1
Penny
I burrow deeper under the covers, cocooned in luxurious silken sheets, nestled amongst extravagance.
I’m not ready to let go of sleep just yet. My mind still straddles the line of consciousness where the freedom of dreams overwhelms reality.
It’s nice here.
Peaceful.
There’s nothing but me and my imagination.
I fantasize about dragging my toes through the waves crashing against the shore in the distance. Raising my face to the sun. Swimming through crystal-clear water. I picture smiling faces beaming at me with gentle affection.
I visualize love.
“Good morning, my pretty Penny.”
I freeze, my breath catching at the deep voice breeching my mental sanctuary.
The whiplash from dream to nightmare is harsh. Sickening. I panic, like always, then force myself to calm despite the lingering threat.
The owner of that voice is the devil.
He’s the cause of my waking hell—a man without conscience or soul.
He’s also the owner of this bed, and everything in it.
“It’s time to get up.” He tugs at the covers, dragging the material down to expose my face… shoulders… breasts.
I measure my breathing, not showing an ounce of emotion as he peers down at my naked body with a leering smile.
I’d prayed I wouldn’t have to see him today. I’d begged, wished, and hoped he wouldn’t return after he’d brutalized me last night, then left the house under the cover of darkness to undoubtedly destroy more lives.
I could’ve fled to my room with his disappearance. I should’ve escaped to my own bed instead of fearing a reprimand for leaving before I was dismissed.
But my prayers went unanswered.
They always do.
God can’t help me here. Nobody can. I can’t even help myself. Not against a heartless human trafficker such as the untouchable Luther Torian.
He scours my body with his gaze, trying to provoke me with the hunger in his eyes.
“Did you sleep well?” He drags the covers farther, along my stomach… pussy… thighs… all the way to my feet, exposing every inch of me in a deliberate incremental humiliation.
“Yes.” I spare him the solitary syllable, giving the bare minimum of what he requires before I slide from the mattress, ignoring the lingering aches and pains born from his night of amusement.
“Did you dream of me?” he drawls.
I ignore the question and stare at the door, waiting for his freeing words of dismissal. He wants me to bite back—to snap—and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.
Last night, he took what he needed. He devoured my aggressive fight along with my screams. Today, routine would suggest I’m meant to be allowed to rest.
“I said, did you dream of me?” He lashes out, grabs a fistful of my hair, and drags me toward him until I stumble into his tailored-suit covered chest.
My scalp screams in protest but I keep my lips pressed closed, my blood pounding through my veins as I clench my teeth and ignore the cloying need to scream for help.
His smile remains in place while his hold tightens. Always taunting. Always tormenting.
I blink slowly, remembering the one beautiful moment long ago when I responded to his devilry by spitting in his face. He’d balked. Stared. Snarled. His shock at my stupidity had been a reward, at least for a few brief seconds until reality set in and clenched fists rained down on me.
I used to lash out freely. I tried to deny him my humiliation whenever possible, yet he always claimed it more tightly in the aftermath.
Now I’ve come to realize I can manipulate him if my aggression is tactical. I only bite when I know it will work in my favor. I snap in the moments when I’m well aware he’s going to violate me. I save all my fight for those moments not because his abuse still scares me after all these years, but because aggression is my only defense.
I scream and kick to excite him. To quicken his climax.
I bite and punch and thrash because my hostility is the only thing saving me from a far worse fate.
Now isn’t one of those times, though. Not when he had me less than eight hours ago. Luther Torian is becoming an old man. I’m told he’s already a grandfather. If I trigger any sort of a thrill the resulting perversion will take longer to conclude.
So I clench my teeth. Breathe deep. Force calm. And don’t give him one fucking glimmer of what he wants.
“No.” I hold my chin high. “I didn’t dream of you.”
His laugh lines deepen. “This is why you’re my favorite, pretty Penny. You cling tight to your anger. It’s invigorating.”
He’s right. I cling so tight.
Anger is all I have.
I hoard the emotion deep in my chest, using it as armor. I rarely show my fear anymore and never, ever weakness. I stopped giving him insight to those parts of me long ago, back when I figured out he detests fragility.
What he enjoys is the battle.
It’s what he craves.
And as much as I hate to hand him his filthy perversions on a silver platter, it’s far better to live under his roof than inside the haunted walls of the place where he houses the majority of his sex slaves.
Here, in his Greek Island mansion, I’m only forced to do unimaginable things once or twice a week.
If I was sent to live with his less fortunate captives, I’m led to believe I’d have to perform once or twice an hour. The beating and torture would be unending instead of intermittent.
Permanent, not cyclic.
He releases my hair and grips my chin, his fingers digging into skin. “Don’t worry. One day I’ll grow tired of you.”
I swallow, the deep chill of fear increasing.
It’s such a twisted, nauseating reality to want to be here. To fight to remain under this roof where I have clean sheets and a comfortable bed. I’ve made friendships in this gilded cage. I have relative freedom.
I’ll do anything—give anything—to remain as far as possible from the revolving door of Luther’s personal harem. And so far, my tactics have worked. I’m the longest-standing woman in residence, having seen innumerable victims—sisters—come and go during my time.
I can’t lose my position.
I’ll never survive if I’m forced to leave.
“Go.” He shoves me backward, chin first. “Make yourself look pretty. We’re going to have visitors soon.”
I stumble, quickly righting myself, the voice of curiosity tingling at the tip of my tongue.
Visitors are never a good thing. New faces mean new perversions. Fresh instruments of torture.
“I’ll make sure I’m at my best.” I turn and walk for the door, my stride confident before I grab the handle and twist.
I should be relieved to have survived another night in his bed. But that emotion is never present. Not when I’m dead inside.
No, not dead.
Death would be a blessing. Pure nirvana.
Instead, I’m constantly plagued by life. Every breath is a punishment.
I step into the hall, my anger spiking when I see Robert standing in wait, his back against the wall, his mouth curved in a sickening grin.
“Afternoon.” He licks his lips, his gaze riveted on my bare chest. “Did you have a good night?”
I maneuver around him, determined not to engage.