Pennies (Dollar #1)
Page 20Mr. 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.
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.
“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.
Mr. Prest slowly exhaled, his temper overshadowing Master A’s, turning the white blizzard into a dark typhoon. “Speak.”
Master A chuckled. “I tried to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“She doesn’t talk.” Master A waved in my direction as if I were faulty goods and only good for the torture he put me through. “She’s mute.”
“Through choice or medical condition?”
Whoa…what?
Master A grinned, slowly gaining control of the situation now attention was back on him. “Ever since we got together, she’s been mute. You see, when I found her, she was so broken, she didn’t know how to act normally. I thought it endearing, and I’ve done my best to help heal her.” He ran his hand over my scalp, petting me with false affection. “But of course, these things take time and a lot of patience.”
What a load of utter bull—
“Bullshit,” Mr. Prest barked.
The fact he’d stolen the word from my mind and delivered it with as much contempt and disbelief as I would have made my heart hop with a pink skipping rope.
Laughing coldly, Mr. Prest added, “Heal? Those scars and cuts on her skin aren’t old.” Stalking forward, he towered over Master A. “They’re recent. Care to lie about how that happened?”
Master A shrugged, doing his best to come across as unruffled. “A number of things are wrong with her. Being mute is only one of them.”
Wow, he’s claiming I hurt myself now?
I wanted to get angry, but I had nothing but disgusted acceptance left.
Would Mr. Prest believe him if I tore off his blazer and revealed my whipped back, bruised inner thighs, and cigarette burned ass cheeks? Or would it take deeper evidence such as the god-awful internal injuries I’d sustained from non-consensual items being thrust into my body?