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“Sometimes, it isn’t what’s spoken that is the loudest reply, Mr. Åsbjörn,” Mr. Prest muttered. “And I’ve just learned all I needed without your slave uttering a single syllable.”
Master A lost interest in his dinner. “What are you saying?”
Mr. Prest glanced at me, his charcoal eyes looking like hunters in the dark. “I’m not saying anything. Just like Pimlico.” With graceful precision, he wrapped strong fingers around my wrist.
I stiffened.
He had more power and danger in his left hand than Master A did in his entire blond body. He hummed with authority that terrified but also encouraged me to move closer hoping he’d use that power to protect me.
Lies.
All of it.
He wouldn’t protect me.
I shook my head free from such stupid thoughts.
Mr. Prest suddenly removed his touch, freeing my wrist.
I had the awful sensation he’d been counting my pulse not just holding me for the sake of touching. Could he feel how fast my heart galloped? Could he see the terror and desperation in my gaze?
Never looking away, he placed his hands back into his lap and clasped them tightly together, as if he didn’t trust himself to let go of whatever restraint he held. “Eat, Pim. Our conversation is over…for now.”
My breathing turned shallow. His lingering touch threatened me. I wasn’t stupid not to recognise how dangerous he was, but there was a hidden safety, too.
It whispered that if he hurt me, he’d help me at the same time. I just didn’t know how.
He was a contradiction. A conundrum. Something fascinating I couldn’t figure out.
Slowly, the atmosphere at the table resumed its tentative calmness; the men returned to their dinner.
I did too. After all, I wouldn’t waste good food.
My eyelids fluttered as my taste buds finally worked, signalling to my brain how rich and delicious the piece of duck was as I placed it on my tongue.
Tony, Darryl, and Monty were their usual gross selves with no manners, and Master A remained on his best behaviour. But he couldn’t hide the fact he hated my position at the table.
Whatever nutrition I earned would most likely come scalding back up my throat when he kicked me in the guts later.
The thought was almost enough to stop me eating.
But not quite.
Meekly, I dropped my gaze. Boldly, I took another bite.
I couldn’t stop what he’d do to me, but I would give my system every inch of vitamins and sustenance as possible.
“I changed my mind,” Mr. Prest said quietly, leaning closer. “I want to know about the mute girl called Pimlico.”
His voice.
Like molasses and candy; salty crisps and decadent chocolate.
His body scalded me—not because he was hot, but because his proximity set off all sorts of warnings in my blood.
Sneaking a quick glance, I met his gaze as he brazenly stared. Where did he come from? What nationality? What country?
And who named him Elder?
He wasn’t old or the leader of some sect. Or he could be, for all I knew.
What the hell is he doing mixing with this riff-raff?
Master A narrowed his eyes in my direction.
I knew that look. He wanted me to reply. For so long, he expected I’d slip and unwittingly speak.
For the first few months, it’d been hard training my ingrained desire to communicate when asked a direct question. To ignore the pull to respond. But over time, it’d gotten easier. But even this handsome, dangerous stranger wouldn’t break my silent armour.
Taking another bite, I deliberately dropped my gaze, letting him win the staring contest but losing the battle to make me talk.
The fire burning inside kept me fighting even when I wanted to give up. Only I knew how bad my life had become, but something (oh, my God, was it pride?) hated that Mr. Prest saw a skinny, scarred girl who couldn’t escape.
He’d never seen me in a dress with pretty hair or perfect makeup. Never heard me answer professors with wit and intelligence. Never saw me dance and entertain chairmen of charities and probe the psychology of my fellow counterparts just like my mother had taught me.
Who I was never existed for Mr. Prest. He only saw what I was now. He’d leave and forever remember me as a slave, not a free girl.
I scoffed, chewing my final piece of duck.
As if.
He’ll forget about you the minute he departs.
Sometimes, my ego could still hurt me, even now.
Not letting my silence deter him, Mr. Prest leaned into my personal space. His large hand vanished into his trouser pocket, followed by the delicate clink of coins.
Catching my eye, he shifted his muscular bulk, depositing a single American penny by my wrist.
My eyes flew to Master A.
Just as I hadn’t been allowed at the table for two years, I hadn’t handled currency or wealth of any kind.
Master A placed his knife and fork on either side of his plate with eerie calmness. “Mr. Prest, can I ask why the fuck you’re giving money to my slave?”
