I was in a world of colour rather than monochrome.

I don’t want to die.

If I wasn’t so confused and wracked with pain, I might’ve cared that this rescuer, this dark angel, saw me drooling and glassy eyed. He watched me fade in and out of unconsciousness.

“Drive, Selix.”

The muffled sound of a door closing happened a nanosecond before the car tore off with tyres screaming.

“Where to, sir?”

“Phantom. Call ahead. Tell Michaels to be ready.”

“Right.”

The sliding partition rose as Mr. Prest dragged my woozy form back into his arms. He kept me tight, acting as a seat-belt as the vehicle soared around corners and squealed down roads I’d never seen before.

Breathing hard, he ran a death-dirty hand over his face, smearing blood over his brow and chin.

I huddled in his embrace, trying to turn invisible all while gagging on flowing metallic.

Oh, God, please let the pain stop.

Please, don’t let me die.

Not now.

Mr. Prest looked down, catching my out of focus vision.

Close your eyes.

You’re safer that way.

It was a stupid trick, pretending he couldn’t reach me when I couldn’t see him. But my loss of blood and strange vaporous agony gave whimsical fancy solid reasoning.

Curling tighter in his arms, my skin prickled with intensity as Mr. Prest bowed his head, his hot breath skating over my bloody face. For the longest time, he sat there, still and silent, waiting for me to open my eyes.

But I couldn’t.

I can’t.

I wished I was blind as well as mute. Deaf too, so I would never hear the squelching sound of my tongue being cut or the crunching of bones as he threw Master A against the kitchen bench.

Finally, his patience ran out. Taking my chin, he guided my face upward.

I was weak and queasy and had no choice, but I obeyed because I’d just witnessed what happened to those who angered him. He killed so quickly, so easily—it was nothing to him.

I didn’t want to be nothing.

I wanted to remain in his good graces. There, I might find a kind word or gentle stroke. I didn’t want more violence. I’d had enough to last me a lifetime.

Mr. Prest cupped my jaw, his fingers slipping in sticky blood. “He deserved to die for what he did.”

I agree.

He deserved to die in a hundred ways.

I didn’t move. No nod, no twitch. Nothing.

He frowned. “I know you understand. What are you afraid of? You’re safe now.”

Afraid?

I’m afraid of you.

I don’t know what’s worse, you or death. And I don’t know how to get answers before it’s too late.

My eyelids fluttered as icy blackness stole over me, blanketing everything for a moment. Was that death? Or merely shock?

I was vaguely aware of Mr. Prest growling at his chauffeur, “Drive faster, Selix.”

The car lurched at his command, engine snarling.

A few minutes passed.

I danced between awake and unconscious.

His voice dragged me back; his question made me open my eyes.

“Are you grateful? That I saved you?”

Tired, so, so tired.

I stared.

No.

Yes.

Thank you.

He stared back, unable to stop waiting for an answer that would never come. Finally, he huffed. “Well, you shouldn’t be.”

My heart tap-danced.

The car bounced over a bump, pressing our bodies closer. His fingers dropped from my jaw to lash around my floppy wrist forming a new bridle, a new master, a new life in servitude. “I’m not the hero in this story, Pimlico. I’m another villain. You’d do best to remember that.”

Looking down at the mess I’d made and the shackles of his touch, my eyes fell on the dollar bill he’d given me. I’d somehow managed to hold it while my tongue was severed and three lives were taken.

He noticed too, stealing it from my tight grip. The green money now resembled a macabre tie-die with threads of dirty crimson. “You found my origami.”

It’s mine.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the one thing I had left.

I didn’t care that it was money. I only cared that it was a gift and I wanted it more than anything.

Sensing I needed it back like a child needed its favourite toy for comfort, he opened his palm.

I snatched it.

“It’s yours. I’ll fold you another when we’re home.”

Home.

Where was home?

What was Phantom?

Dark clouds stuffed my head with cotton wool and thunder storms. My eyelids drooped as I skidded into blackness again. However, as my vision stuttered and I clung to lucidity, something flashed white inside the breast pocket of the jacket I wore.

Instantly, the fog lifted.

I know that corner.

My eyes shot to Mr. Prest.

You did take them.

My letters to No One.

How dare you!

Tucking bloody hair behind my ear, he smiled. “Yes, I stole them. But now, I’ve stolen you, so you can have them back.”

Did you read them?

Did you laugh at them?

Is that why you returned—because you felt sorry for me?

I shuddered, liking and loathing him. Grateful and confused. Shocked and shivering.

His smile was rough. “You have every right to look at me like that. I took something you treasured but I won’t apologise.” His legs bunched beneath me. “I won’t apologise because I’ve just taken you and that is not a good thing.”