos of what happened to his last girl.

Dead.

He killed her.

However, as he wrapped yet another rope around my body to hold me down, he murmured that I wouldn’t end up the same as her. He’d paid quadruple for me what he’d paid for her. I truly was his most expensive toy, and even though he wanted to destroy my spirit and shackle me to his soul, he wouldn’t kill me.

I was worth more alive than dead.

It was a horrifying conclusion. And my defiance quickly switched from blatant to hidden. When I averted my eyes in submission, I really denied him the right to read me. When I pre-empted him by dropping to my knees, I refused him the chance to beat me.

And while he made me do tasks completely naked, my mind wrapped itself in clothing full of retribution and revenge.

I’d have one shot at killing him. Just one.

And even if I did succeed, I had no guarantee I could escape without being smart. Everything in this house was on an electronic system. If I killed him without learning that code, I would die here. I refused to share a crypt with this rapist.

“We have something to celebrate. Don’t you agree?” He stalked around me with his narrow chin held high. “Two years, my dear. I can imagine at your tender age that’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had.”

This isn’t a relationship, you pig.

My upper lip twitched in disgust as I dropped my gaze to the sheepskin rug.

Unfortunately, he’d seen my facial slur.

His fist struck the side of my head. “Don’t fucking give me attitude, Pim! Not on our anniversary.”

I tumbled sideways, shaking away throbbing stars, forcing my body back onto my knees before he kicked me to regain my pose. Ignoring the sudden headache, I catalogued his mood. Everything spoke to me these days—not just his demeanour but his chosen wardrobe, selected watch, even the way he styled his hair. Each was a clue to his disposition.

As he strolled around me, prattling about how his drive into the city was good and whatever business he concluded went in his favour, I looked at his shoes (black loafers meant he was carefree and confident). I glanced at his trousers (light denim indicated his visit to town wasn’t entirely work related). My eyes trailed to his wrist and the gaudy gold Rolex (he wanted to show off today and flash his superiority). Finally, I snuck a look at the baby blue long-sleeved shirt (relaxed but preppy). However, the unbuttoned linen jacket was not part of his usual repertoire (he wanted to impress but still show indifference).

To who?

I didn’t like things I couldn’t understand.

Had he dressed up for our ‘anniversary,’ or did he have guests coming tonight?

My heart curled into its shell at the thought. When he’d first given me to his friends, Darryl, Tony, and Monty, I’d thrown up not only from the horror at being used by four men, but also from the repeated blows to my belly.

Ever since then, the sharing was often. I didn’t have a choice. But at least his arrogance and those of his friends gave me a shelter in which to shut down and hide in. They could have my body, but while I floated in a world, not quite here and not quite there, I was able to keep my soul intact, and my voice forever denied to them.

He yanked a hand through his spiky blond hair. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”

You know the answer to that, you bastard.

I glowered at the wall.

For some reason, whenever he left on errands, he was so sure I’d never find a way out, he didn’t bind me like he did at night. The first few instances he’d left me alone, I’d commandeered the knives in the kitchen, even scurried a few blades away with hope of killing him in his sleep.

But when he’d returned, he’d known exactly what I’d done. Fisting my hair, he’d dragged me through the house, collecting the three butcher knives I’d tucked in secret places. After rounding up my arsenal, he’d carted me to a private security room in the garage hidden behind a piece of drywall and revealed how he’d known.

Every inch of his property was recorded.