I’d done that once: slithered from my bow into a full fetal position on the floor.
Darryl had been the one to punish me that night. Master A had goaded him, saying how undisciplined I was and needed a harsh lesson.
I hadn’t been able to move for a week.
The low hum of voices suddenly stopped.
I panicked.
Had I dropped off and they’d noticed? Had I been requested to serve and had a micro nap instead?
My heart did its best to flee. Only, Mr. Prest ensured it stayed in my ribcage with a soft curse. My shoulders rolled even more as he finally chose his moment to undermine my conflict not to watch him.
“At least your dress fits you better than that ugly skirt.” His voice acted as scissors, slicing up the dress he’d complimented, licking over my skin with sharp threats.
Inching along the couch, his shadow came closer as the automatic lights clicked on now the sun had well and truly gone to bed.
Don’t look.
Do. Not. Look.
He perched on the end of the settee like a black crow of intrigue.
“Let’s get back to signing the final contract, shall we?” Master A muttered, nursing his drink.
“In a moment.” Mr. Prest waved him away impatiently.
Even with my hair obscuring my vision and my steadfast obedience at keeping my gaze locked on the floor, I couldn’t stop myself straining to feel and hear and stare.
I hate you for what befell me.
So why was I still drawn to him?
Magic?
Fate?
What?
Sensing I was listening, Mr. Prest inched closer. Leaning over the end of the couch with his fingers linked around his goblet, his eyes resolutely locked on me. “Still silent, I see.” He chuckled, his body violin-string tight with inquisition rather than giving his attention to Master A.
Don’t do that.
Don’t you see what you cost me?
Look at him, not me.
Tipping forward, he placed his untouched alcohol on the coffee table before training his gaze on my head.
My scalp prickled beneath his stare, heating in degrees the longer we stayed trapped in whatever game he played.
“Mr. Prest…” Paper crinkling and a pen tapping on glass signalled Master A’s none-too-subtle attempt at interruption.
It didn’t work.
Mr. Prest merely stared harder, as if he could crack open my skull and drag out my thoughts without having to go through my mute mouth. Shifting slightly, he reached into his pocket.
Don’t be a penny.
Not again.
The soft ping of battered copper bounced on the tile by my knee, spinning with a dull bronze glitter before falling face up. “A penny for your thoughts, silent one. Perhaps, today you’ll speak.”
Stop doing this to me!
Damn him and his pennies.
I didn’t want to be paid for words I’d never utter. How about he gave me a penny for every kick I’d endured, every broken bone, every rape, every tear?
I’d be a damn millionaire with the means to run far away from here.
Master A stood.
My teeth clamped onto my bottom lip as I folded into myself.
I didn’t do anything!
Hurt him, not me!
But instead of swatting me around the head or kicking me into pieces, Master A wedged himself between Mr. Prest and me. The distance from my position by the wall and the end of the couch wasn’t much, and Master A’s trousers granted a whiff of the frangipani laundry detergent he insisted I wash his clothes with.
He smelled so different from Mr. Prest, who reeked of power and ruthlessness. I didn’t know what flavour those two traits had, but Mr. Prest swam in them, permeating every space he entered.
“Stop giving my slave money.” Plucking the penny from the floor, Master A clutched it tight in his fist. “In this business arrangement, I’m the one who pays you. Which I have, as you well fucking know. I transferred the full funds as per our agreement. I’ve signed the additional contract for final acceptance. Our meeting is over.”
I sucked in a breath as Master A blocked me from seeing. With his back to me, I permitted my gaze to climb, just a little.
The standoff lasted a few heavy seconds.
Instead of rising to leave, Mr. Prest reclined comfortably on the settee. The squeak of expensive leather acted as a chorus bar on the appalling music still raining. “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
What? Does he have a death wish?
Just go!
I caught movement between Master A’s legs as Mr. Prest raised his arm, pointing at me. “What happened to her?”
“What the fuck do you mean, what happened to her?” Master A crossed his arms, not returning the penny or stepping away. “She’s none of your concern.”
I froze as Mr. Prest’s accusing finger dropped to my broken, badly bandaged hand. “How did she do that?”
An odd bubble of laughter tickled my insides.
Who cares?
Why did he insist on nettling my owner? He didn’t care about me. It was all an act to rile Master A and somehow get better terms for whatever deal they’d struck.
“She did it to herself.” Master A planted his legs wider in a threat. “Don’t worry yourself over a small accident. Worry yourself over delivering my yacht on fucking time.”
“Oh, I don’t worry about things like that.” Mr. Prest stood too, squaring off with him. “I have utmost belief that your purchase will be the best quality, highest specifications, and delivered perfectly on time.”
Master A had no retort.