Selix kept his distance, dropping back a little more as Pim drew up to my side. We walked that way for a while, falling into a rhythm.
Half-way to the yacht, I still hadn’t seen a restaurant that didn’t look either unsanitary or too crowded. Every few hundred metres, I slowed enough for Pim to catch up. Whatever aches she suffered slowed her considerably more than yesterday.
I hated that I’d been the cause of some of her sprains and pain. But her presence didn’t relax me, so it was only fair we were both uncomfortable.
Even the manic world of Morocco couldn’t distract me from being all too aware of her soft breathing and sweat-gleaming skin. If the sun caught her shoulders just right, it painted her in a golden glow, hiding the remnants of bruises, making her seem ready for harsher manipulation to talk.
Her time is running out—
“Hey, Prest!”
Shit.
I pulled to a stop, looking through the crowds for whoever had recognised me. Pim stiffened, drawing to a halt.
A man I vaguely recognised appeared in a rumpled maroon suit and black shirt. Glossy gel lacquered his dark blond hair, making him seem sleazy despite the expensive tailoring.
His hand speared out as he grinned. “Been wondering if I’d ever bump into you again.” He pumped my palm as if I was his long lost brother.
Who the fuck is this?
“Do I know you?”
The guy wrinkled his nose. His unkempt beard caught the light as his gaze flicked from me to Pim and back again. “Hong Kong, four years ago? We were at the same dinner party.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Remember?”
My brain kicked into gear, sorting through memories I no longer had any urge to recall. And there, sulking at the very bottom covered in shame and guilt, was the dinner party in question.
I clenched my jaw. “Ah yes, Darren?”
“Dafford.” The guy grinned. “Dafford Cartwright.” His attention slipped back to Pim.
Livid acrimony and disgust filled me. A growl built from nowhere. I knew why he watched her—why he looked at her with carnivorous eyes and not that of a normal man.
That dinner party hadn’t just been a dinner. It had been a meal, yes. But on the tears and fears of women. Strippers had been hired to entertain, but they hadn’t signed up for the bonus activities the men decided were in order.
Force had been used.
I hadn’t done what they had, but I hadn’t tried to stop it either. I was there to step into the underworld. What was the point in showing my hand to the devils I was trying to play with by stopping their fun?
“New tricks, huh?” Dafford grinned. “How much did you spend?”
My back snapped straight. “How much?”
“Oh, come on.” He lowered his voice, stepping closer. “I know a possession when I see one.” He slapped me on the back. “Good pickings. Pretty enough.”
I struggled not to tear his motherfucking arm off.
My jaw locked, preventing me from tearing his ears a new asshole and rendering him deaf.
“Had one of my own for a few years until…well.” He shrugged. “Things happen, I guess.”
Pim sucked in a tattered gasp, understanding his vague insinuation of abusing a life and then fucking shrugging when that life was snuffed out. Brimstone boiled in her blood, tainting the air between us as if any second she’d launch at him, regardless she was still weak.
If she did, we’d have a full on brawl, most likely ending in death.
His death.
I took a subtle step toward her, pressing my side against hers. I assured myself it was for her benefit, when in reality…it was probably for mine.
She trembled. Her heat scorching through my shirt, my skin, past my tattoo and right into my bloody heart.
Her face lost all kindness or inquisitive awareness of the city. She stood taller, tighter, slamming doors to each partition that I’d finally cracked open, throwing locks home and shutting down into ice.
She glowered at Dafford as if he were Alrik reincarnated from the dead.
Dafford grinned at her silence, misreading her for meekness rather than trembling with vehemence. “Where did you buy her from?”
I swallowed hard against my ever-growing hate. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?” His eyes glittered. “Hand-me-down?” He raked his attention over her.
I wanted to fucking stab out his eyeballs. I buffed my nails on my shirt, doing my best to remain above his cheap filth. “I suggest you shut the fuck up.”
How dare he look at her? I never wanted another fucking bastard looking at her that way again.
His eye twitched. “Aww, I get it. Sensitive subject in public.” He lowered his voice. “She’s well trained, though, judging by her condition. But you could work on her making eye contact. That’s a bit rude.”
I ignored most of his sentence, temper hissing through my nose.
Well trained? What fucking condition? “You’re basing your conclusion on her behaviour by her bruises, am I correct?”
He laughed. “Yeah, they’re the signature of good control. Don’t you think?”