Pennies (Dollar #1)(80)

The crunch of pebbles beneath Mr. Prest’s shoes were muffled. The view of Master A’s house perched high on the cliff with ultimate sea views was hazy. I wanted to kiss the concrete of the driveway and dance in the soil where bright green bushes slept.

The breeze. The salt. The screech of seabirds. So much chaos after so much silence.

And I was too swaddled in agony to enjoy it.

He’s dead.

Darryl, too.

Tony.

All dead.

Mr. Prest did what I’d dreamed of for years.

Even that knowledge was muted and not quite real. I needed my tongue to stop drowning me in blood, so I could focus on this new reality.

I just witnessed a murder. A gruesome, awful murder.

I just committed murder. A cold-blooded revengeful kill.

And I rejoiced!

I didn’t suffer sadness for the deaths they endured. It was their karma. If anything, they didn’t endure enough. However, I couldn’t figure out what came next. Would Mr. Prest slay me, too? Why had he returned? What plans did he have for me to pay him back for his rescue?

Should I run, scream, beg?

I couldn’t do any of those things with my body quickly dying, but I needed to know, to prepare…what is my new fate?

Along with a constant wash of copper, I struggled to breathe. My tongue had swollen to the size of a cruise liner. It didn’t listen to my commands to move. It merely sat, partially severed and agonising, distracting me from everything.

Mr. Prest carried me to his car, ignoring the shocked look from a man with dark hair standing motionless, his eyes dancing up and down the driveway as if expecting law enforcement to appear at any moment.

“Sir…”

“No questions.” Mr. Prest waited until the man opened the vehicle then jumped inside. He didn’t speak again as he manhandled me, sitting down all while keeping me in his arms. My blood decorated his cheekbone where he’d smeared it as war paint, daubing him as the devil I suspected while fresh crimson soaked like oil into his clothing.

I shivered from pain and cold.

Understanding without asking, Mr. Prest slid me across the black leather (no longer white and white and more white) and wrenched off his blazer. Draping it around me, he tucked in my arms, not caring my blood saturated his clothes and car.

How much had I lost?

How much could I afford to lose before I died?

Already, I was light headed and wispy. My tongue continued to swell, blocking ability to swallow.

For so long, I’d begged for death.

And now that I was only heartbeats away from it, I didn’t want to go.

I was free.

I was in a world of colour rather than monochrome.

I don’t want to die.

If I wasn’t so confused and wracked with pain, I might’ve cared that this rescuer, this dark angel, saw me drooling and glassy eyed. He watched me fade in and out of unconsciousness.

“Drive, Selix.”

The muffled sound of a door closing happened a nanosecond before the car tore off with tyres screaming.

“Where to, sir?”

“Phantom. Call ahead. Tell Michaels to be ready.”

“Right.”

The sliding partition rose as Mr. Prest dragged my woozy form back into his arms. He kept me tight, acting as a seat-belt as the vehicle soared around corners and squealed down roads I’d never seen before.

Breathing hard, he ran a death-dirty hand over his face, smearing blood over his brow and chin.

I huddled in his embrace, trying to turn invisible all while gagging on flowing metallic.

Oh, God, please let the pain stop.

Please, don’t let me die.

Not now.

Mr. Prest looked down, catching my out of focus vision.

Close your eyes.

You’re safer that way.

It was a stupid trick, pretending he couldn’t reach me when I couldn’t see him. But my loss of blood and strange vaporous agony gave whimsical fancy solid reasoning.

Curling tighter in his arms, my skin prickled with intensity as Mr. Prest bowed his head, his hot breath skating over my bloody face. For the longest time, he sat there, still and silent, waiting for me to open my eyes.

But I couldn’t.

I can’t.

I wished I was blind as well as mute. Deaf too, so I would never hear the squelching sound of my tongue being cut or the crunching of bones as he threw Master A against the kitchen bench.

Finally, his patience ran out. Taking my chin, he guided my face upward.

I was weak and queasy and had no choice, but I obeyed because I’d just witnessed what happened to those who angered him. He killed so quickly, so easily—it was nothing to him.

I didn’t want to be nothing.

I wanted to remain in his good graces. There, I might find a kind word or gentle stroke. I didn’t want more violence. I’d had enough to last me a lifetime.

Mr. Prest cupped my jaw, his fingers slipping in sticky blood. “He deserved to die for what he did.”

I agree.

He deserved to die in a hundred ways.

I didn’t move. No nod, no twitch. Nothing.

He frowned. “I know you understand. What are you afraid of? You’re safe now.”

Afraid?

I’m afraid of you.

I don’t know what’s worse, you or death. And I don’t know how to get answers before it’s too late.