Millions

by Pepper Winters

  Another staff member, a female who worked in housekeeping, had been found in a corridor with her throat slashed, her hands crisscrossed from a blade as she’d defended her life.

  We’d already dealt with the bodies, called their families, and arranged a substantial grievance package and flights home for their deceased. It wouldn’t take away the loss but at least the ones left behind needn’t worry about financials.

  Death was such a major event, yet the cleaning up of blood and signing of paperwork felt inconsequential. The ending of a human existence, and it only took a few hours.

  The Chinmoku had taken three more lives of people under my care.

  I swore on my godforsaken soul that that was the last of it.

  No more.

  The moment I found Pim and killed the two men who had no business messing in my world, I’d hunt down the Chinmoku and fight. I was done waiting for them to come to me. I didn’t care if the battle happened on their turf or mine. All that mattered was it happened and I won.

  Rage glossed my vision as I looked at the bronze genie bottle I’d bought Pim in Morocco. It sat on my desk as if she’d placed it there when I wasn’t looking, ready to grant me any wish I desired.

  My heart folded in on itself in gruesome origami.

  I had a wish I desired. No, I had more than one. I had multiple: repair my body so I wasn’t so useless, track down the men who’d taken Pim and slaughter them, kill every last Chinmoku so I could keep Pim safe, then work a miracle and earn her trust all over again.

  All of them centred around the woman I’d fallen in love with.

  A common theme for her.

  Funny that I didn’t think of forgiveness from my family, only forgiveness for my latest transgressions. Pim had successfully filled every emptiness and longing inside me until all I needed was her.

  And now, I no longer had her and felt ten times fucking worse than I ever had before.

  Loneliness and wretchedness were tormenting sons of bitches.

  Glancing at my watch, I counted the minutes to go before yet another battle. France was only thirty minutes away, but when we got there...what then? How did I go about hunting down two French men in a city full of Frenchies?

  My mind spiralled, latching onto every method I could use to hunt: stalking the streets, marching into police stations with their descriptions, doing a similar web search on them that they’d done on the QMB, putting out a ransom for any mercenary who brought me their heads.

  So many scenarios and I doubted any of them would yield results in time.

  What are they doing with her?

  Is she alive?

  Is she cursing me? Crying for me? Begging for help?

  It made me furious to think of her in captivity again. Furious at myself.

  My heart double pounded and my head swam from temper and agony. Sweat trickled down my back from the sick concoction. I had every intention of teaching those bastards a lesson—broken or whole.

  Thanks to my days as a thief, I’d pilfered Michaels’s medical bag for high-strength painkillers before he’d stormed from my quarters. I hadn’t been as fast as I once was or as nimble with sprains and fractures, but I’d still managed to get what I wanted.

  The blister packets rested in my pocket ready to numb me enough to ignore my injuries and kick some French ass.

  One thing was for sure, I wouldn’t hold back next time.

  I wouldn’t struggle to forget decency before embracing the animal inside. The moment I set eyes on the man who’d shot me...he’d be in pieces.

  Only then could I hope to find some resemblance of peace knowing I’d avenged Pim.

  Needing to distract myself, I half-stalked, half-hobbled to the cupboard where my cello lived.

  Up close, I noticed what distance had hidden.

  Christ, no...

  My hobbles turned to staggering hops.

  My fingers reached out, tracing the pockmarks of bullets, running over splinters missing in the wood.

  Goddammit, they didn’t—

  I wrenched open the cupboard and howled.

  My cello.

  The one remaining link to my father. The one thing reminding me that I’d been worthy of love once upon a time and the only thing with the power to keep me in check when my tendencies overpowered me, lay victimised and shot.

  My father had borrowed money from the Chinmoku to buy me this beaten-up, second-hand cello. He’d put his own life on the line to do something nice, and I’d repaid him by selling my life into their debt.

  My cello was more than just an instrument; it was every mistake I’d caused and every happiness I’d enjoyed.

  And now, it’s ruined.

  Unstrapping the large stringed device from its protective harness, I clutched the weight and dragged it into the light. The smooth spruce top and well-stroked maple sides and neck were shattered where bullets had pierced it. The fingerboard flopped sideways, snapped with its strings dangling like ghastly garrottes.

  The scratches from its previous owners and patina stains from my fingers playing it over the years weren’t enough to hold it together.

  Grief wrapped cold and savage around my chest.

  How could an innate object butcher me so completely?

  My hands turned to claws where I held it.

  First, Pim had been stolen—the one person I loved above all others. Now, my beloved cello had been murdered—never to play again.

  Its music silenced. My sanity destroyed.

  Christ, I would make them pay.

  Over and over.

  I won’t stop until they feel a tenth of the pain I do.

  Running my fingers through the holes and splinters of my beloved belong, my teeth wedged together and another level of pain filled me. An emotional pain. A soul-deep agony.

  I couldn’t bring my father back to life and I couldn’t fix my cello.

  It was as dead as my family and loneliness slammed into me with a vicious, vicious fist.

  I doubled over, grabbing the fingerboard and throttling it. How dare it be in the crossfires? How dare it cease to play my melodies?

  My rage overflowed, and I couldn’t stop it anymore.

  I didn’t have the men responsible for this mess.

  I couldn’t kill them...yet.

  I didn’t have Pim to take care of.

  I didn’t have a way to reincarnate the dead.

  I only had my wounds, my agony, my temper, and my bullet-broken cello.

  Holding the spoils of war, I no longer saw my cherished instrument that’d saved me from so much emotional shit. I only saw everything I hated and everything I would destroy.

  Buggered shoulder be damned. Ruined elbow be fucked. Broken finger and fractured ankle be screwed. I swung the cello up over my head and smashed it against the ground.

  Ricocheting wood and pegs pinged and cracked. Fingerboard pieces flew and end pins harpooned into the floor.

  My body begged to rest.

  My ankle couldn’t hold my weight. My ribs screamed. My head throbbed.

  But I didn’t stop.

  I destroyed my cello until it was nothing but dust.

  I gave it the memorial and burial of a lifetime.

  And I promised I’d do the same to the men who took Pim.

  Chapter Four

  ______________________________

  Pimlico

  FOR ALL MY out of character rage and holding Suzette hostage, I struggled to harness fake bravery the moment the standoff was over.

  My voice and confidence were still so new that using them drained me to the point of utter exhaustion. In fact, I could pinpoint the exact moment I’d embraced my unfurling strength—it’d been when I’d whispered in Elder’s ear to be a man and fuck me at Hawksridge Hall.

  I’d shivered with embarrassment and disbelief that I’d had the courage to say something so crude. Only thing was, being so inexperienced at barking commands and not cowering under retorts meant I sat opposite Tess with my heart impersona
ting a cheetah, beating as fast as it could, hoping against hope that she didn’t see how everything I did was an act—a role I desperately wanted to play but had yet to learn the script.

  Tess’s head cocked, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. Nerves catapulted down my spine as she sniffed, perhaps seeing more than I wanted her to or correctly assuming things I couldn’t hide.

  Anxious shakes found me.

  Nervous flutters filled me.

  A suddenly dry throat stole the rest of my debate.

  Tearing my eyes from her, I glanced around the library where we sat.

  She’d changed her mind against escorting me into the lounge the moment I’d nodded and went to follow. She’d glanced at the general untidiness of the living room and quickly strode across the foyer into the oppressive but impressive library.

  Red leather-bound editions, midnight blue novels, and more recent colourful paperbacks slept on shelves towering around us. It might’ve been a shadowing, looming place if the artfully placed lamps didn’t turn it into a full room embrace.

  Interspersed with ancient, expensive classics sprawled the bright garish illustrations of children books.

  I inhaled sharply as yet more baby stuff appeared now I’d noticed.

  A tiny bib sat on a closed laptop on the desk by the window. A rattle lay forgotten on the sheepskin rug by the fireplace. A pacifier lolled on a blue blanket on the arm of the chair Tess sat in.

  The anxiety in my stomach hardened into yet another reminder that my life would never have such things cluttering it. If I ever had a library as nice as this, it wouldn’t be decorated with baby paraphernalia.

  Tess caught me staring at the pacifier. Picking it up, she placed it smoothly into her jeans pocket as if she didn’t want me looking. “So...” Clearing her throat, she relaxed into her chair, the back soaring up like wings behind her. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? What’s your name?”

  For someone who’d grown used to talking to strangers and friends—for someone who’d been held in police captivity and had no choice but to say her true name—I still wasn’t comfortable handing out such personal information.

  It wasn’t right.

  Society had taught us a name was the first thing given to a stranger. That it was unimportant.

  Can’t people see it’s the total opposite?

  A name was the most personal thing anyone could give. It was their title, their identity, the one word that could summon or dismiss them. The one thing with the power to slander or soothe, to curse or cajole.

  Tasmin was alive and breathing inside me now. I could no longer deny her existence or the knowledge that one day...I would claim that name for myself.

  But if I wasn’t ready, if I wasn’t worthy...what made anyone else so?

  Letting heavy silence scatter into the carpet by our feet, Tess didn’t ask again or prompt me to reply. She didn’t seem to mind the tautness existing between us, and I’d lived with such angst-ridden silence for too long to cower beneath it.

  Our eyes locked.

  Blue to green.

  And something strange happened.

  I recognised her.

  Not from a magazine article like I’d recognised Nila Weaver but a soul-deep recognition.

  A nudge inside that said...you share something with this woman. You have more in common than you think.

  Needing validation on such a wild theory, I murmured, “Before I tell you who I am...can you tell me who you are?”

  The steel in my tone softened to a more malleable fabric. Something that wouldn’t break but wouldn’t stay in one unyielding entity either.

  Tess dropped her gaze to my ballgown, licking her bottom lip. The dynamics between her everyday casual wear and my fancy evening garb didn’t go unnoticed. We were opposites even if something linked us that we couldn’t explain.

  Ghosts shadowed her gaze, followed by a quick smirk. “All right.”

  When she didn’t start straight away, I held my breath, wondering if she’d changed her mind.

  But then she said softly, “For some reason, I don’t think you’re asking who I am now...more so...who I was before. Am I right?”

  I didn’t fully understand but nodded. “Why do I get the feeling you know what I’ve lived through?”

  She smiled gently. “Because my husband has been saving slaves all his life and I’ve embraced his calling as my own. We’ve both seen things that severely lowers our opinion of the human race—”

  I shook my head. “It’s more than that.”

  She paused, studying me. “You’re right, of course. There’s something about you.”

  “You too.”

  We stared, doing our best to read the other. Her body language gave nothing away, revealing nothing more than a woman who was used to wealth and love and confident in her position in life. But then something damaged flickered in her gaze as if she permitted the past to shadow for a split second.

  That was the part of her I recognised.

  A question stained my tongue, begging to be asked, but wasn’t something anyone could slip into normal conversation.

  Were you sold too?

  I lowered my gaze, stroking the bruised pretty colours of my gown. My penny bracelet glittered against the maroon and midnight, bright in its affection. Elder’s kindness and love existed in every diamond-coin.

  Elder...please be alive.

  “I’ve never done this before, but I’m going to ignore my usual speech on how I’m the mistress of this house and forgo the necessary introduction about where you can go, what you can expect, and other housekeeping requirements.”

  My eyes shot up, connecting with Tess’s as she continued. “You already know I’m married to a man I hold in the highest regard and obey with utmost loyalty. I say obey, not because of archaic marriage vows, but because he is my master. My chosen master.”

  I gasped.

  The language she chose hinted at her past. Phrases such as master and obey I knew well. For the first time since leaving Alrik’s, I found some resemblance of familiarity even if it was twisted and wrong to find comfort in such things.

  Living with Elder, the emphasis had been on freedom and personal choice.

  Here, with Tess, she spoke of love in rules and affection in laws. It upset me to almost miss those boundaries—to know how big my world was and the consequences of trying to stretch those borders. Those guidelines were more acceptable than being told I could do anything and be anyone with no repercussions.

  Sometimes—and I would never tell Elder this—but sometimes, the world he offered and choices he gave and experiences he presented were too big, too much, too soon.

  Tess gave me something I hadn’t known I needed to hear—that it was okay to love the way you wanted to love. It was acceptable to call a lover your master if it was chosen and not forced.

  She sat forward, pinning me with her intense stare. “Q is my master, but that doesn’t mean I obey him in all things. In fact, I’d say I hold all the power because I know how much he loves me.” She smiled ruthlessly. “Knowing I could break him is why I can give him every part of myself. And that is what was missing in your relationship with the man who owned you. He might’ve told you he loved you. You might’ve believed you loved him. But believe me when I say that wasn’t true.”

  I didn’t know how to reply.

  She had it all wrong. I understood the power she mentioned because I’d felt it when Elder confessed he loved me. The brittle desperation in his touch as he held me. The clawing hunger as he entered me. He’d given me everything, and I’d taken it without thought.

  The same had happened to me.

  And there was nothing fake or wrong about our connection.

  If he was dead...then that would be the moment I truly broke. Not from rape or punishment but from trading hearts with him then destined to live heartless and empty without him.

  The leather of Tess’s chair creaked as she murmured, “Before I was Tess Mercer, I was Tess Snow�
�unwanted by her elderly parents, throwing herself on a boy who could never fulfil her, and begging for answers about who she truly was. Then...I was kidnapped.”

  I sucked in a breath as yet another déjà vu moment knocked on my mind. Somehow, even though our beginning stories were different, we were so similar.

  I’d found a kindred ally in this girl, and suddenly, I was no longer so alone. Pity she still believed I was delusional when she could potentially be a friend. If only she listened instead of being so blind, I could find another avenue of healing.

  “I was kidnapped in Mexico.” Her voice turned harsh with hate, reliving such things. “I was branded, repurposed, and sold.”

  Tears warmed my eyes, knowing she’d suffered the same fate. To come face to face with someone who knew what it was like to be washed and dressed by men who only cared about your health because it dictated how much they could get for your body was a strange sensation.

  It didn’t matter frustration steadily grew at her incorrect assumptions about Elder and me; I grieved for her just like I grieved for me. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tess didn’t acknowledge my commiseration. Instead, she sat taller with a pride glinting in her gaze. “I was sold, and for a few months I was tormented by the man who took me.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear anymore. To listen to the mirror image of my tale of rapes and silent screams. Of starvation and broken bones. “You don’t have to say anymore. I understand.”

  I dared glance up. Her gaze softened to melted butter with a knife of pain—not for herself but for me. “You do understand, and that makes me so sad. That’s why it kills me to hear you say you love the bastard who did such things to you.” Tess slouched. “How long were you...”

  I was glad she didn’t finish that sentence. That she didn’t ask how long I’d put up with having someone dominate and control my every twitch and thought. “Two years. But the man who kept me isn’t the man I’m in love—”

  “Yet you manhandled Suzette with a spirit that isn’t broken.” She laughed under her breath, disregarding my need to clarify. “I’m glad Q didn’t find you before he met me...who knows what might’ve happened.”