Pennies (Dollar #1)

Look at my current kingdom.

Somehow, I’d turned petty crime into full-blown racketeering. I’d evolved pick-pocketing into an illegal dynasty, and no law or rule could stop me. I operated on international waters. I was free from country propaganda and constitutions. In effect, I was a pirate with his own agenda.

Thinking of the open ocean, my eyes drifted toward the horizon. A physical craving clutched me to shed the anchor and go. To sail far away from this filthy fucking town.

Soon.

One more day.

Then I could leave this godforsaken place and travel to my next business appointment on the other side of the globe.

Alrik was true to his word. His funds had cleared, and my bank account was millions of dollars wealthier.

Not that measly money meant anything these days. I could survive with nothing—I’d proven that—even if what I’d done to survive didn’t fit the approval of many.

Before I had money…life was easy. I knew who I was. I knew what I was. But then, fate decided to give me gold instead of dirt, raising me from nobody to somebody.

I was meant to smite those below me, to manipulate and control. So why the fuck did I feel like I’d just crushed a gutter rat beneath my shoe when I’d been nothing but courteous and kind?

Damn that woman.

Standing, I shoved aside my chair and stalked to the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a sparkling harbour with catamarans, speed boats, and brightly painted dinghies. We’d pulled into port almost a week ago, and it was time to leave. I didn’t do well locked in one place.

“Fuck.” The curse fell quietly as a woman with dark brown curls laughed on the jetty in the distance. She looked nothing like the skinny slave I’d met, but her hair colour churned things inside I no longer recognised.

I’d earned what I wanted from the meeting with Alrik.

I should be happy.

But I couldn’t rid myself of this disgusting aftertaste as if I’d done something I wasn’t proud of.

My hands curled into fists. Hadn’t I given her the very fucking jacket off my back? Hadn’t I spoken cordially and ensured she ate?

Yes!

So why can’t I forget her?

She should've been grateful for my attention. I treated her a hell of a lot better than her master ever did.

What happened to her in the two days since I’d been there? Had she been molested again? Beat again?

Not that it mattered.

I’d seen people have their teeth kicked in and bones broken on the street. I’d seen men with fingers cut off while standing in a five-star restaurant where mob bosses had no fear of retaliation.

I lived in violence.

I was violence.

So the thought of a girl getting smacked around—it shouldn’t fucking bother me.

But it does…

Someone knocked on my office door.

Wrenching my head up, I growled, “Enter.”

One of the servants tiptoed in, carrying a tray with unknown lunch beneath a silver dome. She didn’t say a word but walked with confidence, placing the food on my desk with a polite smile before retreating.

She moved with freedom and happiness.

Pimlico moved with servitude and depression.

I want her.

My body stiffened with the obsessive need to abduct Alrik’s slave. Swiping fingers through my hair, I tried to tame the thick black strands, forcing such ideas to flee.

Pimlico had a lot to share—an entire story to tell. She’d been intrigued by me, too. I’d felt it. Her interest hadn’t been because she wanted my wealth but something deeper. Something, I couldn’t figure out. Something, I would never know because she wasn’t mine and I had laws in place that I had to follow.

I’d seen her once. Touched her once.

Once would have to be enough.

Because a man like me could never have a second chance.

It was my most unbreakable law.

Tomorrow, I would go back and complete our bargain.

I should be excited about another contract well struck.

However, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about that.

What I did give a fuck about was the slave and her silent secrets begging me to reach out and steal.

Do I have the willpower to do this?

Pacing in my office, I scowled at the expensive décor with its library shelves and handmade furniture. I’d lived with my unusual appetites all my life. I wouldn’t let one broken girl destroy my strict guidelines.

I would see her again.

I wouldn’t talk to her.

I wouldn’t look at her.

And I definitely wouldn’t demand to fucking share her.

TWO DAYS PASSED.

After the beating, when Mr. Prest left, Master A used me mercilessly. By day, he made me wish I’d been braver and killed myself the moment he’d bought me. By night, he made me curl like a dog on the end of his bed where he could kick me in his dreams then take me when he woke.

By morning, I was sleep deprived and trembling from residual agony.

He didn’t call the doctor to set my hand, and after making him breakfast, I ransacked the medical cupboard in the downstairs bathroom, doing my best to patch myself up. I found a bandage and painkillers—not nearly good enough to fix what he’d done—but it was better than nothing.

Why did I bother?

I had no idea.

He would merely hurt me again and again. It was pointless to give my body a hundredth attempt to survive when my soul had already packed its bags and leapt overboard.

However, as I strapped my broken fingers and smeared arnica over my arms and legs from his kicks, my mind wandered to Mr. Prest.