Pennies (Dollar #1)(25)

I didn’t turn around, but her gasp trickled down my nape, making me shiver. It was too easy. Hunting was a lot of fun. Just like thievery. The trick to pulling off a great heist was to gain the trust of your intended victim first.

Trust me, Pim.

Let me steal your secrets.

Alrik had tried to do that by luring me to dinner with his friends. But he couldn’t mask his eager greediness for what I could offer him. Pimlico, on the other hand, bought my sanctuary with every heartbeat, hauling herself into a standing position and shuffling into the kitchen.

I didn’t move as the sounds of collected crockery and the clink of knives and forks echoed in the white space. Her footfalls were as quiet as a shadow as she hesitantly approached the table.

I narrowed my eyes as she kept her vision on the floor, holding her plate like a shield.

Alrik’s friends snickered, sucking on beer bottles, enjoying her discomfort far too f*cking much. I didn’t need to ask to know they’d taken from this girl, too. They were responsible for some of the bruises and scars decorating her body.

Alrik sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Well, sit, Pim. Fuck, don’t just lurk there like a freak.”

Instantly, she darted forward and slipped gracefully into the chair beside me.

Either deliberate or subconscious, the fact she’d chosen to sit so close did strange things to my insides. Half of me wanted to stroke her cheek and promise that as long as she wore my jacket, I’d protect her. While the other half wanted to see how pretty her tears would look falling into her dinner.

Tearing my gaze from her sad face, I stole her empty plate and replaced it with my untouched, full one.

She sucked in a breath as I nudged the delicious smelling food closer.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

She knew what I offered, and she’d accept—if she knew what was f*cking good for her.

Alrik’s fork clattered to the tablecloth, smearing garlic sauce and oil. “Wait…she can have a sandwich. There isn’t enough for—”

I held up my hand with a sharp glare. “I’m not hungry. She is. Problem solved.”

Besides, there was power in not eating when everyone else was. I had the freedom to stare and calculate. I could ask questions and probe all while they swallowed inconvenient mouthfuls, scrambling for lies.

No, this was perfect.

I got to do a good dead—something I was sorely lacking—and I also got to put these men on the back foot.

Let the interrogation begin.





I COULDN’T LOOK up.

Whiffs of delicious food made eternal hunger snarl.

Is this real?

Was I truly sitting on a chair at the table with a plate in front of me? Was it a cruel joke where Master A would snatch away the meal as he sometimes did for spite?

I shuddered, remembering last month how he’d made me crawl after him for miles, up and down the stairs, along tiled corridors, taunting me with my dog bowl full of spaghetti carbonara.

I’d wanted those rich, creamy noodles more than anything and hated what I did when he finally stopped and demanded I suck him in return for my dinner.

The flavour of his cum had ruined the reward.

I never wanted carbonara again.

My fingers shook around the utensil as I forced myself to recall the mechanics. How could I forget something as simple as using a fork? And if I couldn’t remember, what would Mr. Prest think of me?

He’ll see a whore and a heathen.

An untrained slave with awful table manners.

Why did I suddenly want to be noticed instead of forgotten? Recognised instead of alone? Why did this man make me come more alive than I had in years?

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?