Pennies (Dollar #1)(40)

How do you know it’s a binder?

Shit, my eyes had steadily crept upward.

Up his broad thighs, past the slight bulge in his trousers, up the svelte lines of his chest, to the sharp ridges of his throat.

Drop your head!

My command made my shoulders roll as I bowed deeper into the floor. I couldn’t meet his eyes. That was where the danger lay.

If I slipped and looked up, I doubted I’d live to tomorrow if Master A deemed I had some sort of sick fascination (or was it attraction?) toward this monster I couldn’t stand.

No, it isn’t attraction.

It couldn’t be.

After losing my virginity to sexual slavery, I’d been cured of finding anyone pleasing to the eye or connected to my soul.

I doubted I’d ever find anyone like that.

My fate was different to my friends who would live long lives and give birth to kids with boys they’d fallen in love with.

I wanted to be alone.

Safe.

Far away from men.

The two villains talked in low murmurs about delivery dates and inspections.

I didn’t bother straining to hear. I didn’t care.

My skin prickled as Mr. Prest’s voice mingled with Master A’s. The awareness of both of them watching me wrapped a plastic bag around my heart, suffocating me slowly. I didn’t dare move; I could barely breathe. Mr. Prest somehow stole every sense keeping them zeroed in on him.

The battle to keep my eyes down and head ducked became harder and harder to win. Every shuffle of his feet and rustle of his clothing whispered for me to indulge in just a peek.

One peek.

I can’t.

Taking a deep breath, I did what I never thought I’d do and focused on the classical music rather than my abhorrent fascination with our visitor.

I willingly let stringed instruments distract me, even though they only brought nightmares.

That was what Master A was: a nightmare. And one of these days, I’d wake up and this would be all over.

Wake up, Pim…wake up.

After ten minutes or so, Master A snapped his fingers, ceasing their conversation. “Get Mr. Prest a drink, Pim.”

Get up?

Move?

Run the risk of stealing a glance I wasn’t allowed to steal?

My spine rolled in disobedience.

When I didn’t leap into action, Master A lowered his voice. “Did you not hear me?” Nudging my knee with his toe, he grunted, “Get!”

My body snarled with aches and pains as I scrambled to my feet, skidding into the kitchen. Miraculously, I kept my chin tucked and eyes down. However, even without eyesight, I saw Mr. Prest. Felt him watching me. Heard him thinking about me.

His shadow lurked in my peripheral as I scurried around the countertop.

Not once had Mr. Prest addressed me. Not once had he tried to engage me in pleasantries—not like the first time when he’d shortened my name with familiarity.

He hadn’t been threatened by Master A not to speak or look, so why hadn’t he been as strangely kind as he was in the beginning?

I didn’t want to admit it, but the cold shoulder hurt more than a kick from my bastard owner.

Something was to be said about cruelty. Give nothing but barbarity and that was all that was expected. Give tenderness mixed with persecution and the fall from hope hurt far, far worse.

Was that Mr. Prest’s agenda from the start?

Keeping my face covered by my hair as much as possible, I headed into the walk-in pantry where a small cellar was located in the floor.

Pressing a silver button by the shelf housing condiments, the trap door opened and the current bottle of bourbon Master A had selected shot to the top on an automatic delivery system.

Grabbing the expensive liquor, I trembled as I carried the blasted liquor back to splash generous amounts into crystal goblets.

My pour wasn’t neat; a few droplets landed on the bench.

My back turned rigid. I waited for reprimand.

I’d dropped a bottle once.

I’d only been with Master A for a month, and my rebellion hadn’t fully stopped. I didn’t remember if I dropped it by accident or on purpose.

But I did remember the punishment very well. It involved shards of the broken bottle and generous pouring of spoilt liquor on the open cut he’d adorned me with.

I’d cried soundless tears.

But I hadn’t given him what he wanted most—my voice.

Not that it mattered. He’d cured me of my butterfingers with one incident.

Ignoring the scar on my forearm from the horrendous memory, I quickly wiped up the small spillage and stoppered the bottle.

Replacing it back in the cellar, I set the glasses on the coffee table where both men had retired in the lounge and returned to my post by the wall, dropping to my knees with an ill-concealed wince.

Mr. Prest murmured something like gratitude, his eyes tracking me even as the soft clink of toasting goblets sounded over the music.

But he said nothing else. No barb about my wardrobe or fishing hook to taunt me to speak.

His body language shut me off, focusing on Master A.

For the next thirty minutes, I zoned out.

Listening to men—rather than granting forced blowjobs—was a much happier alternative. However, after the past few sleepless nights, I struggled to fight the heavy cloud of drowsiness. I battled drooping eyelids, pinching my inner wrist with demands not to fall unconscious.