Dollars (Dollar #2)(7)

Plucking at the yellow gown, I did my best not to wrinkle my nose. I looked juvenile in lemon while he looked distinguished in midnight. If I had to wear clothes, I craved to don black like him. Black would hide my discoloration and give me a refined power that nakedness and white could not.

His black eyes, almond shaped and regal, trapped mine. His body exuded tightly reined power with simmering lethalness. His strong jaw clenched as I studied him the way he studied me.

My lips tingled, remembering the way he—with all his masculine violence—had slammed to his knees, cupped my face, and kissed me as if whatever drew me to him drew him to me with equal strength.

A shadow fell over his eyes as he crossed his arms, highlighting ropey muscles and hands ready to inflict danger or death. “I see you’re just as opinionated here as you were there.”

My eyes flared; my jaw jutting out in question.

What the hell does that mean?

“Don’t cock your chin at me, silent mouse.”

Don’t use my dad’s nickname.

The name Mouse did not belong to him, even if my body did for the time being.

He didn’t notice my annoyance.

His graphite dress shoes clicked on the white tiled floor as he strode forward. His dark grey t-shirt and faded jeans didn’t match the formal footwear.

My eyes drifted to his muscular legs then to the floor where the grout lines and colour were a little too reminiscent to Master A’s. I knew it was due to sanitation rather than personal preference, but it still made me queasy.

“I feel the same way about white as you do.” His voice borrowed whatever power his body had over mine, slipping through my ears. “It’s a disgusting colour and will be abolished from my home.”

Hating the persuasiveness he had over my eardrums, I hunched into myself.

He thinks he can read my body language so easily.

It only made me want to hide deep, deep inside when only minutes ago I wanted to look him in the eyes and thank him for all that he’d done. To grab his hand and squeeze so hard with a thousand appreciations.

“How is your tongue?”

The urge to press the agonising muscle onto my palate to see if it was still intact made me wince. The past hour on my own, I’d struggled not to touch it, inspect it. I wanted a mirror to see how close I’d come to being disabled for life.

“I take it it’s uncomfortable.”

You make me uncomfortable.

I had no way to ask him to leave. But I wanted him gone. I wasn’t emotionally or mentally equipped for him, his questions, or whatever future he’d already planned for me.

Can you go? For just a little while?

I stiffened at my rudeness and silently added, I’m grateful. Truly. But I’d also be grateful if you left me to rest in peace.

He chuckled, not seeing my message this time. “At least you still have a tongue.”

That’s true.

My annoyance at his high-handedness faded a little.

I pursed my lips, flinching as the bottom one cracked from whatever implements they’d used in surgery to keep my mouth open.

I’d grown used to tolerating men in my space even when I screamed for a moment alone—which was good seeing as Elder had no intention of leaving. If he was here to learn about me, to interrogate me for his pleasure, then I would do the same. I would catalogue and pay attention. I would try to figure out what he wanted before his lips opened to say it.

The smug way he crossed his arms antagonised me. “Do you intend to use it? Now you’re free?”

I’m free?

I shuffled higher in my pillows.

You mean you’ll let me heal and then take me back to London, to my mother, to university and cafes and the mundane normalness of everything I’ve missed?

He ran a hand through his hair. The sharpness of his jaw, depth of his eyes, and achingly dangerous presence intimidated me. He was the epitome of calculated and gorgeous. A man not to mess with. A killer never to disrespect. “I misspoke. I meant, now you’re free from him.” He towered over me, his shadow kissing every inch of my skin. “Not free in the general sense. You owe me, Pimlico. I told you I wasn’t the hero.”

Yes, but you did rescue me against your promise to forget me.

That was progress—if only small.

“Do you need anything?” He paced around the end of my bed, his gaze landing on everything in an assessing distrustful way, as if monitoring an unseen threat.

If I did, I wouldn’t ask you.

Not because I had a grudge against being stolen (again), but because he’d already done too much.

He’d given me back my life. What more could I ask?

To free you, of course.

That had always been my end goal. For now though, I had to be satisfied with this change of events and contemplate whether I should fight him, submit to him, or bide my time and kill him.

I didn’t know what path I’d choose, but…he was right. I did owe him. And I didn’t want to owe him any more than I already did.

You could just end it—like the original plan.

The flutter of final freedom washed over me. Elder Prest might’ve changed my circumstances, but he was still a monster I had to survive. Would it be considered weak to take my own life now or still strong to prevent him from having it?

I’d existed with the idea of death for far too long to relinquish the whisper of everlasting sleep. Suicide was never a spineless option to me but my final hurrah. I wouldn’t give that up. Not yet.