No, this was perfect.

I got to do a good dead—something I was sorely lacking—and I also got to put these men on the back foot.

Let the interrogation begin.

I COULDN’T LOOK up.

Whiffs of delicious food made eternal hunger snarl.

Is this real?

Was I truly sitting on a chair at the table with a plate in front of me? Was it a cruel joke where Master A would snatch away the meal as he sometimes did for spite?

I shuddered, remembering last month how he’d made me crawl after him for miles, up and down the stairs, along tiled corridors, taunting me with my dog bowl full of spaghetti carbonara.

I’d wanted those rich, creamy noodles more than anything and hated what I did when he finally stopped and demanded I suck him in return for my dinner.

The flavour of his cum had ruined the reward.

I never wanted carbonara again.

My fingers shook around the utensil as I forced myself to recall the mechanics. How could I forget something as simple as using a fork? And if I couldn’t remember, what would Mr. Prest think of me?

He’ll see a whore and a heathen.

An untrained slave with awful table manners.

Why did I suddenly want to be noticed instead of forgotten? Recognised instead of alone? Why did this man make me come more alive than I had in years?

Fighting my tremble, I raised a mouthful to my lips.

The food tasted like cardboard even though I knew from eating scraps off Master A’s plate that the ordered menus were five-star gourmet.

My taste buds were in shock.

My mind, my body…everything in tentative anticipation thanks to the stranger beside me.

I couldn’t breathe without inhaling Mr. Prest’s heady, exotic scent. I couldn’t move without brushing against his powerful arm or teasing myself with his warm blazer draped over my shoulders.

I couldn’t blink without thinking all of this would disappear, vanish, poof. I’d never been allowed at the table before. Never been given a fork or knife or plate. And definitely never been treated as a person by a man who overshadowed Master A in every way.

I was grateful.

I felt alive.

I both hated and thanked Mr. Prest for it.

Every mouthful, I expected Master A to scream and throw something at me. I already felt the kick and the coldness of the floor pressing against my cheek as he held my face down.

The awful games he played. The demeaning tasks he forced me to do. This was just a minor blip of kindness in a world of torture.

The food slid tastelessly into my belly, but the decadent richness made me feel sick. My system wasn’t used to such opulence.

But I wouldn’t stop eating.

I couldn’t.

I would devour every piece, slurp every noodle, and then lick my plate if I could get away with it.

My mouth watered as a faint memory interrupted. Of Japanese sushi and soy sauce; of cheeseburgers and french fries. It seemed so long ago.

Had I truly been allowed to go where I wanted whenever I pleased? Did I really laugh and find happiness?

I was so naïve.

Master A lifted his wine, toasting Mr. Prest. “Cheers to exciting business ventures and new friends.”

Ugh, what an ass.

I didn’t blink or frown, but inwardly, I stuck out my tongue and gave him the finger. The smarminess, the fake charm. He was a reptile and utterly cold-blooded.

Only, Mr. Prest didn’t return the toast; merely tilted his head, leaving Master A hanging and forced to take an awkward sip of alcohol.

Tony cleared his throat as everyone focused intently on their food. The clink of knives and forks was the only noise apart from the classical music raining from overhead speakers.

Master A liked music. Considering just two of us lived here, it was never quiet.

I. Hated. It.

My synapses had associated classical notes with torture, and I couldn’t listen to a piano or violin without reliving his cock driving inside me or his fist pummelling my skin.

Master A sneered in my direction, slurping a mouthful of noodles. His rage at my position beside his guest hissed down the table.

The fork shook in my hands. I’d lived here for so long, yet I couldn’t predict my jailer. My imagination painted countless punishments for defying him, but I’d be surprised. Like always. Master A liked to think outside the box where I was concerned.

“How long has it been since you ate?”

The question wrenched me from my thoughts. I blinked, stupidly forgetting myself and turning my head to the source.

Mr. Prest stared back. His dark eyes didn’t budge, doing their best to tear every secret I had left. Pointing at my plate, he said, “You eat like a bird, yet I know you’re starving.”

My heart breathed into a paper bag with worry. It’d been so long since someone looked at me as a person rather than a doll. But it was too late. With far too many witnesses. I was more possession than anything else these days.

My gaze flickered to Master A. The outrage on his face wasn’t because of something I’d done but because I’d attracted the attention of someone he wanted to deny.

“Don’t ask things you’re not privy answers to.” Master A slammed his knife onto the table. “I take care of her. That’s all you need to know.”

My blood incinerated with hatred for the history between us. For all the monstrous things he’d done.

Took care of me?

What a crock of shit.

Mr. Prest froze, his straight spine vibrating with ruthless energy. “I asked her a question. I don’t need you replying for her.”