Only, where Master A made me feel small and defenceless, this new man…didn’t.
I couldn’t describe it.
I’d often heard my high school friends mentioning some sort of kismet reaction when they met their boyfriends, but I’d never felt it.
My heart turned traitor as the man tilted his head, his eyes never leaving mine. He moved like liquid as if he held the power to drown everyone with a mere drop or eradicate entire landscapes with a tsunami.
I couldn’t breathe as he bent forward in a slight bow, holding out his hand. Every motion was oiled and perfected, sex appeal surrounding him like a fine mist.
I flinched.
Why did he look at me as if I was worth something? Couldn’t he see he’d get me into trouble if Master A deemed I’d received gifts I wasn’t due?
My shoulders rolled as I glanced at the white tiles beneath my feet.
Master A crushed me to his side with a warning squeeze. “Shake Mr. Prest’s hand, Pim.”
Shake it?
I’d forgotten such social niceties. For two years, an outstretched palm meant incoming pain, not a common introduction.
What the hell is going on?
If I hadn’t played Master A’s games for so long, I might’ve bowed to his wishes, hoping that tonight would have a happier outcome than other times. But I couldn’t deny I’d been his for too many years and no longer believed in hope.
I couldn’t avoid pain.
No matter what I did.
So why should I do anything at all? He might want me to shake so he could scream at me for touching another man against his wishes. Or he could berate me for not obeying.
Either way, the consequences were the same.
I won’t do it.
Cocking my head, I locked eyes with Mr. Prest.
And crossed my arms.
Darryl, Monty, and Tony snickered on the couch, knowing what I did—that I would be hurt. Badly. Once this interloper had left.
Tony cackled. “Aww, shit, you’re gonna get—”
“Enough!” Master A snapped, silencing their potential slip. His face blanched, matching the blond strands on his head.
Interesting.
It wasn’t a charade; he truly didn’t want this man to know.
My heart did its best to shrug off its death shroud and find hope once again. For so long, it’d packed up its stepladder and parachute, settling in for guerrilla warfare as I stayed alive by following fucked-up rules. But now, it shook off dust and battle debris, glowing with tentative crimson.
If I remembered how to use my voice, I might’ve informed this mysterious Mr. Prest that he’d just walked into a sex prison. He willingly made friends with these animals who shared and hurt and gave no thought to the soul screaming silently inside me.
But two years was a long time.
And a blurted word was as foreign to me as being free.
Dropping his unshaken hand, Mr. Prest scowled. His gaze danced over me, his face hiding his thoughts but unable to thwart his questions.
Just like I wanted to know who he was, he wanted to know me.
I fought the urge to drop my eyes, but the fierce intensity in which he studied me granted courage rather than stripped it. I never looked away as his black gaze switched from my closed-off posture, lingered on my nipples visible through the white polo, and skated to Master A’s arm clutching me tightly.
His lips thinned as a dark conclusion dawned on his face.
I wanted to applaud him. Give him a damn award for noticing that not everything was as it seemed.
But then, whatever realisation he’d come to vanished as he grinned just as cold, just as evil, just as nastily as Master A and his associates. “Hello, Pim.”
Pim.
Just like that, he shortened my name as if he knew me.
My crossed arms tightened.
You don’t know me. You will never know me.
His gaze drifted to my shoulders where my muscles twitched. Not that I had much muscle anymore. I’d wasted away thanks to one meal a day—and only if I earned it.
I hadn’t seen the sun in two years, unless it was through the window.
I hadn’t felt a breeze in two years, unless it was from an air-conditioning unit.
The craving I’d had in the trafficking hotel for outdoors was just as insistent here where marble had replaced seventies carpet, and Egyptian cotton sheets had switched overly starched white.
The black despair living permanently beneath my strength threatened to throttle me. My heart kicked my other organs as if trying to wake me up or kill me. Forcing a reaction that I’d long since ordered to remain hidden.
This stranger might be the only one I’d ever see before I died. I’d never again inhale a flower’s fragrance or taste a raindrop on my tongue.
I gasped as an impending panic attack swirled. For a year and a half, I’d been able to control my hysteria. But a few months ago, I’d suffered such a vast void of horror and despair, Master A was forced to call a private doctor (who didn’t ask questions) to ensure I wasn’t dying of heart failure. I’d been diagnosed as severely depressed with panic tendencies.
I was grateful for a diagnosis but full of hatred that the strong teenager I’d been was now nothing more than an emotional, wrung-out wreck—no matter how brave I forced myself to be.
Master A clutched me harder, hissing in my ear. “Get it together, Pim. You will not have an attack while company is present.”
If I could control it, I’d obey. There was nothing good about revealing just how deep my fear went.
But once the crashing, smashing breathlessness gripped me, I was swept away.
Gulping, I clawed at the tight cotton around my throat.
I can’t breathe.
I need air.
I need to run and run and run.
His weapon-like fingers dragged me to the side. “Calm down!”
I can’t.
I can’t.
Memories of inky, sleepy death corrupted me. I recalled what it was like to see the last thing I’d ever see and feel the last thing I’d ever feel. Suppressed recollections of being strangled and waking up in this sex-trafficked nightmare swarmed.
Stop!
Make it stop!
My choking turned to open-mouth gasping.
Master A manhandled me across the lounge to stuff me somewhere where I wouldn’t embarrass him.
Mr. Prest followed in our wake.
As I stumbled through the doorway to the corridor, a cold voice demanded, “Let her go.”
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 tr
ailed 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.
Mr. Prest crossed his arms, his dark grey shirt pushed up to his elbows, revealing ropy muscles and a tattooed bracelet with Japanese characters around his wrist. “She can keep it.”
Master A glowered, digging his fingernails into my shoulder as he directed me toward the staircase. “No. She can’t.”
“Why?” Mr. Prest slouched against the doorjamb, never taking his black eyes from me.
“Because I said so.” Master A shoved me toward the bottom step. “She’ll be back down as soon as she’s changed.”
I stumbled, the loose jacket fluttering like clouds behind me.
Mr. Prest lowered his jaw, watching from shadowed features. “I want to hear it from her.”
Master A froze. “What?”
Mr. Prest pointed in my direction. His liquidity and grace came across as bored and uninterested, but a vein of lethalness simmered beneath. “Her. I want to hear it from her.”
I spun to face the man, soaking up the wrongful whiteness around him. We made eye contact before I remembered my place and stared at the ground.
Master A dragged stiff fingers through his blond hair. “You don’t understand, Elder. She doesn’t speak.”
Mr. Prest snapped into stealthy power. “Don’t think we’re on first name basis, Alrik. And certainly don’t take liberties not given to you.”
My back bunched. No one spoke to Master A like that and got away with it.
But the unthinkable happened.
Master A swallowed his curse-filled retort, nodding respectfully. “Of course. My apologies.” Moving toward Mr. Prest, he waved over his guest’s shoulder. “Perhaps, we should begin the evening again. We have a nice meal planned. Let’s eat…shall we?”
“No.” Mr. Prest didn’t budge from the doorway. “I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Master A’s eyes bugged.
If I weren’t so afraid of the man being disciplined, I would’ve enjoyed this change of events. But I knew I would be the one who ultimately paid once the stranger had left.
“Nothing is going on.”
Mr. Prest cocked his head, a cold smile on his lips. “Lies. I don’t do business with liars.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then let her speak.” Mr. Prest’s eyes latched onto mine again. “Pimlico…tell me yourself. Do you want to keep my jacket or would you prefer to wear your own clothes?” His gaze drifted to the nasty white skirt I wore, barely hiding anything. “You have odd taste in fashion, but I won’t judge. You may wear what you wish. Not that it’s my place to direct you.” His glower landed on Master A. “But then again, neither is it the place of your boyfriend to order you how to dress.”
His accent teased at the corners of my mind, reminding me of wealthy travellers and foreign places. The way he said ‘boyfriend’ made me stiffen.
I was right.
He did understand. He saw through the bullshit and knew what I was.
My heart jumped into an ocean of tears. Why did that hurt me so much? To be seen as what I was? For this stranger to never know me as happy, confident Tasmin but as beaten, ugly Pimlico?
“Answer me,” Mr. Prest said. “My jacket or your own?”
The question didn’t prompt me to reply. After two years of muteness, a query no longer held such power. My larynx didn’t prepare to speak. My lungs didn’t inflate to talk.
I had no urge to vocalise.
My body stiffened as I focused on Mr. Prest’s powerful jaw and throat. I’d guess he had foreign blood in him somewhere in his lineage. It wasn’t a strong part of his features, but his eyes were too beautifully almond to be strictly European.
The three of us stood in tense silence.
&nbs
p; Mr. Prest slowly exhaled, his temper overshadowing Master A’s, turning the white blizzard into a dark typhoon. “Speak.”
Master A chuckled. “I tried to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“She doesn’t talk.” Master A waved in my direction as if I were faulty goods and only good for the torture he put me through. “She’s mute.”
“Through choice or medical condition?”
Whoa…what?
The personal question hacked through the silence like a machete.
Master A grinned, slowly gaining control of the situation now attention was back on him. “Ever since we got together, she’s been mute. You see, when I found her, she was so broken, she didn’t know how to act normally. I thought it endearing, and I’ve done my best to help heal her.” He ran his hand over my scalp, petting me with false affection. “But of course, these things take time and a lot of patience.”
What a load of utter bull—
“Bullshit,” Mr. Prest barked.
The fact he’d stolen the word from my mind and delivered it with as much contempt and disbelief as I would have made my heart hop with a pink skipping rope.
Laughing coldly, Mr. Prest added, “Heal? Those scars and cuts on her skin aren’t old.” Stalking forward, he towered over Master A. “They’re recent. Care to lie about how that happened?”
Master A shrugged, doing his best to come across as unruffled. “A number of things are wrong with her. Being mute is only one of them.”
Wow, he’s claiming I hurt myself now?
I wanted to get angry, but I had nothing but disgusted acceptance left.
Would Mr. Prest believe him if I tore off his blazer and revealed my whipped back, bruised inner thighs, and cigarette burned ass cheeks? Or would it take deeper evidence such as the god-awful internal injuries I’d sustained from non-consensual items being thrust into my body?
Mr. Prest paused, looking me up and down. “I don’t believe you. No one would self-harm to that extent.” His face blackened. “And believe me, I know.”
How does he know?
Was that a veiled hint that he self-harmed? Beneath his expensive tailored clothes, was he as scarred as I was?
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 251