Fighting my tremble, I raised a mouthful to my lips.
The food tasted like cardboard even though I knew from eating scraps off Master A’s plate that the ordered menus were five-star gourmet.
My taste buds were in shock.
My mind, my body…everything in tentative anticipation thanks to the stranger beside me.
I couldn’t breathe without inhaling Mr. Prest’s heady, exotic scent. I couldn’t move without brushing against his powerful arm or teasing myself with his warm blazer draped over my shoulders.
I couldn’t blink without thinking all of this would disappear, vanish, poof. I’d never been allowed at the table before. Never been given a fork or knife or plate. And definitely never been treated as a person by a man who overshadowed Master A in every way.
I was grateful.
I felt alive.
I both hated and thanked Mr. Prest for it.
Every mouthful, I expected Master A to scream and throw something at me. I already felt the kick and the coldness of the floor pressing against my cheek as he held my face down.
The awful games he played. The demeaning tasks he forced me to do. This was just a minor blip of kindness in a world of torture.
The food slid tastelessly into my belly, but the decadent richness made me feel sick. My system wasn’t used to such opulence.
But I wouldn’t stop eating.
I couldn’t.
I would devour every piece, slurp every noodle, and then lick my plate if I could get away with it.
My mouth watered as a faint memory interrupted. Of Japanese sushi and soy sauce; of cheeseburgers and french fries. It seemed so long ago.
Had I truly been allowed to go where I wanted whenever I pleased? Did I really laugh and find happiness?
I was so naïve.
Master A lifted his wine, toasting Mr. Prest. “Cheers to exciting business ventures and new friends.”
Ugh, what an ass.
I didn’t blink or frown, but inwardly, I stuck out my tongue and gave him the finger. The smarminess, the fake charm. He was a reptile and utterly cold-blooded.
Only, Mr. Prest didn’t return the toast; merely tilted his head, leaving Master A hanging and forced to take an awkward sip of alcohol.
Tony cleared his throat as everyone focused intently on their food. The clink of knives and forks was the only noise apart from the classical music raining from overhead speakers.
Master A liked music. Considering just two of us lived here, it was never quiet.
I. Hated. It.
My synapses had associated classical notes with torture, and I couldn’t listen to a piano or violin without reliving his cock driving inside me or his fist pummelling my skin.
Master A sneered in my direction, slurping a mouthful of noodles. His rage at my position beside his guest hissed down the table.
The fork shook in my hands. I’d lived here for so long, yet I couldn’t predict my jailer. My imagination painted countless punishments for defying him, but I’d be surprised. Like always. Master A liked to think outside the box where I was concerned.
“How long has it been since you ate?”
The question wrenched me from my thoughts. I blinked, stupidly forgetting myself and turning my head to the source.
Mr. Prest stared back. His dark eyes didn’t budge, doing their best to tear every secret I had left. Pointing at my plate, he said, “You eat like a bird, yet I know you’re starving.”
My heart breathed into a paper bag with worry. It’d been so long since someone looked at me as a person rather than a doll. But it was too late. With far too many witnesses. I was more possession than anything else these days.
My gaze flickered to Master A. The outrage on his face wasn’t because of something I’d done but because I’d attracted the attention of someone he wanted to deny.
“Don’t ask things you’re not privy answers to.” Master A slammed his knife onto the table. “I take care of her. That’s all you need to know.”
My blood incinerated with hatred for the history between us. For all the monstrous things he’d done.
Took care of me?
What a crock of shit.
Mr. Prest froze, his straight spine vibrating with ruthless energy. “I asked her a question. I don’t need you replying for her.”
“And I told you before, she will never answer you.”
“She answers me just fine.”
Wait, what?
My gaze danced between the men.
How had I answered him? And why would he say such things? Couldn’t he see my refusal to communicate drove Master A berserk? He’d kill me if he thought I spoke to another and not him.
“Leave what isn’t yours alone, Mr. Prest,” Master A threatened. “She’s mine. Direct your questions to me and only me.”
Mr. Prest didn’t move. “Why?”
“Why?” Master A spluttered. “Why should I command you to stop talking to my slave?” He stood up with his fists on the table. “Because she’s mine and whatever answers you think you see are lies.”
“You’re afraid she’ll tell me things about you that will stop this business arrangement.”
Wrong. He’s afraid I’ll tell you that I want you to kill him.
He’s afraid I’ll give you the final piece of me that I refuse to give to that bastard.
“She will tell you nothing—either good or bad.” Forcing himself to relax, Master A slid back into his seat. “But that’s beside the point. You’re right. I offered Pimlico in friendship, and you have full right to do what you want. Whatever ensures our mutual interest in business.” His smile was a shark. “Nothing else matters.”
For five achingly long seconds, Mr. Prest didn’t accept the olive branch. Testosterone swirled across the table. At least Darryl, Tony, and Monty stayed out of it.
“Sometimes, it isn’t what’s spoken that is the loudest reply, Mr. Åsbjörn,” Mr. Prest muttered. “And I’ve just learned all I needed without your slave uttering a single syllable.”
Master A lost interest in his dinner. “What are you saying?”
Mr. Prest glanced at me, his charcoal eyes looking like hunters in the dark. “I’m not saying anything. Just like Pimlico.” With graceful precision, he wrapped strong fingers around my wrist.
I stiffened.
He had more power and danger in his left hand than Master A did in his entire blond body. He hummed with authority that terrified but also encouraged me to move closer hoping he’d use that power to protect me.
Lies.
All of it.
He wouldn’t protect me.
I shook my head free from such stupid thoughts.
Mr. Prest suddenly removed his touch, freeing my wrist.
I had the awful sensation he’d been counting my pulse not just holding me for the sake of touching. Could he feel how fast my heart galloped? Could he see the terror and desperation in my gaze?
Never looking away, he placed his hands back into his lap and clasped them tightly together, as if he didn’t trust himself to let go of whatever restraint he held. “Eat, Pim. Our conversation is over…for now.”
My breathing turned shallow. His lingering touch threatened me. I wasn’t stupid not to recognise how dangerous he was, but there was a hidden safety, too.
It whispered that if he hurt me, he’d help me at the same time. I just didn’t know how.
He was a contradiction. A conundrum. Something fascinating I couldn’t figure out.
Slowly, the atmosphere at the table resumed its tentative calmness; the men returned to their dinner.
I did too. After all, I wouldn’t waste good food.
My eyelids fluttered as my taste buds finally worked, signalling to my brain how rich and delicious the piece of duck was as I placed it on my tongue.
Tony, Darryl, and Monty were their usual gross selves with no manners, and Master A remained on his best behaviour. But he couldn’t hide the fact he hated my position at the table.
&n
bsp; Whatever nutrition I earned would most likely come scalding back up my throat when he kicked me in the guts later.
The thought was almost enough to stop me eating.
But not quite.
Meekly, I dropped my gaze. Boldly, I took another bite.
I couldn’t stop what he’d do to me, but I would give my system every inch of vitamins and sustenance as possible.
“I changed my mind,” Mr. Prest said quietly, leaning closer. “I want to know about the mute girl called Pimlico.”
His voice.
Like molasses and candy; salty crisps and decadent chocolate.
His body scalded me—not because he was hot, but because his proximity set off all sorts of warnings in my blood.
Sneaking a quick glance, I met his gaze as he brazenly stared. Where did he come from? What nationality? What country?
And who named him Elder?
He wasn’t old or the leader of some sect. Or he could be, for all I knew.
What the hell is he doing mixing with this riff-raff?
Master A narrowed his eyes in my direction.
I knew that look. He wanted me to reply. For so long, he expected I’d slip and unwittingly speak.
For the first few months, it’d been hard training my ingrained desire to communicate when asked a direct question. To ignore the pull to respond. But over time, it’d gotten easier. But even this handsome, dangerous stranger wouldn’t break my silent armour.
Taking another bite, I deliberately dropped my gaze, letting him win the staring contest but losing the battle to make me talk.
The fire burning inside kept me fighting even when I wanted to give up. Only I knew how bad my life had become, but something (oh, my God, was it pride?) hated that Mr. Prest saw a skinny, scarred girl who couldn’t escape.
He’d never seen me in a dress with pretty hair or perfect makeup. Never heard me answer professors with wit and intelligence. Never saw me dance and entertain chairmen of charities and probe the psychology of my fellow counterparts just like my mother had taught me.
Who I was never existed for Mr. Prest. He only saw what I was now. He’d leave and forever remember me as a slave, not a free girl.
I scoffed, chewing my final piece of duck.
As if.
He’ll forget about you the minute he departs.
Sometimes, my ego could still hurt me, even now.
Not letting my silence deter him, Mr. Prest leaned into my personal space. His large hand vanished into his trouser pocket, followed by the delicate clink of coins.
Catching my eye, he shifted his muscular bulk, depositing a single American penny by my wrist.
My eyes flew to Master A.
Just as I hadn’t been allowed at the table for two years, I hadn’t handled currency or wealth of any kind.
Master A placed his knife and fork on either side of his plate with eerie calmness. “Mr. Prest, can I ask why the fuck you’re giving money to my slave?”
Mr. Prest never tore his eyes from mine. “That’s between Pimlico and me.”
My heart sank with a two-tonne rusty anchor.
Couldn’t he see he’d just ensured my normal beating would be ten times worse? He’d undermined Master A, and no one should ever, ever do that.
I fought terror and unhappiness as I kept my gaze locked on the table. However, it didn’t stop me noticing Master A from the corner of my eye. An evil smile crooked his lips, promising many more nights where I’d go hungry.
His three friends smirked, understanding yet another punishment would be extracted, and they were invited to partake.
Damn you, Mr. Prest.
Swallowing hard, I didn’t give myself permission to look up, but when Mr. Prest pushed the penny closer, my eyes flittered to his.
I froze.
The thickest, longest eyelashes I’d ever seen framed his black pupils. So dense and opaque, they looked like fur. It wasn’t fair that a man had such bewitching eyes; it was doubly unfair he’d entered my harsh existence and made it so much worse.
I would remember him always.
He would forget me tomorrow.
Why did I sit next to him?
I should’ve sat at Master A’s feet.
This was my fault.
Stupid.
So stupid.
Lowering his heady voice, Mr. Prest whispered, “A penny for your thoughts, girl.”
The old-fashioned phrase echoed in my chest.
He wanted to pay for my muted replies?
He valued my responses enough to bribe me?
Why?
Master A had never offered me kindness to chat. He’d only punished and reinforced my desire to remain quiet.
But this man…
He was treacherous.
Taking a deep breath, I nudged the penny back to him with my pinkie.
The urge to shake my head crept over me. Nonverbal was almost as bad as audible.
I fought the urge, gathering my final mouthful of noodles and doing my best not to hyperventilate as Mr. Prest forced the penny toward me.
He didn’t say the phrase again.
He didn’t need to. I heard it loudly.
A penny for your thoughts.
Fucking speak.
Master A slammed the table with his palm, making Tony, Darryl, and Monty jump.
But not Mr. Prest.
He moved like the slickness of oil on water, cocking an eyebrow at his host. “Yes?”
Master A bared his teeth, his hand fisted around his knife. “I’m done with whatever games you’re playing. Forget about her. She’s nothing. Let’s talk business.” Stabbing the air with his food-soiled blade, he yelled, “Pim, clear the fucking table. You’re done. Get out of my sight.”
Immediately, I shot to my feet.
Luckily, I’d wolfed down my dinner and didn’t mourn the lack of time to finish. My empty plate glowed with reminders that my belly was full, but I hadn’t earned it without pain.
Already, my middle cramped with indigestion from eating such rich meat, joining the symphony of all the other kicks and punches I’d endured.
Keeping my eyes down, I dutifully collected the empty containers and plucked the paper bags under my arms. Mr. Prest’s blazer kept getting in the way, but until he stole it from me, I wouldn’t take it off.
It was mine.
If only for a little while.
Mr. Prest watched me as I took the packaging to the kitchen, rinsed, and placed them in the recycling bin. Returning, I did my best to stay out of reach of the men’s probing hands as I collected soiled plates.
Mr. Prest glowered as Monty slapped my ass and Darryl gathered strands of my hair to sniff dramatically. Master A didn’t notice his guest vibrating with rage, and I wouldn’t tell him. I’d become invisible again as I did my servantly duties.
Master A leaned back in his chair. “So, we’ve broken bread together. Let’s get down to it.”
Mr. Prest placed his hands on the table, his fingers steepled with poise and power. “Before we do, I have conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“I don’t discuss details in front of others.” Cocking his chin at the three rapists, he growled, “I want them gone.”
Darryl sniffed. “Hey, loser. We’re here for our buddy. We’ve got his back.”
“Yeah. No us equals no deal.” Monty crossed his arms.
I carried my embrace of dirtiness to the kitchen as Mr. Prest stood so fast his chair screeched against the tiles. “Understood.”
Stalking from the table, he passed me. His eyes sparked with black violence, glittering harder as he looked me up and down. “Keep the jacket.”
My mouth fell open as he stormed toward the exit.
I wanted to scream that he couldn’t go.
I wouldn’t let him.
With him here, I didn’t have to fear Master A nearly as much. I hadn’t had enough time to figure out if I could use him for my benefit. Could he help me? Free me?
Don’t go…
Master A kept him from vanishing.
Launching from the table, he snapped his fingers. “You lot. Out.” Chasing after Mr. Prest, he caught him as he reached the front door. “Don’t be like that, Elder. You win. No company. Just you and me.”
Mr. Prest paused with his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders remained tight and bunched. I didn’t know if he’d accept Master A’s offer or just disappear.
I took a gulp of air, the tower of crockery in my arms clinking together.
Finally, Mr. Prest turned around, his hands balling by his sides. “Don’t make me remind you about using my first name, Alrik. Last fucking warning. As for our discussion, I want you, me, and her.” His smouldering gaze locked onto mine.
Oh, no…
No, no, no.
I didn’t want to be privy to their chat. I didn’t want Master A to have any more reason to think I valued myself too highly.
Depositing the plates in the sink, I bent over in an awkward bow, backing out of the room toward the corridor and the staircase.
Please, let me get there before he stops me.
Then I could bolt upstairs and write to No One and plug my ears so I never had to know what illegal things Master A was up to.
But of course, that didn’t work in my favour.
Nothing ever did.
Mr. Prest was the one to stop me. “Stay, girl. And take your penny. You might not give up your thoughts for so cheap, but you’re not leaving until I say so.”
My eyes flickered to Master A’s, looking for permission.
Mr. Prest might be the top hunter in this pack of animals, but he wasn’t the one who’d bought me. He wasn’t the one I had to live with after he’d gone.
Master A clenched his teeth, suffering a few goodbye slaps of his friends as they donned removed clothing and let themselves out.
Anger permeated him, swirling like toxic smog. Raking a hand through blond hair, he grunted. “Fuck, all right. Stay, Pimlico. Get the shot glasses and bourbon.
“Mr. Prest and I have something to discuss.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elder
I fucking hated the taste of bourbon.
I preferred sake or gin or even the occasional absinthe. I wasn’t a big drinker. I had my reasons. And hadn’t touched a drop in almost a year.
Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance Page 253