Pennies

Master A shared a glance with Tony before smiling. “She’s more than a whore. I bought her. Fair and square.”

“So, she’s a slave.” Mr. Prest didn’t phrase it as a question. Somehow, he’d known all along what I was the second he saw me.

I’m his slave; it’s true.

But I don’t want to be.

Master A stared at his guest for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed and a broad smile split his face. “She’s a slave, a whore, a slut. She’s whatever you want.” Coming forward, he held out his hand a second time. “Meet Pimlico…my possession. And you have full invitation to use her.”

No…

My eyes flew to Mr. Prest, hoping like hell the proposition abhorred him. That he’d rather walk out the door than deal with such awful people and take me with him.

But the tense standoff ended as he accepted Master A’s handshake, smiling coldly.

“That’s more like it.” Breaking the introduction, Mr. Prest slung his arm over my blazer-cloaked shoulders. “Why didn’t you say that before?”

Don’t…

“That makes this evening a lot more interesting.”

THIS PLACE STANK of lies and deceit.

And that said something, seeing as I was the one who usually had the most to hide.

This asshole had cleared most of my vetting channels, but my research hadn’t revealed a live-in girlfriend.

Definitely not a mute girlfriend.

Yet she’s neither of those things.

She was a beaten, broken whore.

A slave.

I’d seen some shit in my past. I’d committed crimes. I’d done my fair share of filth. But I’d never met someone who thought they could own a human soul before.

Part of me wanted to unleash every wrath he had owing. But the other…a stronger part was intrigued.

Distancing myself from Pimlico, I couldn’t deny my flesh heated at the fragility of her bones. I couldn’t look away from the translucency of her skin with its map of blue veins and red arteries.

Balling my hands, I took another step.

Her breathing fluttered, not as a flirt but in fear.

That was not a good thing.

Not where I was concerned.

Over the years of my dominion, I’d earned a name that’d paved the gold-brick road into the underbelly of this sick and twisted world.

Kaitou.

Phantom Thief.

First, because I was a pickpocket, robber, and five-fingered master.

Second because, instead of stealing objects, I started stealing lives.

But only those lives owed to me or those too feeble to be of any use.

What category does she fall into?

She was feeble but not useless.

Something about her got under my skin, itching with an intolerable curiosity.

Where did she come from?

How long had she been here?

And just how long had she wanted to die?

The look in her eyes was a classic invitation for death.

I took another step away from the slave girl.

Just in case.

I saw strength in her, but I also tasted the yearning for her end. Once someone enticed thoughts of suicide into their soul, it was there to stay, slowly corrupting them until they found their way back to life or gave in and let demise claim them.

I’d underestimated Alrik Åsbjörn.

He’d kept this woman alive for who the fuck knew how long, even when her wish to die echoed with every heartbeat.

That was impressive.

The sharp thrill knowing I could do anything I wanted to this girl with no repercussions disgusted me. I could hurt her, fuck her, treat her with no bloody respect. And she could only accept it because that was her place. Her bought and sold place.

I could kill her, and she’d probably thank me for setting her free.

Maybe I should.

Perhaps I will.

Depending on how the evening and our transaction went, I might steal her life and keep it as a trinket, a token, for yet another shadowy deal struck with monsters.

“Let’s eat.” Alrik grinned, strolling toward the eight-seater table positioned beneath a generic chandelier.

His house irritated me. The stark white. The impersonal walls and sterile furniture. I preferred personality in my décor. Why live in a box this soulless? He might as well live in a fucking coffin.

Alrik’s friends took their seats, not waiting for the guest of honour—me—to sit first. My lips tightened at the lack of courtesy and respect.

My culture demanded such things.

Even when I lived on the fucking streets as an unwanted rat, I’d remembered what my elders had taught me.

Reverence for those wiser, older, and smarter than you. Appreciation for those kinder, gentler, and nicer than you. And utmost worship for those who could fucking annihilate you without a single thought.

Grasping the back of the chair, I looked over my shoulder at the wraith of a slave as she faded into the background.

Judging by her current well-being, I’d say she’d become a master at accepting pain. She was like me in that respect. And because of that, she earned my interest. She wasn’t just a possession, but a puzzle, ready to be deciphered.

Sinking to her knees on the hard white tiles, she bowed her head.

Even with my blazer covering her stark skeleton, her malnourished body imprinted beneath it. My jacket looked five times too big for her. Her hair was a disgusting brown mop with no style. Her green eyes resembled a swamp, and her skin hinted as if she bordered scurvy.

She wasn’t healthy.

Why didn’t she speak? And why did her defiant thoughts scream so much louder than words? How could she remain so impertinent when she rang the doorbell of death with eager fingers?