I grabbed the sheet, yanking it to cover myself. However, something crinkly fluttered with the whiteness, landing on the floor beside me.
The shock of something unknown interrupted my panic attack.
What on earth?
Hiccupping, I sat upright. My hands shook as I picked up the dollar bill.
An American dollar bill.
But it wasn’t folded like normal money. It wasn’t flat or creased in half like other well-transacted currency. This was in the shape of a tiny butterfly complete with wings and delicate feelers.
The light green of the note gave the illusion the wings were made of thread and ink while its body cocooned with the numerical value of paper wealth.
It’s so pretty.
But where did it come from?
The answer was obvious.
Him.
But why?
Fingering the linen parchment, I flashed with anger. My panic attack faded, finding strength once again. Was this Mr. Prest’s way of paying me for what we’d done? Was I only worth a dollar to him?
Instead of pretty origami, all I saw was something cheap. Something that made me cheap.
Was our kiss that worthless?
Tossing it away, the flash of black writing begged me to unfold it.
I didn’t relish the notion of destroying the creation—even if it was demeaning—but curiosity itched too hard. I scooped up the little butterfly, then tugged on the folded lines to reveal the note inside.
Scrawled with masculine penmanship the letter read:
I came here to get you out of my thoughts. But you fell asleep, and I’m beginning to doubt I will ever achieve that. For a man like me, that is an issue. Therefore, I’m leaving the moment you wake up.
Goodbye, silent one.
That was it.
No odes of promises to come back or hints that he’d request to share me again. He’d had his one night and been honest enough that I wasn’t enough to capture his attention.
His words sharpened until they glittered with stinging barbs, delivering venom into my heart.
Don’t hate him.
Don’t die with hatred.
If that was the only pleasure I had, at least I knew what it felt like.
I have to tell No One.
I have to write it down so I never forget.
Mr. Prest would become a figment of my imagination, locked forever in my toilet paper novel.
I wouldn’t tell anyone about him.
I wouldn’t grow to know him or care for him.
Just one more reason why I would remain silent forever, holding my secrets.
Until the end.
HOW DARE HE fucking throw me out!
Did he think our deal would proceed as planned after such bloody rudeness? Did he honestly think I wouldn’t rip him into motherfucking pieces for the lack of respect he’d shown?
I’d hurt him for what he’d done to Pim, but I’d kill him for what he’d done to me. No one was permitted such intolerable insolence.
If he’d given me a few more minutes, I would’ve walked out the damn door on my own accord.
I would’ve run because of his slave.
That kiss…shit.
I should never have done that.
Big mistake.
Huge fucking mistake.
And now, Alrik had committed his own.
Dawn had only just broken, but I wanted out of that white hellhole. Touching her? Tasting her? Fuck me, it was more than I could handle. I had no intention of being alone with her again because I knew my issues and I knew what would happen if I did.
I was glad she belonged to another.
This way, I had no way of going back for seconds.
For an awful moment, I’d wanted him to shoot her. I pictured the bullet tearing into her brain and the light in her eyes snuffing out. She’d be gone and I’d be granted absolution.
If she was dead, she was free from me and Alrik.
I was so fucking close to letting him pull the trigger.
But even though the right thing to do was put her out of her misery, I didn’t have the balls to have her death on my conscience.
I already had enough shame to devour me.
I couldn’t handle anymore.
No, I left because she wasn’t my problem.
Her life—no matter if it was full of hell or happiness—was not my issue.
She’s. Not. Mine.
I had to believe that and accept it if I had any chance of being somewhat sane.
I’d had my fill.
Done.
Over.
“Sir?” Selix leapt from the car as I stalked toward him, slinging my jacket on. The pockets crunched with things I’d pillaged as I did up the middle button. The poor guy (true to his word) had spent the night waiting. He knew I preferred to do business on my own. I could handle my safety if a double cross went down—I didn’t need him for that. But I was grateful he was here to get me as far as fucking possible from this place and Pim.
She’ll be hurt.
Not my problem.
He might kill her.
Not my problem.
When I’d taken her upstairs, I’d done so with the promise to kill her afterward.
I hadn’t kept that promise.
What did it matter if it was me or Alrik who finally did it? Who cared if I was there to watch or back on the ocean where I belonged?