Dollars (Dollar #2)(10)

I closed my eyes, but he shook my jaw until I reopened them.

“Understand?”

There was no urge to nod this time; it seemed anger elicited the opposite of me. Be nice and ask softly, and the need to reply became almost unbearable. Yell and scream, and I shut down—no longer able to hear questions…just rage.

Elder breathed heavily. “You’ll learn soon enough. You’ll see.”

Scooping me up, he carried me back to bed.

My heart hyperventilated, intensely aware of his bulk trapping me. Placing me back into the sheets, he removed his touch as soon as my weight shifted, as if he couldn’t stand to hold me any longer than necessary.

I smarted at the rebuttal even while my body breathed a sigh of relief.

Once I settled, sleepiness crept like poisonous fog over me. Turned out, I didn’t have as much energy as I thought.

His voice lost its bite, slipping into molasses. “You’d better get used to invasion of privacy, Pim. I stole you because I want to know you. I want to uncover what you keep hidden. Give me what I want, and this will be a lot easier on you. Don’t, and you’ll rue the day you refused.”

Without a backward glance, he strode away.





TWENTY-NINE HOURS had passed since I’d brought aboard a stowaway.

In that time, I’d washed away the death of two more victims and did my best to justify the shame compounding deep inside.

For twenty-nine hours, I’d stayed away because I had no choice.

At Alrik’s, I’d been allowed one of everything. One kiss, one taste, one touch. For an addict like me, it was the only thing that helped.

I was allowed to sample the vintage, so I didn’t consume the bottle.

Pim didn’t work that way.

Every sip left me wanting more and more and f*cking more. Her silent strength undermined my hard-earned calmness, hurtling me back to the days when I first stepped from the sewer and claimed my stolen throne.

Focus.

Work.

Don’t let your thoughts stray.

The instructions I religiously followed were easily whispered but hard to follow. I turned to another method (one I seldom used) to quarantine my wayward thoughts. However, nothing could prevent the repetition of how warm her fragile form had been when I’d carried her to the bathroom. How my heart coughed in panic and salvation from having her so close and dependant.

She’d almost cracked my self-control.

Michaels is right.

I shouldn’t have brought her here, regardless of what I wanted. She wasn’t good for me. I wasn’t good for her. She was better off under the quiet care of Michaels and his small medical staff—even if he pissed me off.

I would get my answers…soon enough.

I would ensure she paid me back…after she healed.

And once I’d satisfied my ever driving demand, I’d get rid of her so I could find peace once again.

For now, the doctor would be my link to her. He’d given me updates on her wellbeing, and would start her on soft foods at lunchtime.

Yesterday, I’d asked again how soon she would be able to talk.

All I’d earned was an angry scowl. In terms of conversing timeframe, that was up to his patient. I just hoped his patient understood how reckless her presence was in my life, and the sooner she could give me what I wanted, the safer she would be.

Then again, I was afraid she would never talk—even once healed. She’d spent two years silent. Two years of notes to a fictional entity, all dated and delivered in utmost silence.

I wanted a timeline of when she would be physically cured so I could force her to talk if she overspent my generosity.

I’d give her two weeks.

If she hadn’t said a word by then, I’d force her.

The captain looked up as I marched onto the bridge. The Phantom was second to none. I’d designed this ship the year my fate changed and put no restrictions on my requirements.

Once the vessel was completed and sailed elegantly out to sea, people took notice. Enquiries flittered around, asking where I’d bought it and how they could acquire such a fine craft.

When they found out I’d designed the one-of-a-kind super yacht and bought the firm who built it for me, orders came swiftly with no marketing or request for their business.

I sort of fell into the trade.

“Good morning, Mr. Prest.” Jolfer Scott came highly recommend—not just as a sea captain but also as an ex-military commander with an exemplary track record of sniper shooting and weaponry.

Being at sea was the safest and most dangerous place to live. Safest because humans were few and far between—peace existed in the vast blue beauty and uninterrupted sunshine.

However, Mother Nature could drown us all with a simple storm if she so pleased. Even without a tyrant like Mother Nature as our landlord, living at sea was treacherous because out here, no rules applied. A neighbouring craft could very well be a kind traveller wishing to share a drink and adventures, or a killer wanting to board, loot, and rape.

In the years the ocean had been my postcode, war had found us twice. Both times, the Phantom had been sandwiched by two yachts rigged with antennas and men with machine guns.

They hadn’t won.

My death toll had steadily grown.

And the sharks enjoyed a good feast that night as we tossed the pirates overboard, leaving them to sink into the briny depths.