Pennies (Dollar 1)

“I told you I don’t deal in those. If you want them, it won’t be through me.” Mr. Prest’s voice dropped to a growl. “But you’re already aware of those terms.” His eyes flickered to mine, their endless depths sucking light and life from me. “What do you think, Pimlico? Want to be locked on a boat rather than in a mansion? Your master here seems to be going to war.”

A boat?

War?

What the hell is he talking about?

I couldn’t visualize such a thing. An image of a dinghy with oars for propulsion and wooden sides to prevent drowning came to mind. Why would anyone want to trade a house for that?

Gritting my teeth, I looked over Mr. Prest’s shoulder, ignoring the question.

I didn’t care that I didn’t understand. What I cared about was he’d tried to trip me into replying.

It won’t work.

I’d had years of practice.

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he won’t take you to war.” His hand landed possessively on my thigh. “And if he did, at least you might find what you’re looking for.”

I froze.

What?

What am I looking for?

How would you know what I need?

Even as my questions solidified, I doubted my conviction.

I survived in this world with tiny goals that kept me strong. I took pleasure from avoiding a broken arm by doing tasks before being asked. I was awarded extra hours of sleep or hard-won dinners when I successfully hid my hate.

I did all that because I needed something to reward myself with. If I didn’t, whispers of ending it were never far away. If I focused on small things, I could ignore the tug of freedom.

But if I didn’t…death.

It was a calculated vindictive seducer, promising an end to pain and suffering. I’d listened once and would’ve obeyed its commands if the knives hadn’t disappeared. I’d thought my momentary weakness was over.

I lied.

The murmurs of taking my own life hid in the panic attacks that lay waiting to pounce when my strength wavered. I was no longer completely whole—parts of me had become an enemy, wanting me to die rather than survive.

He’s sniffed suicide on me.

He’d done it the second he’d laid eyes on me; the same way I’d tasted he was more than a businessman and aristocratic bastard.

He was a killer.

And a good one seeing as he was here with us and not caught.

Mr. Prest’s fingers drifted down my thigh and dug into my knee—just like Master A’s had on the plane ride here. Unlike before, when that little threat had freaked me out, it was nothing compared to what I’d endured. I was trained in touches like those.

I didn’t jolt as Mr. Prest squeezed and relaxed, palpitating my joint, forcing my body to pay attention. However, as my muscles locked for abuse and my heart scurried with nervousness, his touch switched from testing to calming.

His breathing turned shallow as he dropped his gaze to where our two bodies met. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Please.

As if I haven’t heard that one before.

I wanted to roll my eyes at his empty promise, but I didn’t dare. Who knew what Master A would do? He might carve out my eyeballs with a spoon if I showed any more rebellion.

Master A cleared his throat, his focus riveted on where Mr. Prest touched me. He vibrated with loathing and jealousy, even though he was the one who offered me up to sweeten whatever deal they’d concocted.

“Do you get to experience things like fresh air and new places, Pim?” Mr. Prest never stopped stroking. His fingers slowly left my knee, going slightly higher with each stroke.

Just like my taste buds came alive after a few mouthfuls of delicious food, so too did my skin as I received gentle caresses for the first time in so long.

My flesh turned itchy and hot, straining with sensation for more.

Traitor.

I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze to go hazy and not focus on the man touching me, my master, or the things I would be made to do in my future.

“She’s not a damn dog, Elder.” Master A chuckled. “I don’t clip on a leash and take her for a walk to the fucking park. She’s a whore. This is her home. She doesn’t need to go anywhere.”

Yes. Yes, I do.

I need to go somewhere.

Far away from you.

Far away from this cage.

Mr. Prest’s fingernails replaced his soft caress, branding my thigh. “Third slip, Mr. Åsbjörn. One more and this fucking deal is off. I don’t care if production is arranged and contracts are drawn up.” His hand left my skin, flying up in a wedge of severity to point at Master A. “Use my first name once more and you’ll never speak again. Got it?”

I shivered as the same hand that vibrated with violence fell back onto my body. One moment, vicious and resolute with cruelty, the next, serene and tranquilizing.