Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I couldn’t breathe as he bent forward in a slight bow, holding out his hand. Every motion was oiled and perfected, sex appeal surrounding him like a fine mist.
I flinched.
Why did he look at me as if I was worth something? Couldn’t he see he’d get me into trouble if Master A deemed I’d received gifts I wasn’t due?
My shoulders rolled as I glanced at the white tiles beneath my feet.
Master A crushed me to his side with a warning squeeze. “Shake Mr. Prest’s hand, Pim.”
Shake it?
I’d forgotten such social niceties. For two years, an outstretched palm meant incoming pain, not a common introduction.
What the hell is going on?
If I hadn’t played Master A’s games for so long, I might’ve bowed to his wishes, hoping that tonight would have a happier outcome than other times. But I couldn’t deny I’d been his for too many years and no longer believed in hope.
I couldn’t avoid pain.
No matter what I did.
So why should I do anything at all? He might want me to shake so he could scream at me for touching another man against his wishes. Or he could berate me for not obeying.
Either way, the consequences were the same.
I won’t do it.
Cocking my head, I locked eyes with Mr. Prest.
And crossed my arms.
Darryl, Monty, and Tony snickered on the couch, knowing what I did—that I would be hurt. Badly. Once this interloper had left.
Tony cackled. “Aww, shit, you’re gonna get—”
“Enough!” Master A snapped, silencing their potential slip. His face blanched, matching the blond strands on his head.
Interesting.
It wasn’t a charade; he truly didn’t want this man to know.
My heart did its best to shrug off its death shroud and find hope once again. For so long, it’d packed up its stepladder and parachute, settling in for guerrilla warfare as I stayed alive by following fucked-up rules. But now, it shook off dust and battle debris, glowing with tentative crimson.
If I remembered how to use my voice, I might’ve informed this mysterious Mr. Prest that he’d just walked into a sex prison. He willingly made friends with these animals who shared and hurt and gave no thought to the soul screaming silently inside me.
But two years was a long time.
And a blurted word was as foreign to me as being free.
Dropping his unshaken hand, Mr. Prest scowled. His gaze danced over me, his face hiding his thoughts but unable to thwart his questions.
Just like I wanted to know who he was, he wanted to know me.
I fought the urge to drop my eyes, but the fierce intensity in which he studied me granted courage rather than stripped it. I never looked away as his black gaze switched from my closed-off posture, lingered on my nipples visible through the white polo, and skated to Master A’s arm clutching me tightly.
His lips thinned as a dark conclusion dawned on his face.
I wanted to applaud him. Give him a damn award for noticing that not everything was as it seemed.
But then, whatever realisation he’d come to vanished as he grinned just as cold, just as evil, just as nastily as Master A and his associates. “Hello, Pim.”
Pim.
Just like that, he shortened my name as if he knew me.
My crossed arms tightened.
You don’t know me. You will never know me.
His gaze drifted to my shoulders where my muscles twitched. Not that I had much muscle anymore. I’d wasted away thanks to one meal a day—and only if I earned it.
I hadn’t seen the sun in two years, unless it was through the window.
I hadn’t felt a breeze in two years, unless it was from an air-conditioning unit.
The craving I’d had in the trafficking hotel for outdoors was just as insistent here where marble had replaced seventies carpet, and Egyptian cotton sheets had switched overly starched white.
The black despair living permanently beneath my strength threatened to throttle me. My heart kicked my other organs as if trying to wake me up or kill me. Forcing a reaction that I’d long since ordered to remain hidden.
This stranger might be the only one I’d ever see before I died. I’d never again inhale a flower’s fragrance or taste a raindrop on my tongue.
I gasped as an impending panic attack swirled. For a year and a half, I’d been able to control my hysteria. But a few months ago, I’d suffered such a vast void of horror and despair, Master A was forced to call a private doctor (who didn’t ask questions) to ensure I wasn’t dying of heart failure. I’d been diagnosed as severely depressed with panic tendencies.
I was grateful for a diagnosis but full of hatred that the strong teenager I’d been was now nothing more than an emotional, wrung-out wreck—no matter how brave I forced myself to be.
Master A clutched me harder, hissing in my ear. “Get it together, Pim. You will not have an attack while company is present.”