Pennies (Dollar, #1)

by Pepper Winters

Silence was a weapon I could wield better than panic. And if it meant I never uttered another word until I found freedom, then so be it.

My life, on the other hand, would increase in value, growing wiser and richer in experience the longer I survived. I was an investment, not a liability. And I would invest everything I had into giving myself a future.

Pride goeth before the fall

When does living become the wrong choice and death the right one? When does taking your own life become wiser than letting someone else destroy it? I don’t want to die because I’m weak.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve become a master of sleeping while chained, breathing while bound, and living while beaten. I’ve done things I’m proud of. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But ultimately, none of it matters.

Was he somehow hoping I’d forgive him for what he’d done? Cotton and silk couldn’t do that. Nothing could. Not that he’d ever be human enough to seek forgiveness or even sane enough to realise how sick he was.

Where the worm had tunnelled through my humanity and righteousness, something else had filled the holes. Something that thirsted for power, even though I already had endless amounts. Something that craved wealth, even though I already had oceans. Something that demanded I never forgot who I was at the beginning.

We were forged from the same despicableness.

It gave a visitor the impression of innocence and purity. But the opposite was true. White was the colour with multiple faces. It lied about its identity, hiding its pigment while smothering others. The final blank thought before death.

His hair was blacker than black, looking like an ink spill on the death of a perfect night. His gaze matched the coal depths, hiding so much but taking everything in.

My heart turned traitor as the man tilted his head, his eyes never leaving mine. He moved like liquid as if he held the power to drown everyone with a mere drop or eradicate entire landscapes with a tsunami.

The black despair living permanently beneath my strength threatened to throttle me. My heart kicked my other organs as if trying to wake me up or kill me. Forcing a reaction that I’d long since ordered to remain hidden.

The look in her eyes was a classic invitation for death.

Once someone enticed thoughts of suicide into their soul, it was there to stay, slowly corrupting them until they found their way back to life or gave in and let demise claim them.

I might steal her life and keep it as a trinket, a token, for yet another shadowy deal struck with monsters.

Reverence for those wiser, older, and smarter than you. Appreciation for those kinder, gentler, and nicer than you. And utmost worship for those who could fucking annihilate you without a single thought.

He was a contradiction. A conundrum. Something fascinating I couldn’t figure out.

“A penny for your thoughts, girl.”

The world had two types of people. The first were the takers. They only noticed those who could help them, offering friendship for false reasons—their egos preventing improvement of their superficial interest. The second were the givers. Those who knew they were being taken advantage of but couldn’t stop it. They’d give and give until they had nothing left. But by giving, they saw things, watching silently in the shadows.

Listen with your entire body, not just your ears. Watch with your entire being, not just your eyes. And judge with your entire soul, not just shallow perception.’