The memory of his nickname for me resonated with every tick of the hands over Minnie’s big ears. The pet name came from my true address and somehow morphed into a Disney character. Tasmin became Min, which became Minnie, which became Mouse. I had so many names, but only my dad called me Mouse while everyone else called me Tas.
He died when I was seven.
Which was why I would never take it off—no matter how juvenile.
I would never grow up when it came to my father.
It drove my mother bananas.
According to my watch, I’d been at this party with her for five hours, and wanted to go home. My feet hurt, my tummy rumbled, and I was done being polite to people who didn’t deserve it.
But then Mr. Kewet smiled and asked for my company on the balcony; I stupidly went with him, even though I recognised him for a wolf.
I was a psychologist’s daughter. I was here to schmooze her clients and endorse her sponsorships. I wouldn’t let her down.
The conversation was unremarkable. Mr. Kewet complimented my dress, my hair, my smile. Then his eyes dropped to my Minnie Mouse watch, and his smile turned cruel. He was no longer a wealthy man who carried the totem of worldly age over me but a killer licking his lips at his dinner.
“Why is such a pretty girl like you wearing an ugly thing like that?”
Warning shivers scattered down my spine as he inched closer. The urge to bolt fizzled in my legs but my drilled lessons to remain polite at all costs overruled. “It means a lot to me. It’s not just a watch.”
“That so.” He laughed. “In that case, I’ll hold it for you for safe keeping.”
My eyebrow rose. “Hold it?” I had no intention of giving this man my father’s final present. Cupping my fingers protectively around the red and white wristband, I shook my head. “I don’t plan on giving it to you.”
“Oh, it’s not a matter of giving.” One second his hands were by his sides. The next they were on my throat. “It’s a matter of taking.”
My fingers soared to scratch; my mouth opened to scream. But he didn’t strangle me softly—he didn’t work up to murder. He committed it with swiftness and strength.
Vice-like hands blocked my windpipe. Tears spilled as my brain gave way to hypoxia and shock. My arms became useless paddles. My legs turned from kicking missiles to pointless sticks. My head roared, and it seemed only a second where I was alive and breathing and then dead and…not.
Even when I came to in a garage below the party, with his vile lips on mine blowing air into my deflated corpse, all I noticed was my wrist was bare.
My watch was gone.
My childhood stripped away.
He’d not only stolen my life but my nickname, father, and happiness, too.
* * * * *
I fell asleep with soft caresses into welcoming arms of memories. Good ones, bad ones…ones that reminded me I’d been a girl once and not this dying slave.
I didn’t have heart palpations at the thought of yet another day in hell. I didn’t break out in a cold sweat wishing I could retreat into sleep and never wake again.
However, that wasn’t how I woke.
The reoccurring nightmare disturbed me first, heralding my fingers to my empty wrist, the common pang of loss lacerating my heart, and homesickness carving a hole in my soul.
But none of that mattered as a sultry purr saved me from my heart stabbing itself over and over with the past, giving me an order I could hold onto.
“Come back, Pimlico. Now.”
Sleep swirled away, trading the night I lost my life with a hard mattress and contented relaxation even with a stranger in my bed.
How long had I been away from this existence? How long had Mr. Prest let me rest? And how much longer before Master A bombed his patience and came for me?
I blinked as Mr. Prest swung his legs to the floor, his hands balled beside him. “Stand up. Immediately.”
Finally, a command I could obey without a second thought.
I didn’t have to return to full awareness—merely the automation of a slave.
Dropping my eyes from his hissing dragon, I sat up and prepared to slip to the carpet.
However, his bark stopped me mid uncurl. “Don’t get on the floor. Stand on the bed. Hold the frame if you need to.”
Okay…
Unfolding, I planted my feet on the unstable ground and stood.
He grunted as my full body opened to him.
The bare pussy that Master A demanded I shave. The concave stomach of a starving girl. The small breasts of a woman with no spare fat or hips to be feminine. I wasn’t attractive. Not curvy or bootylicious like the pop singers I’d danced to a few years ago.
I loved nothing about me when staring in the mirror. Including the discoloured purple, green, and blue decorating me from top to toe. My bandaged hand ached as I spread my fingers for balance as if the minor air displacement would help me soar.