Why, oh why, didn’t you take the knife when you had the chance?
For the hundredth time since standing in the garage, holding the keys to so many things that’d been taken away, I cursed myself. Yes, I had nowhere to hide the knife. Yes, Master A would know the moment I took it, where I put it, and most likely use it on me as a lesson that nothing was mine to covet.
But at least when he barged in (once his temper overflowed from watching us), I might have something to defend myself with.
I would be punished for everything—not just the small hiccup in the garage.
I should be horrified, fearful, tearful.
Only, I’d been waiting for a day to be free for so long. If I stood on the eve of it, then so be it. Tonight, I would either walk free or die free.
Both were as appealing as the other.
My attention switched to Mr. Prest. I’d hated him for what happened to me but the longer we were together, the more my plotting evolved.
He’d asked for a night with me because he felt what I did.
He wanted to explore whatever this crackling awareness was between us.
Before, I’d planned to ignore him, shut down, and avoid what he would do to me. But what if I could manipulate him into helping me? Yes, he had a multi-millionaire dollar contract with Master A that I doubted I could ruin…but it was worth the chance.
I was worth the chance.
Besides, I couldn’t stop my curiosity toward the man who’d risked everything.
Mr. Prest wiped his hands on his trousers from touching the dusty door. My attention lingered as he removed the stolen knife and placed it on the sideboard blocking the entrance.
He thought he had me to himself.
He thought he was safe.
He’s wrong.
Taking a deep breath, Mr. Prest ran his palm over his jaw. His head cocked, eyes trailing over my white dress and the position I huddled in. Humble and submissive. The perfect well-trained toy.
The longer Mr. Prest stared, the more the room charged with the same electricity from before. I shivered, cursing the goosebumps decorating my arms.
I wasn’t used to someone using the same tool I did.
I was silent, but Master A was not. He filled my void with nonsense and threats, constantly telling me what would happen if I didn’t obey. His regular chatter allowed me safe haven to be quiet. He enforced my vow to remain mute.
But Mr. Prest was not my master.
And he understood the power of sound all too well.
Like an assassin, he moved toward my bed to sit on the hard mattress.
My bed was the only place I had sheets to cover myself with. But like everything, Master A ensured I didn’t have enough to fully warm for a good night’s rest. Not that I slept unmolested in my own space often—only at my time of the month or if Master A was sick.
I found it surprising that he’d suffered the flu twice, including three colds and two stomach fevers (that he blamed on me), but I hadn’t been ill once.
Even in my malnourished state.
Hoisting himself up the bed, leaning against the white headboard where I’d stuffed my notes to No One, Mr. Prest patted the space beside him. “Come.”
The training I’d been given excelled past a diploma in obedience. I might not be at university like my friends, but it didn’t mean I hadn’t earned a doctorate in complying.
However, it wasn’t docility that made me obey…it was cunning.
I needed to learn this man so I could trick him, win him, and find a way to use him.
You’ll give me what I want.
You’ll see.
Keeping my eyes down, I climbed up (being careful with my broken hand) and once again kneeled with my chin downcast. I was never permitted to lie down or stretch. My body was used to being wound and bound, contorted into whatever pleasure bastards wanted.
Jealousy filled me as my gaze landed on his outstretched legs, long and lithe, crossed at the ankles with nonchalant confidence.
He hadn’t kicked off his shoes and the black leather soaked up meagre light. They weren’t glossy or ostentatious, matching his all-midnight wardrobe—deepening the grottos of his ebony eyes and matching jet hair.
Shifting a little, he held out his palm where a pile of tarnished pennies rested.
What the hell is with this guy and coins?
Tipping his hand, a cascade of copper tumbled onto the sheet by my knee.
He didn’t speak as the jingling money settled in the creases, resting against my skin as if I were a magnet.
“I won’t ask you again because I see now your thoughts are worth more than mere pennies.” Picking up a coin that’d bounced back toward him, he flicked it with his thumb, making it spin in the air. “So I’ll ask without giving a reward. And you’ll answer because you want to.”