Page 10 of Daughter of No Worlds

“You and I both know that I am notstupid. You could not have gotten this money any other way.”

“I worked for it. Whoever who would hire me. Danced, conjured, scrubbed floors—”

That was the truth. I did work for it. And only one hundred of those coins came from that single night. The rest of it was hours and hours of sweat.

“Coppers, maybe. But this?” He let out a scoff so violent that I felt flecks of spittle dust my cheek. “I let you earn your silvers for dancing. But I never allowed you whore for it. To embarrass me that way.”

“I would never do that to you,” I replied, acting insulted at the thought.

“One thousand gold pieces should have taken you fifteen years,” he shot back. “Twenty, even.”

Fifteen years.

I realized in that moment that Esmaris had never intended for me to earn his absurd price — at least, not until I was either too old for his tastes or he was too old to make use of me anyway.

His anger pounded in my ears, my head, beneath my skin, but it was slowly being replaced by my own.

“I met your price. You can buy a real Valtain with that money, if it suits you. One more beautiful and more talented than me.”

“Slaves don’t have the luxury of bargains, and I don’t need your money,” Esmaris snarled. “You forgot what you are.”

My stomach fell through my feet.

“Are you aware of how well I treat you?” He straightened, eyes narrowed, clasping his hands behind his back. Silence. He expected an answer, but I suddenly didn’t trust myself to open my mouth.

I don’t need your money.

I had one plan. One goal. He had kicked out the foundation, and I felt that at any moment, my soul would topple.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Esmaris.”

“And yet.” His voice lowered so slightly that the change was barely audible. “You’ve gone through such lengths to leave.”

All at once, it hit me. The air stank of it — the hidden undercurrent twining with Esmaris’s anger:

Hurt.

We stared at each other. I watched the single wrinkle between his eyebrows. The one sign of guarded vulnerability.

This was the man who gave me so many scars, who took away my freedom, who crushed me and bent me and beat me. But he was also the man who remembered my favorite color, who once stayed up with me for hours after a bad nightmare. Who had smiled down at me with an odd sort of pride the day I had demanded my freedom from him.

I leaned forward until my palms pressed against his desk, those cold gold coins sticking to my sweaty skin.

And I just said one word: “Please.”

He looked at me for one long moment, and I could hardly breathe.

Please, do this for me. If any part of you has ever cared for me. Please.

Then, I felt a door slam, a blanket of ice silencing Esmaris’s tenuous conflict.

“Get off of my desk. Kneel.”

I don’t need your money.

Gods, what was I going to do?

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