Pennies (Dollar #1)(32)

He was a killer.

And a good one seeing as he was here with us and not caught.

Mr. Prest’s fingers drifted down my thigh and dug into my knee—just like Master A’s had on the plane ride here. Unlike before, when that little threat had freaked me out, it was nothing compared to what I’d endured. I was trained in touches like those.

I didn’t jolt as Mr. Prest squeezed and relaxed, palpitating my joint, forcing my body to pay attention. However, as my muscles locked for abuse and my heart scurried with nervousness, his touch switched from testing to calming.

His breathing turned shallow as he dropped his gaze to where our two bodies met. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Please.

As if I haven’t heard that one before.

I wanted to roll my eyes at his empty promise, but I didn’t dare. Who knew what Master A would do? He might carve out my eyeballs with a spoon if I showed any more rebellion.

Master A cleared his throat, his focus riveted on where Mr. Prest touched me. He vibrated with loathing and jealousy, even though he was the one who offered me up to sweeten whatever deal they’d concocted.

“Do you get to experience things like fresh air and new places, Pim?” Mr. Prest never stopped stroking. His fingers slowly left my knee, going slightly higher with each stroke.

Just like my taste buds came alive after a few mouthfuls of delicious food, so too did my skin as I received gentle caresses for the first time in so long.

My flesh turned itchy and hot, straining with sensation for more.

Traitor.

I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze to go hazy and not focus on the man touching me, my master, or the things I would be made to do in my future.

“She’s not a damn dog, Elder.” Master A chuckled. “I don’t clip on a leash and take her for a walk to the f*cking park. She’s a whore. This is her home. She doesn’t need to go anywhere.”

Yes. Yes, I do.

I need to go somewhere.

Far away from you.

Far away from this cage.

Mr. Prest’s fingernails replaced his soft caress, branding my thigh. “Third slip, Mr. ?sbj?rn. One more and this f*cking deal is off. I don’t care if production is arranged and contracts are drawn up.” His hand left my skin, flying up in a wedge of severity to point at Master A. “Use my first name once more and you’ll never speak again. Got it?”

I shivered as the same hand that vibrated with violence fell back onto my body. One moment, vicious and resolute with cruelty, the next, serene and tranquilizing.

Master A poured himself another bourbon and slammed it down. His brittle hatred moved like glass shards in his limbs as he forced himself to remain calm.

Mr. Prest didn’t care. His full attention fell to me again, inching closer, pressing his knee against mine.

I sucked in a breath as his head tilted toward my ear, his heady incense and spice aftershave whipping up my nose like a forest fire. It blazed through my lungs and over my tongue, making me inhale and taste him all at once.

“Tell me, Pimlico, do you like being touched gently or are you used to much rougher handling?” His palm splayed over my thigh, gripping hard enough for me to flinch.

Permanent bruises flared. I held my breath, willing pain receptors to quiet and numbness to take over. I’d enlisted that trick multiple times.

Mr. Prest was cruel and harsh and dominant. But beneath that darkness, he couldn’t fully erase the strangeness lurking deep inside him. I didn’t know if it was a bad strange or good, but he was different from Master A.

That oddity called to me.

Master A flung himself back into the couch, eyeing us with disdain. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. She doesn’t talk. Hit her, hurt her, whisper, or woo her—it’s all the f*cking same.”

Mr. Prest brushed his nose against my earlobe, murmuring so Master A couldn’t hear. “You might not use your voice, silent one, but you speak all the same.” The tip of his tongue ran over the highly sensitive flesh from my ear to the start of my jaw. “Want to know what you’ve told me already?” His hand trailed higher up my leg, creeping to the place where I’d been hurt the most.

I’d gone my teenage years with an occasional fumble from an eager boy who’d earned my interest to get close enough to touch. And then, I’d entered womanhood with a brutal rape that’d forever tarnished sex. Everything about men and women coupling was sick and filthy and wrong.

No part of me, under any circumstance, wanted to be touched there. Not by Mr. Prest, not by Master A, and certainly not by any of his dastardly friends.

I hated him for taking liberties. I didn’t want my skin to be alive. I didn’t want my senses to be alive.

I wanted to be numb.

Aloof.

And the audacity of Mr. Prest to make me notice things again, for my heart to beat and my taste buds to fire—it wasn’t fair.

But at least, my body was as repulsed by him as any other man.

I didn’t feel a quickening in my belly. My * didn’t clench; my blood didn’t heat. My spirit might hold on, refusing to break, but Master A had broken my body.

Sex was revolting.

Sex was sickening.

Sex was not something I would ever grow to love.

I was sure of it.

It didn’t stop Mr. Prest from brushing his fingertip between my legs. His voice stayed heavy and low. “I’m used to silence, silent one. But you’re not very good at hiding your thoughts from your eyes.” Pulling away, he brushed my chin with his knuckles. “Want me to prove it? I know that you hate me touching you, and you can’t stop the loathing inside you.”