He called me girl, and yet, I doubted he was much older. Early thirties at the latest. But age didn’t matter when he shouted. He scared me more than Leather Jacket did. At least with him, I knew the man I fought. Q, I had no idea.
Trying to focus, I sucked in a breath. Q offered me a choice. If I wanted to escape, I had to bide my time. If Q put me to work, I might have more opportunity than being tied to a bed.
I mirrored him, placing hands on the table, strengthening my resolve. “What do you want to know?”
His shoulders relaxed a little, but the hardness in his pale green gaze never left. “Where are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
“Do you speak any other language but English?”
I shook my head.
He snorted. “That’s the first thing to change. I refuse to speak English for long periods. It’s a boring language. You will learn French.” Waving the comment away, he asked, “What other education do you have?”
I walked a spider’s web, one wrong answer and I tickled the wrong strand, inviting choice number one of rape and ruin.
“I’m still at university. I’ve waitressed and worked in retail.”
He huffed, inspecting perfect fingernails. “Nothing of importance. You better have more talent, otherwise…”
I rushed, “I’m training to be in property development. I’ve almost completed a project managing degree and side line in architectural sketches.”
He paused. Interest replaced the hardness in his eyes for a brief moment, before the shutters slammed closed again. “Go on.”
There wasn’t much else to say. “I’ve yet to sit final exams, but I studied how to do building budgets, deal with local councils, permits, trade requirements. I’m top in the class for an eco-sustainable village concept for our mid-terms.” I fibbed. I came second, but if he wanted me in property, shit, I’d be the best in property I could be.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers again. I fast recognized the trademark move. Q moved with power and the undeniable knowledge of perfect control. “How did they take you?”
The abrupt change in conversation side-lined me.
I thought I’d pushed the terror down deep from being kidnapped, and purged myself last night through a wash of tears, but panic rose and roared, blotting out everything, apart from the agony of seeing Brax bleeding and men knocking me unconscious. Oh, God, would I ever be free?
Q shifted, waiting. He neither cared, nor took sadistic interest as I struggled with memories. Why the hell did he bring it up? Bastard.
I answered in monotone, pretending I hadn’t lived it. Surprisingly, it helped distance myself, and a shot of pride filled me. I’d fought and taught Leather Jacket a lesson or two. I celebrated the small win. “I was taken in Mexico. They hurt my boyfriend, knocked me out, and took me somewhere.”
“Did they hurt you? Apart from your ankle?”
If he classified being beaten and tattooed, then yes. I nodded.
He sucked in a breath, forehead furrowing. “Did they rape you?”
Leather Jacket tried, but failed. A cold smile tugged my lips. “No. One tried. He wasn’t successful.”
His hard smile matched mine, and something webbed between us. Understanding? Respect? Something I said changed the way Q thought of me.
My pulse accelerated. Perhaps, if I made him see me, not as a possession but as a woman, things might not be so lost after all.
Whatever his feelings, if his respect granted safety, I was all for it.
Whatever happened between us disappeared when Q murmured, “What’s your name?” He kept eyes shadowed by looking at the newspaper on the table. Did he not think I noticed the casual question?
I pursed my lips, not answering.
After a moment, he looked up, glaring. “You will tell me your name.”
My breath came faster, hurting my rib, but I remained silent. What are you doing, Tess? Is another beating really worth keeping your name a secret? I knew the answer: yes, it was. My name was the only thing I owned. It was sacred.
I jumped as Q called, “Suzette!” His chin rose, showing a graceful neck and rough-smoothness. Cords of muscle hinted at a rigorous exercise program, yet his body wasn’t bulky. In another life, I would’ve drooled over him. He ought to be on the cover of a GQ magazine. My eyes narrowed. Was that why he called himself Q? So egotistical.
The maid appeared. Her soft smile and adoration for her employer shot me in the heart. How could she be loyal and like this man?
“Oui, maître?”
“Enfermer la dans la bibliothèque. Retirez le téléphone et l'ordinateur portable. Ca comprend?”
I blinked, wishing I’d stayed with French in high school. Rusty cogs worked hard, shedding dust on a language I knew, but hadn’t used in years. Something about a library and a computer.
My eyes flashed between Q and Suzette.
She bowed. “Oui, autre chose?”
My mind sped, letting my brain stretch and remember. She’d asked if he wanted anything else. I’d never been thankful for a good memory before, but I wanted to cry with relief—I wouldn’t be completely in the dark.
Q froze, and Suzette locked him in her hazel stare. Her stance yelled protectiveness, understanding. Eyes urged him to do… what?
They stared for an eternity, involved in silent conversation, leaving me a third wheel. Finally, Q nodded, sighing, “Vous savez?” You know.
She relaxed, face full of sad acknowledgement. “Elle est différente.” She shrugged. “Ne vous punissez pas.”
She spoke so fast, I only caught different and punishment. My stomach clenched as Q glanced at me, a tortuous mix of lust and hatred in his face.
He nodded sharply, letting his guard down; eyes flared with hunger. “Oui.” His voice sent shivers across my skin.
Instinct knew before my mind. Something changed in Q. He’d given in to the battle he fought. My heart jumped from its prison of ribs, galloping around my chest. Sinister knowledge coiled through my veins. He gave up fighting. The decision shone in his resigned but tense body. Terror demanded to know exactly what he’d given in to.
Suzette looked at me with pity and hope, before disappearing into the lounge. I wanted to run after her, beg to know what was happening.
Q stood, brushing his immaculate suit and silver shirt. Avoiding my gaze, he said, “Suzette has her orders. Follow them. And, seeing as you refuse to tell me your name, you’ll be called esclave until you do. If you’re going to learn French, let that be your first word.”
Now was not the time to advise I knew enough to understand.
He went to walk around the table, but changed his mind. My skin heated as he came closer, and I sucked in a ragged breath as he pressed against me. His hard thigh connected with my shoulder. He rocked his hips, deliberately making me very aware of what was between his legs.
My mind rebelled as everything within flushed to an all-encompassing need. He was so hard and long—rigid and unforgiving. The way he loomed above sent fear fluttering, mixing with unwanted desire.
I twisted away, wincing from my rib, but the pain couldn’t stop the hatred for my traitorous body. How could I even think of desire? That was the thing—I didn’t think. My body reacted. Starved of something it needed for so long, coupled with the act of control, triggered buttons despite my terror and repulsion. Tears choked. How could I? I’m a sick, twisted freak.
Q interrupted my confusion and hatred. “Do you know that word?”
I didn’t have a clue, too involved mentally beating myself for such a horrid betrayal. Fight! Think of Brax. My heart stopped. No, don’t think of Brax.
Q captured my chin, a flare of heat clenched my stomach. “Esclave, answer me. Do you know that word?” His mouth was so close; I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Ordering my brain to work, ignoring my sinning body, I shook my head. I did know the word: slave. But ignorance was a weapon, and I didn’t want him to know my arsenal.
I thought f
ast, thankful when the threads of lust blazed to hate. Yes, hate. That emotion would be my salvation whenever Q managed to turn my body against me.
My voice shook. “I am not an esclave and you are not my maître. You will never be.”
His pupils dilated, and a hand shot from nowhere, wrapping around my neck. We stared nose to nose, him looming in an expensive Gucci suit. “You are my esclave. It isn’t negotiable. And consider my proposal for two options revoked. I can no longer do so.” He breathed hard with unmasked desire. “You’re mine, and I chose option one.”
I panted. I ached. Every cell erupted, dripping with black, dangerous thoughts. I struggled to remember how much I hated Q, as a carousel of emotions swirled, making me dizzy, hurtling into darkness. In the darkness lurked heat, fear, intoxication, hyperawareness.
A tear trickled down my cheek; I was ruined already.
Q growled and I liquefied deep inside. My traitorous body swelled and warmed all the while my mind revolted, spewing obscenities. How could I allow my body to betray me so completely? Why am I so fucked up?
Q watched my unravelling in wonderment. His mouth parted, pale eyes blazing.
All of this was wrong. So, so wrong. I fell headlong into mourning.
Q ran his nose down mine, breathing deep. Something hard and tight squeezed my stomach. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
“I don’t want option one,” I whispered. I knew what it included: degradation, sexual torture, all manner of things one would do with an unwanted possession. Played with, toyed with, and ultimately thrown out with the trash.
Another rebellious tear escaped, and I hated the droplet with everything. It showed how weak I was, how ruined I already felt.
Q froze, watching the tear trail down my cheek, tickling heated skin. Eyes flashed to mine, and for a millisecond, I saw something human—compassion, remorse, then hunger reclaimed him and he ducked. His tongue swept over my cheek with gentle tenderness, capturing my salty remorse, then ran over his bottom lip.
Maybe because Leather Jacket licked me the same way, or once again instincts knew something I had yet to understand, I relaxed a little. Q didn’t lick with sick pleasure, he licked with kindness.
The screwed up, broken part of me, reacted to Q’s insolent possessiveness. I wanted so much to believe he would be kind and not hurt me. But he accepted me as a bribe! No one with a soul would do that. I couldn’t afford to let his act beguile me.
My eyes snapped closed, protecting all facets of my soul. Ten percent wanted him to deliver his threats—wanted him to be rough and use me. While ninety percent wanted to stab him with the butter knife over and over, until blood decorated the silver wallpaper and pretty tablecloth.
He released me, trailing soft fingertips through my hair. I swayed, broken so easily, confused completely.
“Until tonight, esclave.”
*Swallow*
Being a slave was… dare I say… boring.
After Q left, Suzette hovered, never letting me out of sight. She came across as sweet and obedient, but I saw the truth. She was Q’s: a head housekeeper who helped keep his slave in line. What had she said to him in the dining room? She antagonized, while giving him permission. Q may pay her salary, but she held a power over him I didn’t understand.
I didn’t think he would’ve pressed against me or licked my tears if she hadn’t encouraged him to give in to the battle inside.
Sometimes, I really hated having sensitive instincts—I sensed too much—painted too vivid futures that I didn’t want to come true.
What freaked me out the most was Q listened to her—pushed by his maid to do something he couldn’t restrain. My eyes narrowed, trying to figure out their relationship.
Surprisingly, with Q gone, my hunger came back, and I devoured the cold poached eggs. Suzette never left, and once I finished, she guided me toward the library, nonchalantly closing the door.
She left and my ears pricked as the lock clicked.
She may have left with a sweet smile, and my cell might’ve upgraded to include expensive literature and crystal decanters, but it was still a cage.
My thoughts filled with Q. Where did he disappear to? Probably to run an empire full of illegal activities and debauchery. Only work that danced with unlawful things could grant this sort of wealth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a major drug dealer.
I threw myself into a wingback and stiffened. His scent enveloped me, sending heartbeats racing with notes of sandalwood, juniper, and citrus.
My throat closed, connecting the smell of him to unhappiness. I wanted to look out the window, plot my escape, but the library had dark cedar shutters blocking the sun, protecting delicate books within. The air shimmered with dust motes and slivers of light turned the room into a calming grotto.
Despite the relaxing vibe, I couldn’t sit still. Q’s threat before leaving—until tonight, esclave—careened in my skull. I wouldn’t wait patiently for whatever he planned to do. I needed to stay active. Find a weapon. Find freedom.
I tested the door, but the lock held firm. I tried the shutters, but try as I might, they wouldn’t open. The only way out was the fireplace, and climbing a chimney flue did not inspire me.
Going mad with the need to run, I turned to the books, skimming through signed, first editions of priceless literature, hoping words could take me away. But nothing worked. Slamming a novel closed, I stared at the licking fire, wondering. If I burned all his books, would that teach Q a lesson?
I stood, dangling a red leather book above eager flames. Do it. My fingers refused to let go, and I slouched in my chair. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t commit sacrilege on age-old literature, no matter how I hated him.
If I was here for a while, they might be my only entertainment.
Hours ticked past on a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming my life away every fifteen minutes and gonging my doom every hour.
How long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and hide in sleep-oblivion?
My stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers in the fountain. They were free—I was not.
I’d never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.
My heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.
Q stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home. The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt, and fingers loosened the tie around his neck.
A look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.
Who was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had more secrets than I ever did with Brax.
Was he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release me willingly?
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
I smashed at my eyes, warning them to stay dry. All my stories were just that: fiction. I had to stay in the real world. A world where focus and the preparation to bolt would save me.
My mind latched onto other things. Things like an escape pack. I needed warm clothes, a stash of food, and a knife to remove the GPS anklet. Those things would keep me alive when I found the op
portunity.
I could somehow make it to the Australian embassy—wherever the hell it lurked. Would they save me? Send me home. Home to Brax, and parents who didn’t care. Parents who hated that I stole their retirement.
The front door swung wide as Q stepped into his home. The glass of the library doors showed him regal and proud, like a magistrate returning to his castle. All aura of confusion lining his face, gone.
He didn’t pause, heading straight to the library and unlocking the door.
I tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I sucked in a breath as he strode into the room.
It took him a moment to find me, looking in the wingback, by the bookcases. His body coiled tight as he hunted the room. When he found me, he froze.
Something snapped between us, arching with awareness, temptation. I mentally fought it, cutting the connection.
His nostrils flared as we glared from our sides of the room.
“Come,” he demanded, holding out a hand, fully expecting me act docile and follow. As if.
I bared my teeth, hugging myself hard. I didn’t grace him with an answer; my body language screamed all he needed to know: I despised him.
He didn’t demand again. Instead, he gritted his teeth and charged. With strength I feared, he plucked me from the seat as if I were an errant child. Fingers bit into my upper arm as he dragged me over plush carpeting and out of the library.
I squirmed, but couldn’t dislodge him. “Get off me.”
He didn’t answer as we almost jogged through the house. I didn’t see anyone. No noises of life, no visions of help.
Q headed straight behind the sweeping blue, velvet staircase. My breath caught as he punched the dark wood panelling.
I jumped when it popped open, revealing a door. Fear exploded in my veins. Upstairs in the house, I had the illusion of civility. If he took me down there, it symbolised a lack of constraint. My horror-filled visions might come true.
“No!” I twisted my arm, causing Q to grunt. He had no choice but to release me or earn a broken wrist.
I bolted, but Q was faster. He crashed against me and we collided into the wall. My rib roared and I panted, battling with pain. Turned out, I already forgot the lesson Leather Jacket taught me: obedience may be key, but I couldn’t walk willingly down those steps. I’d rather bleed and know I tried to save myself.