Pennies (Dollar #1)

Master A froze, looking over his shoulder. With angry hands, he spun me to face the stranger. “This is of no concern of yours.”

I can’t breathe.

Clutching my chest, I rode out the confused double-beats of my heart. According to the doctor, I had the power to stop the attack by reminding myself that my current situation wouldn’t change, no matter how I felt about it. I had no reason to stress when I couldn’t reverse the circumstance.

He had the audacity to say that.

To me.

The mute slave girl who was beaten, raped, and starved on a daily basis.

I was fully justified in my terror. I was just surprised the attacks only started a few months ago and not the day I’d been sold.

Oh, God.

Two years.

Two long, long years.

I folded in half, holding my chest, doing my best to keep my soul from jackhammering free. While trapped in the middle of an episode, my head roared, my heart hopscotched, and all I wanted to do was die. Stopping the horror and becoming calm again seemed like an impossibility.

I can’t handle two more years.

I can’t even handle two more days.

Mr. Prest cocked his head, running a hand over his shadowy jaw. Everything about him boycotted the white starkness of Master A’s mansion, bringing blackness into its corridors.

“If you want to do business, Alrik, consider this my concern.” His eyes trailed over me. He wasn’t sympathetic toward my suffering, merely cold and mildly annoyed.

His eyebrow rose with an aristocratic arch as my lips cooled to blue and my gasping turned haggard. He watched me as if I were a circus freak putting on a performance just for him.

A performance he didn’t like.

Ignoring Master A, still struggling to keep me upright and not kneeling on the floor as I wanted, Mr. Prest murmured harshly, “Stop it.”

I wanted to scream. To shout. To speak. To show him I was human and not something he could command. But I shrivelled beneath his heavy glare, slouching in the biting fingers of my owner.

Being reprimanded wasn’t new. The only conversation I endured was snide comments, snapped orders, and putrid curses. So it didn’t shock me that this stranger was the same as them. No kind word or commiseration. No empathy or ability to see past the lies and understand the truth.

Even if he could…why should he care?

I was nothing to him.

Just a rebellious toy swiftly becoming tiresome and ready for replacement.

Master A shook me, hissing in my ear. “You heard our guest. Stop it.” Yanking me closer, he added so only I would hear. “You think this behaviour will go unpunished? Silly, silly, Pim. Tonight, your back will be shredded. Scars on top of scars.”

I convulsed, breaking his tight fingers and slithering to the floor.

No. No. No.

Get it together.

Breathe!

My entire body shook as I tore at the cotton around my throat. My broken fingernails scratched painful slices over my skin as I finally managed to grab the offending clothing, rejoicing in the crack of ripping material.

The clinging neckline opened as I shredded and slashed.

I didn’t stop until the white top hung open and gaping, revealing the whip lacerations, painful scabs, and silver scars on my chest from belonging to a troll like Master A.

Mr. Prest stiffened.

I daren’t look up, but his thighs locked into steel tree trunks, tightening his black trousers. The soft rustle of his blazer hinted he no longer watched as a bystander but as a witness to my ruin.

Once upon a time, I would’ve hidden my bare chest, tried to cover my nipples—be demure and shy.

Now…I didn’t care.

After so long with no clothing, I was more comfortable naked. I couldn’t stand anyone or anything touching me.

Touch, just like speaking, had become taboo. It only brought pain. Not pleasure.

Master A yanked me upright, his hands fierce and unyielding beneath my arms. “What the fuck did you do?” His temper built like a blizzard, swirling with hail and sleet.

I shivered, waiting for the arctic freeze.

But Mr. Prest stepped forward. Shrugging out of his blazer, he ignored my master as he draped the material over my half-naked form. I flinched, dreading the slightest touch.

But nothing came.

He gave me his jacket, still warm and smelling richly of heady incense and something exotically spicy, but he did it all without a single finger graze.

I froze.

I drowned.

The act of kindness threatened to send me into another panic attack.

I slouched beneath the weight, so unused to heavy heat smothering me.

One heartbeat demanded, Get it off!

The next remembered what my flesh had forgotten. It recalled how nice it was to be protected. Don’t…don’t take it away.

“Get that off her, Mr. Prest,” Master A growled. “She’ll run upstairs and dress in her own things, won’t you, Pim?”

With what?

I had no other clothes.

But Mr. Prest didn’t know that, and I waited with eyes downcast, my heart burning at the thought of having the one element of comfort I’d been given in so long taken away.

All I wanted to do was slip my arms into the wide, beckoning sleeves, fall to the floor, and hug myself. I wanted to curl into a chrysalis, protected by my blazer armour, and re-emerge so much braver and bolder than before with paper wings and powder beauty able to soar me far, far away.

At least the shock of Mr. Prest sharing his wardrobe interrupted my nerves. Adrenaline stopped crackling through my veins; I did my best to breathe rather than asphyxiate.