Modern Fairy Tale: Twelve Books of Breathtaking Romance

by Kristen Proby

  If I couldn’t reach out and touch her—to make sure she was flesh and bone—I would’ve juggled with the idea of her being a ghost.

  My mother would fucking love her.

  Not because of her beaten, broken aura but because it was so rare for someone to be utterly silent.

  My cock hardened as the girl strode toward the three doors resting like retired guards by the wall. I didn’t know what the other two were from, but she stood beside a white lacquered thing with axe marks and scrapes along both sides—most likely from her barricading from the inside and her master doing his best to get to her.

  Images of what that experience must’ve been like swarmed me. Had she huddled and screamed as Alrik fought his way to her? Or had she waited on the bed already dead from terror?

  Fuck this.

  I stalked forward.

  My hand came up.

  The urge to soothe her catapulted my fingers to her cheek. My skin erupted from her delicate heat. I’d already had my single touch when I’d petted her hair. I wasn’t permitted a second.

  But it didn’t stop me.

  One moment, she stood close, arching her chin at the door.

  The next, she was across the cage, flying into a stack of boxes that tumbled in a clatter of butcher knives, butter knives, and sharp forks.

  Her eyes turned luminous in the gloom, locking on mine with rage.

  Shit.

  I’d forgotten myself by feeling sorry for this beaten wraith, but she hadn’t forgotten her overwhelming hatred of men.

  I didn’t look away. But I didn’t explain myself, either.

  I’d borrowed her for the night. If I wanted to touch her, I could. The fact that she’d leapt away meant I could report her to her master and have her punished.

  Or you could punish her instead.

  The distance between us grew thicker as we breathed.

  I waited…wanting to know just how deep her education in pleasure flowed.

  Tearing her gaze from mine, she swallowed hard. Piece by piece, she hid her loathing, replacing it with reluctant acceptance.

  Inching closer, her toes nudged aside sharp blades as she made her way to me and fell to her knees on the cold concrete.

  Half of me jolted with insane lust. Most of me shied away with repulsion as her straggly hair covered her face but not before I saw the twisted disgust and echoing despair.

  “Get up,” I murmured. Even though my voice was low, the cavern of the garage amplified it, layering it with bite.

  Instantly, she swooped up. The crackle of her joints and misused cartilage in her bones sounded like tiny gunfire.

  “Don’t kneel. Not in here.”

  Her chin bowed as she swayed in place. Awkwardness fell between us. I wasn’t used to this. I hadn’t bought a slave before. I was used to people doing what I wanted without me telling them. I was too fucking busy to micromanage.

  Having this girl linger for a command—any command—showed me I wasn’t as much of a devil as I thought. I didn’t want to give her a task that she had no choice but to obey. I wanted her to use her free will and choose me, regardless of other options given.

  Sighing heavily, I broke the tension by raising an eyebrow at the scattered utensils by her feet. I didn’t care about the mess. I only cared about this crazy girl and the livid rage in her gaze.

  She did fear me. It stank the cage we stood in.

  But she hated me more.

  Did she think I would do to her what Alrik had done?

  She was right to think that.

  I still wasn’t sure why I’d requested the night with her.

  Her eyes landed on the large butcher’s knife by her foot.

  My lips curled, following her thoughts. “Have you ever tried?”

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  “Have you ever tried to kill him?”

  An audible gasp fell from her lips. Her face tilted to look, but she kept her eyes down.

  Ducking, I picked up the knife, holding it by the blade rather than the hilt. Pressing the wooden handle into her stomach, I whispered, “Touch it. Go on. Have it for all I care. Hide it and do whatever you want with it.” My other hand wrapped around her neck. “Use it on him but don’t you dare fucking use it on me.”

  Her unbroken hand didn’t claim the weapon. I snatched her fingers, wrapped them around the hilt, and let go. The moment the weight transferred from me to her, I turned and grabbed the damaged door. Not saying another word, I carried it from the cage.

  Pimlico sucked in a deep breath, trembling where I’d left her. Lust showed on her features—not for me or sex but for the knife. A few footsteps guided her forward before whatever discipline she’d endured overrode her desire.

  A single tear rolled down her cheek as she turned to pick up the scattered knives and forks, tucking the one I’d given her into the box. When the space was tidy, she padded toward me, fumbling with the padlock.

  Goddammit.

  Of course, she wouldn’t take the knife. Who would after years of abuse, knowing full well what would happen if she was caught? Was it kinder to ignore the fact she was too weak to take it or accept that she was strong enough not to steal it? No doubt logistics had filled her head. She had no way of hiding it. No way of carrying it unseen into her bedroom. We were probably on camera in every place we went.

  She was right to leave it.

  But my voice sharpened in a command anyway. “Wait.” Placing the door against the cage, I strolled back and plucked the knife from the box. Shoving it down my back waistband, I ensured my blazer covered the shape before grabbing the door again. “Now, you can lock up.”

  Her eyes bugged, but she turned around and secured the padlock.

  I wanted to hear her thoughts. What was she thinking? Was she worried I planned to use the knife on her? Was she hopeful I’d use the knife on Alrik?

  Her silence was wielded far too well, leaving me grasping angrily for answers.

  Turning, I carried the door while Pimlico trailed after me. The soft jingling of keys twisted my lips.

  The keys sounded like a bell.

  A bell around the neck of an innocent sheep heading to slaughter.

  I just didn’t know if I was the heartless executioner or rescuing shepherd.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pimlico

  We were alone.

  My bedroom had a door.

  For the first time in over a year.

  My bathroom still didn’t have one, and the shower glittered from where I kneeled on the floor at the end of my bed, but at least, the corridor was hidden and peace fell, if only briefly, in my room.

  Mr. Prest had pointed at the white rug with a raised eyebrow once I’d shown him which abode was mine. He’d glanced around the nondescript space with furious disappointment.

  I didn’t know why he was angry. The décor was so bland and stark, no one could take offense from garish decoration.

  The moment I took my kneeling position on the floor, Mr. Prest turned his back on me and set about fixing the door. He couldn’t do a perfect job without the tools required to secure the hinges, but the wood blocked us from visitors, and he scooted the sideboard in front of it, giving us an element of privacy.

  Privacy.

  Well…not really.

  My eyes slipped to the corners of the room where I was sure cameras lurked.

  I’d never been able to find them—even though I’d looked and knew they were there—I’d never spotted a flash of a lens. I should tell Mr. Prest—warn him, inform him that everything we did was on show.

  But how could I when I refused to communicate?

  The terror that Master A had made me live with for so long slithered over my body. I’d stupidly given in to a small second of relaxation when Mr. Prest secured the door. I’d finally turned insane, believing this stranger and a flimsy barrier would somehow keep me safe.

  Stupid, Pim. You’re no more protected here than you were running free-range around the mansion.
r />   I’m probably in more danger.

  I was in more peril because I knew Master A. I could picture him pacing downstairs, punching a wall or two, glaring at the ceiling as if he could penetrate the floor and see into my room. He would not take my being used privately well.

  He’d been banished.

  He’ll do something…and soon.

  I gulped as Mr. Prest turned to face me.

  Did he taste how dangerous this liaison was? How flimsy and volatile and terrifying? The moment he’d negotiated a night with me, he’d taken a match to a fuse and lit it, smoking and hissing, chewing up speed until a bomb exploded.

  Why, oh why, didn’t you take the knife when you had the chance?

  For the hundredth time since standing in the garage, holding the keys to so many things that’d been taken away, I cursed myself. Yes, I had nowhere to hide the knife. Yes, Master A would know the moment I took it, where I put it, and most likely use it on me as a lesson that nothing was mine to covet.

  But at least when he barged in (once his temper overflowed from watching us), I might have something to defend myself with.

  I would be punished for everything—not just the small hiccup in the garage.

  I should be horrified, fearful, tearful.

  Only, I’d been waiting for a day to be free for so long. If I stood on the eve of it, then so be it. Tonight, I would either walk free or die free.

  Both were as appealing as the other.

  My attention switched to Mr. Prest. I’d hated him for what happened to me but the longer we were together, the more my plotting evolved.

  He’d asked for a night with me because he felt what I did.

  He wanted to explore whatever this crackling awareness was between us.

  Before, I’d planned to ignore him, shut down, and avoid what he would do to me. But what if I could manipulate him into helping me? Yes, he had a multi-millionaire dollar contract with Master A that I doubted I could ruin…but it was worth the chance.

  I was worth the chance.

  Besides, I couldn’t stop my curiosity toward the man who’d risked everything.

  Mr. Prest wiped his hands on his trousers from touching the dusty door. My attention lingered as he removed the stolen knife and placed it on the sideboard blocking the entrance.

  He thought he had me to himself.

  He thought he was safe.

  He’s wrong.

  Taking a deep breath, Mr. Prest ran his palm over his jaw. His head cocked, eyes trailing over my white dress and the position I huddled in. Humble and submissive. The perfect well-trained toy.

  The longer Mr. Prest stared, the more the room charged with the same electricity from before. I shivered, cursing the goosebumps decorating my arms.

  I wasn’t used to someone using the same tool I did.

  I was silent, but Master A was not. He filled my void with nonsense and threats, constantly telling me what would happen if I didn’t obey. His regular chatter allowed me safe haven to be quiet. He enforced my vow to remain mute.

  But Mr. Prest was not my master.

  And he understood the power of sound all too well.

  Like an assassin, he moved toward my bed to sit on the hard mattress.

  My bed was the only place I had sheets to cover myself with. But like everything, Master A ensured I didn’t have enough to fully warm for a good night’s rest. Not that I slept unmolested in my own space often—only at my time of the month or if Master A was sick.

  I found it surprising that he’d suffered the flu twice, including three colds and two stomach fevers (that he blamed on me), but I hadn’t been ill once.

  Even in my malnourished state.

  Hoisting himself up the bed, leaning against the white headboard where I’d stuffed my notes to No One, Mr. Prest patted the space beside him. “Come.”

  The training I’d been given excelled past a diploma in obedience. I might not be at university like my friends, but it didn’t mean I hadn’t earned a doctorate in complying.

  However, it wasn’t docility that made me obey…it was cunning.

  I needed to learn this man so I could trick him, win him, and find a way to use him.

  You’ll give me what I want.

  You’ll see.

  Keeping my eyes down, I climbed up (being careful with my broken hand) and once again kneeled with my chin downcast. I was never permitted to lie down or stretch. My body was used to being wound and bound, contorted into whatever pleasure bastards wanted.

  Jealousy filled me as my gaze landed on his outstretched legs, long and lithe, crossed at the ankles with nonchalant confidence.

  He hadn’t kicked off his shoes and the black leather soaked up meagre light. They weren’t glossy or ostentatious, matching his all-midnight wardrobe—deepening the grottos of his ebony eyes and matching jet hair.

  Shifting a little, he held out his palm where a pile of tarnished pennies rested.

  What the hell is with this guy and coins?

  Tipping his hand, a cascade of copper tumbled onto the sheet by my knee.

  He didn’t speak as the jingling money settled in the creases, resting against my skin as if I were a magnet.

  “I won’t ask you again because I see now your thoughts are worth more than mere pennies.” Picking up a coin that’d bounced back toward him, he flicked it with his thumb, making it spin in the air. “So I’ll ask without giving a reward. And you’ll answer because you want to.”

  I’ll never want to speak; to you or anyone.

  “Tell me what I want to know. You’re here with me, away from that bastard—safe for the time being…so speak.”

  No way.

  My hackles went up, tasting the trap, already feeling the cold pincers of a snare around my neck.

  “You want to talk to me.”

  No, I don’t.

  “Yes, you do, girl.”

  Girl, ugh.

  Why didn’t he use my name? Even though it wasn’t my given one.

  Was I so nondescript not to earn a proper address? Did he prefer I wasn’t given an owning noun but rather remained an adjective or verb?

  I didn’t move.

  No shoulder shrug or head flick. My body was on gag orders as well as my mouth.

  Mr. Prest’s voice hovered in the space far longer than usual. The words wisped like smoke from a blown out candle, still visible but slowly fading the more time passed.

  When the final syllable was extinguished, he murmured, “You don’t like that, do you?”

  Like what?

  “That I didn’t use your name.”

  My eyes widened until the delicate skin around them tightened with shock. What the hell?

  He smirked. “What is your name?”

  You know my name.

  “Let me rephrase that…what is your true name.”

  I turned to stone. You’ll never know.

  “Where do you come from?”

  None of your business.

  I stared harder; his eyes narrowed in frustration. “How old are you?”

  Too old. Too young.

  The novelty of being asked questions threatened to fissure my nightmarish world. They were dangerous but also the most inane and common. If I’d been on more dates, boys would’ve asked me the exact same things.

  And back then, I would’ve answered.

  But not here.

  Not now.

  Chuckling under his breath, he leaned forward. His legs bent to support his raised torso; the mattress rocked a little beneath his weight.

  “You know, I’ve been around many people who don’t talk.” He danced another penny over his knuckles with effortless grace. “It didn’t bother me then, and it doesn’t bother me now.” Snatching the coin in his fist, he growled, “I’ll get my answers from you, Pim.”

  You can try.

  His smile turned cold. “Before we’re through, I’ll know more than some superficial bullshit. I’ll know who you are—” He shot forward, stabbing a finger in my chest
. “—in there.”

  I flinched beneath his hold. He’d found a previous bruise, amplifying the punishment. Not that that was hard with most of me covered in some injury or other.

  His eyes locked on mine.

  I wanted to scream. ‘You think you’ll understand me? I’ll know you better. How about a trade?’

  He could have my secrets if he smuggled me out of here. There was something about this man. Something unknown and intrinsic and needed. So, so needed.

  I was naïve to his monster, but that didn’t mean a thing as I stared into endless eyes daring to go to war with him.

  The longer we stared, the deeper whatever linked us became. That damn electricity was back, flowing with no limits, hissing in my blood.

  Never looking away, his finger became two, then three, then four until his entire hand pressed against my sternum.

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t move as he leaned closer, his nostrils flaring as his grip dropped to cup my breast.

  Tears welled. Partly due to the invasion of being touched so tenderly but mostly due to the weight of his gaze pushing me deep, deep into the mattress. My heart didn’t stand a chance—it gave up trying to beat and just flopped over and played possum instead.

  “Do you like that?”

  His whisper jerked me from his spell.

  No.

  Not at all.

  Biting his bottom lip, he looked younger and more reckless at the same time. I’d never met anyone like him. No boys in my past or men in my present. He was alien and fascinating and entirely too frightening.

  Mr. Prest skated his eyes to where he held me. His thumb grazed my nipple. The damn thing budded for him.

  Pearl flashes of his teeth sent more pinwheels over my skin as he bit his lip harder. I never thought a man biting his lip would be hot.

  But by God, it was.

  Somehow, he made me forget that I wasn’t there of my own accord—that we weren’t on a date and there wasn’t a mad owner about to burst through the door the moment Mr. Prest tried to sleep with me.

  The memory froze my spine, stopping it from turning supple with desire. The flow of connection from his flesh to mine ceased as suddenly as if I’d executed him.

  Pulling back, I kept my chin high. His hand slid from my breast, falling heavily into his lap. Silence was an enemy rather than a friend as our breathing fell into a slow, tattered rhythm.