But nothing came.
He gave me his jacket, still warm and smelling richly of heady incense and something exotically spicy, but he did it all without a single finger graze.
I froze.
I drowned.
The act of kindness threatened to send me into another panic attack.
I slouched beneath the weight, so unused to heavy heat smothering me.
One heartbeat demanded, Get it off!
The next remembered what my flesh had forgotten. It recalled how nice it was to be protected. Don’t…don’t take it away.
“Get that off her, Mr. Prest,” Master A growled. “She’ll run upstairs and dress in her own things, won’t you, Pim?”
With what?
I had no other clothes.
But Mr. Prest didn’t know that, and I waited with eyes downcast, my heart burning at the thought of having the one element of comfort I’d been given in so long taken away.
All I wanted to do was slip my arms into the wide, beckoning sleeves, fall to the floor, and hug myself. I wanted to curl into a chrysalis, protected by my blazer armour, and re-emerge so much braver and bolder than before with paper wings and powder beauty able to soar me far, far away.
At least the shock of Mr. Prest sharing his wardrobe interrupted my nerves. Adrenaline stopped crackling through my veins; I did my best to breathe rather than asphyxiate.
Mr. Prest crossed his arms, his dark grey shirt pushed up to his elbows, revealing ropy muscles and a tattooed bracelet with Japanese characters around his wrist. “She can keep it.”
Master A glowered, digging his fingernails into my shoulder as he directed me toward the staircase. “No. She can’t.”
“Why?” Mr. Prest slouched against the doorjamb, never taking his black eyes from me.
“Because I said so.” Master A shoved me toward the bottom step. “She’ll be back down as soon as she’s changed.”
I stumbled, the loose jacket fluttering like clouds behind me.
Mr. Prest lowered his jaw, watching from shadowed features. “I want to hear it from her.”
Master A froze. “What?”
Mr. Prest pointed in my direction. His liquidity and grace came across as bored and uninterested, but a vein of lethalness simmered beneath. “Her. I want to hear it from her.”
I spun to face the man, soaking up the wrongful whiteness around him. We made eye contact before I remembered my place and stared at the ground.
Master A dragged stiff fingers through his blond hair. “You don’t understand, Elder. She doesn’t speak.”
Mr. Prest snapped into stealthy power. “Don’t think we’re on first name basis, Alrik. And certainly don’t take liberties not given to you.”
My back bunched. No one spoke to Master A like that and got away with it.
But the unthinkable happened.
Master A swallowed his curse-filled retort, nodding respectfully. “Of course. My apologies.” Moving toward Mr. Prest, he waved over his guest’s shoulder. “Perhaps, we should begin the evening again. We have a nice meal planned. Let’s eat…shall we?”
“No.” Mr. Prest didn’t budge from the doorway. “I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Master A’s eyes bugged.
If I weren’t so afraid of the man being disciplined, I would’ve enjoyed this change of events. But I knew I would be the one who ultimately paid once the stranger had left.
“Nothing is going on.”
Mr. Prest cocked his head, a cold smile on his lips. “Lies. I don’t do business with liars.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then let her speak.” Mr. Prest’s eyes latched onto mine again. “Pimlico…tell me yourself. Do you want to keep my jacket or would you prefer to wear your own clothes?” His gaze drifted to the nasty white skirt I wore, barely hiding anything. “You have odd taste in fashion, but I won’t judge. You may wear what you wish. Not that it’s my place to direct you.” His glower landed on Master A. “But then again, neither is it the place of your boyfriend to order you how to dress.”
His accent teased at the corners of my mind, reminding me of wealthy travellers and foreign places. The way he said ‘boyfriend’ made me stiffen.
I was right.
He did understand. He saw through the bullshit and knew what I was.
My heart jumped into an ocean of tears. Why did that hurt me so much? To be seen as what I was? For this stranger to never know me as happy, confident Tasmin but as beaten, ugly Pimlico?
“Answer me,” Mr. Prest said. “My jacket or your own?”
The question didn’t prompt me to reply. After two years of muteness, a query no longer held such power. My larynx didn’t prepare to speak. My lungs didn’t inflate to talk.
I had no urge to vocalise.
My body stiffened as I focused on Mr. Prest’s powerful jaw and throat. I’d guess he had foreign blood in him somewhere in his lineage. It wasn’t a strong part of his features, but his eyes were too beautifully almond to be strictly European.
The three of us stood in tense silence.