Thompson studied the scratch on Theresa's face, his eyes narrowing slightly before he dabbed the ointment across it. He wondered what kind of twisted love Johnson claimed to have for her—selling her off for selfish reasons and calling it devotion. The fool had confused love with obsession.
"What are you going to do about that man—Malcolm?" Thompson asked. It didn't feel right leaving her in the dark. She deserved to know what awaited her beyond the gates of the establishment.
Her gaze snapped up at the mention of the name she'd grown to hate. "Did he reach out... for more money?"
"No," Thompson said. "He came back for you."
"Me?"
"He's my first client this week," he added, glancing away from the cut he was tending. "He wants to buy you."
"He wants to buy me..." Theresa repeated, letting the words sink in. Confusion flashed across her face, quickly replaced by horror as her gaze snapped back to him. "He came for me?"
"And where is he now?" she asked urgently, her voice shaking.
"I sent him back to get more money," he answered.
A heavy silence fell between them.
"Will you give me to him?" Her chest tightened at the thought of going back to that town—as Malcolm's slave. He wanted to humiliate her with every breath he took. She would rather die than let him have his way. She had a choice once, but if things played out his way, even that would be gone—and she would end up serving the man she now hated more than anything.
Thompson stared at the young woman in front of him—she looked like she was standing face-to-face with death. Though he saw Malcolm as a shameless man, he didn't feel the need to get involved in their mess.
"If he brings enough money," he said flatly, "I don't mind lowering the price. One thing I know for sure is that he won't stop coming here until he gets you. And I'm not interested in whatever grudges the two of you have."
Theresa bit her lip, eyes on the only man who stood between her and the nightmare she feared.
"But I'm still your—" Her voice caught. The words felt like sand in her mouth. "—your slave."
His brows lifted. "To me, you're just like any other slave under my care," he said, then tilted her chin, studying her face. "Though... prettier. But not worth the risk." Standing up, he moved toward one of the many shelves lining the wall. "I don't mind taking whatever that man's willing to offer, as long as it keeps trouble out of my way."
She tried once more, her voice softer. "I'm asking as a fellow human, please don't—"
Her words were cut short by his laugh.
"Fellow human?" he repeated, the phrase sounding ridiculous on his tongue. "Go on."
A tired sigh slipped from her lips as she lowered her gaze to her fingers. There was no convincing him. And deep down, she knew he was right. Why would he get involved in something that had nothing to do with him? Yes, he owned her now—but they were strangers. Their lives were never meant to intertwine. If she hadn't been sold, their paths would never have crossed. He had no reason to help her. No reason to care.
Maybe this was how it would end. Whoever had written this fate for her was probably watching in silence, pleased to see her life fall apart day by day. Mr. Johnson would buy her, drag her back to her town, and she'd spend the rest of her life serving him. Maybe if she had accepted his marriage proposal back then, none of this would've happened. Being his wife might not have brought happiness, but at least it would've earned her some respect—something slavery never could.
She glanced over at Thompson, who stood with a book in hand, flipping through the pages in quiet focus. She had only met him yesterday, but something about him felt steady. Safe. Amid the chaos, he was the one presence that hadn't shifted. For a moment, she let herself be grateful. Of all the things that had gone wrong, being sold to him wasn't one of them.
As if reminded of something, Thompson shut the book and made his way over to Theresa. She was still on his desk when he touched her forehead with the back of his hand. His brows pulled together. "You're warm," he said, looking at her. "Are you sick?"
Theresa's brows raised. "What do you mean?" She touched her cheeks, then her neck. "But I'm not..." Her words faded as she remembered the bottle Janette had handed her that morning. It was meant to make her seem sick so Thompson would hold off on branding her.
She glanced at him, trying to look as innocent as possible. "I do feel a little sick," she added.
Thompson sighed. "How'd you get sick? Were you cold last night?" he asked. "I heard Janette's cell stays warm. They put in fresh firewood every night."
"Well... Janette let me lie on the cloth with her, but I think I rolled off in my sleep. And I don't think the fire lasted all night. It was already out when I woke up." She repeated what Janette had told her to say, keeping her expression confused, hoping it would throw off his suspicion.
"Have you had anything to eat today?" he asked.
"Yes. Around noon," she said quickly.
He studied her face, brows drawing together as he wondered if life here was already wearing her down. "How do you feel?"
"A little cold and tired. But I'm fine."
"That's because you're just showing symptoms," he said. He hadn't paid it much mind earlier while tending her wound, but he figured it was worth checking again. "Wait here."
He turned, walking around his desk and heading for the door. Theresa remained seated, her gaze following him in silence. The soft click of the door echoed in the quiet room, and only then did her shoulders relax. A small, almost guilty smile tugged at her lips, a brief moment of relief she couldn't quite hide.