Pennies

Having this girl linger for a command—any command—showed me I wasn’t as much of a devil as I thought. I didn’t want to give her a task that she had no choice but to obey. I wanted her to use her free will and choose me, regardless of other options given.

Sighing heavily, I broke the tension by raising an eyebrow at the scattered utensils by her feet. I didn’t care about the mess. I only cared about this crazy girl and the livid rage in her gaze.

She did fear me. It stank the cage we stood in.

But she hated me more.

Did she think I would do to her what Alrik had done?

She was right to think that.

I still wasn’t sure why I’d requested the night with her.

Her eyes landed on the large butcher’s knife by her foot.

My lips curled, following her thoughts. “Have you ever tried?”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Have you ever tried to kill him?”

An audible gasp fell from her lips. Her face tilted to look, but she kept her eyes down.

Ducking, I picked up the knife, holding it by the blade rather than the hilt. Pressing the wooden handle into her stomach, I whispered, “Touch it. Go on. Have it for all I care. Hide it and do whatever you want with it.” My other hand wrapped around her neck. “Use it on him but don’t you dare fucking use it on me.”

Her unbroken hand didn’t claim the weapon. I snatched her fingers, wrapped them around the hilt, and let go. The moment the weight transferred from me to her, I turned and grabbed the damaged door. Not saying another word, I carried it from the cage.

Pimlico sucked in a deep breath, trembling where I’d left her. Lust showed on her features—not for me or sex but for the knife. A few footsteps guided her forward before whatever discipline she’d endured overrode her desire.

A single tear rolled down her cheek as she turned to pick up the scattered knives and forks, tucking the one I’d given her into the box. When the space was tidy, she padded toward me, fumbling with the padlock.

Goddammit.

Of course, she wouldn’t take the knife. Who would after years of abuse, knowing full well what would happen if she was caught? Was it kinder to ignore the fact she was too weak to take it or accept that she was strong enough not to steal it? No doubt logistics had filled her head. She had no way of hiding it. No way of carrying it unseen into her bedroom. We were probably on camera in every place we went.

She was right to leave it.

But my voice sharpened in a command anyway. “Wait.” Placing the door against the cage, I strolled back and plucked the knife from the box. Shoving it down my back waistband, I ensured my blazer covered the shape before grabbing the door again. “Now, you can lock up.”

Her eyes bugged, but she turned around and secured the padlock.

I wanted to hear her thoughts. What was she thinking? Was she worried I planned to use the knife on her? Was she hopeful I’d use the knife on Alrik?

Her silence was wielded far too well, leaving me grasping angrily for answers.

Turning, I carried the door while Pimlico trailed after me. The soft jingling of keys twisted my lips.

The keys sounded like a bell.

A bell around the neck of an innocent sheep heading to slaughter.

I just didn’t know if I was the heartless executioner or rescuing shepherd.

WE WERE ALONE.

My bedroom had a door.

For the first time in over a year.

My bathroom still didn’t have one, and the shower glittered from where I kneeled on the floor at the end of my bed, but at least, the corridor was hidden and peace fell, if only briefly, in my room.

Mr. Prest had pointed at the white rug with a raised eyebrow once I’d shown him which abode was mine. He’d glanced around the nondescript space with furious disappointment.

I didn’t know why he was angry. The décor was so bland and stark, no one could take offense from garish decoration.

The moment I took my kneeling position on the floor, Mr. Prest turned his back on me and set about fixing the door. He couldn’t do a perfect job without the tools required to secure the hinges, but the wood blocked us from visitors, and he scooted the sideboard in front of it, giving us an element of privacy.

Privacy.

Well…not really.

My eyes slipped to the corners of the room where I was sure cameras lurked.

I’d never been able to find them—even though I’d looked and knew they were there—I’d never spotted a flash of a lens. I should tell Mr. Prest—warn him, inform him that everything we did was on show.

But how could I when I refused to communicate?

The terror that Master A had made me live with for so long slithered over my body. I’d stupidly given in to a small second of relaxation when Mr. Prest secured the door. I’d finally turned insane, believing this stranger and a flimsy barrier would somehow keep me safe.

Stupid, Pim. You’re no more protected here than you were running free-range around the mansion.

I’m probably in more danger.

I was in more peril because I knew Master A. I could picture him pacing downstairs, punching a wall or two, glaring at the ceiling as if he could penetrate the floor and see into my room. He would not take my being used privately well.

He’d been banished.

He’ll do something…and soon.

I gulped as Mr. Prest turned to face me.

Did he taste how dangerous this liaison was? How flimsy and volatile and terrifying? The moment he’d negotiated a night with me, he’d taken a match to a fuse and lit it, smoking and hissing, chewing up speed until a bomb exploded.