Chapter 9

Tess

~Blackbird~

The moment Q left the library, a silhouette appeared. I jumped a mile, holding my chest.

Images of a dark minion throwing me in a cellar to live with rats filled me with fear. I tried to stay calm, remembering Q hadn’t liked my injuries.

I doubted he’d make me sleep in a dank dungeon where I could get sick. After all, if I died of pneumonia, where was the fun in that?

The girl, probably mid-twenties, with chestnut hair plaited in a tidy knot, smiled. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her accent was soft and feminine; hazel eyes glowed in dusky skin.

Why the hell was she working for a man like Q?

Did she know who I was? ~What~ I was?

“Please, follow me.” She motioned out the door and into the foyer. “Do you have possessions with you?” she asked as we walked awkwardly side by side.

My eyes popped wide, and I snorted darkly. “No, I don’t have any possessions.”

I ~was~ one.

The thought snatched me around the throat. I had to stop thinking that. I wasn’t anything but Tess. I’d survive.

“Oh, well, that’s fine. I’m sure ~Maître~ Mercer can arrange a new wardrobe.”

“Mercer?” I trotted beside her up the flight of stairs. The thick blue carpet was like a cloud between my toes. Hang on, Q told me not to speak to the staff.

I paused, weighing if talking to this girl was worth whatever punishment he’d grant. I curled my hands.

Screw it, for the first time in a week, someone wanted to talk rather than order or demand.

“The owner of this household. He’s—well, he’s the master.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. I wanted words like fair and a nice employer. Not for the maid to flush and shut up.

In silence, we walked down the longest corridor I’d seen in my life and ascended another twirling staircase before stopping outside a white lacquered door.

“This is yours. I’ve arranged for new bedding and prepared it for your arrival.”

How long did they know I was coming? Days? Weeks? Fluffing sheets and ironing towels for an unwanted bribe. Who gave a stolen woman as a present, and for what?

My mind ran with thoughts of drug dealing or illegal weaponry, something completely far out to warrant a trafficked girl as collateral. ~Underhanded bastard Q.~

I steeled against using his name. Q. What a ridiculous title.

I opened the door and slammed to a halt. I wanted to laugh. Sure, I was surrounded by elegant wealth, but I was a lowly slave and didn’t deserve space, or light, or niceties.

Stark and bare, the bedroom did nothing to invite or warm. The single bed, wardrobe, and shelves looked barren and unwelcoming, but the linen smelled clean and the air was fresh.

It was a cell, for all intents and purposes, but thankfulness swelled at having my own room with a hygienic bed. After a week in the Mexican trafficker jail, this was five stars.

My heart plummeted at the thought of Brax. He would hate the thought of me living here. Even our tiny, one-bedroom apartment was comfy and designer style.

Many a weekend, Brax knocked together a DIY project, the last being a sleigh bed from an old gum tree.

This little room rested inside a mansion—owned by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use me, however he wanted.

Oxygen turned to soup and I gave up trying to be fierce. Tears glassed my vision and spilled. My life would never be the same.

The maid tutted in concern, pushing me toward the bed. “There, there. Don’t cry.

“You have your own bathroom, and we can get some personal things to decorate.” Her warm arm descended timidly around my shoulders and I rocked.

Now I was here, in the destination of my fate, I lost strength. I wanted to stay angry and strong, but pity and loss swelled.

The simple contact of a caring woman unbuckled me.

I sobbed.

Into my hands, into a pillow, into sleep.

The next morning, I was left to my own devices. I showered and dressed in my sack of a sweater. Not knowing, or caring, if clothes had been bought for me.

The rebellion at such a simple thing kept my fire smoldering deep inside.

I left my socks off and padded barefoot down the staircase. I could only assume I’d been put in the staff quarters.

The ruckus at five a.m., with people having showers and preparing for the day, kept me up.

Not that I slept. I was foggy-headed with tears and awoke with a splitting headache, but crying purged me, leaving me eerily empty and ready to face my new future.

One thing niggled, though. I didn’t have experience in the way of slavery and ownership, but found it surprising Q let me wander freely with no supervision.

~Probably some sort of chauvinistic mind game and power trip.~

I couldn’t shed my apprehension as I entered the lounge and followed the sounds of cutlery clinking. Scents of freshly brewed coffee coaxed me forward, despite trepidation.

My mouth watered for caffeine.

Rounding the corner, I halted as the kitchen came into view. Pale green tiles ran floor to ceiling, acting like a colored mirror. ~They’re the same color as Q’s eyes.~

I had to admit my strange new owner had taste. White cabinetry with silver handles glinted like fresh snow, thanks to the sun streaming from the massive skylight.

Three stainless steel ovens, a huge cooktop, and a fridge big enough to fit a whole cow completed the huge expanse.

Another room, with a temperature gauge and wooden shelving, housed countless bottles of wine. No doubt from a vineyard close by if we were, indeed, in France.

The girl who’d been so kind to me last night smiled behind a counter. “~Bonjour.~ Are you hungry?”

I didn’t think I could eat with all the strangeness, but nodded anyway. I had to keep my strength, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been fed.

No wait, I did remember—the night Leather Jacket tried to rape me. ~Fucking bastard.~

My lips curled, thinking how quickly I’d gone from a girl who never cursed, to a gutter mouth. In a way, it gave me strength, being crude and crass.

My stomach growled, taking control out of my hands.

The maid giggled. “Guess that answers the question. But before we can feed you, the master requested you join him. He’s in the dining room.” She cocked her head at the other end of the lounge.

A pair of sliding glass doors blocked a decadent, old English style dining room.

Q sat at the head of the table. A newspaper spread wide, blocking his face.

Seeing him sent barbed wire tangling around my stomach. The house lulled me into some sense of acceptance, but I’d never get used to being ~owned—~of being someone’s slave.

Not that he bought me, only accepted as a bribe. Curiosity rose, wanting to know what I was accepted for, but I shoved it away. I didn’t care as I wouldn’t be staying long. I’d find a way to run—soon.

I shook my head, looking back at the maid. “I’m not seeing him.”

The maid stilled, hands full of pastries. “You have no choice. He summons. You go. That’s the law.”

“Law?” My eyebrow twitched. I instantly hated the word. The law was something officers upheld. A word implying safety, not rules dictated by a madman.

“Law.” The masculine baritone came from behind. His presence sent chills up and down my spine. I didn’t jump. I prided myself on that, but I’d have to get used to how silently he moved.

I did not want to be snuck up on, surprised, and taken advantage of.

Keeping my head high and back straight, I turned to face the~ master.~

“I obey no such law.”

Q growled, rubbing a hand over his stubbly cheek. His dark brown hair was glossy, short, almost like a pelt rather than hair. His wintry green gaze froze me to the core.

Dressed in a graphite suit with a silver shirt and black tie, he looked distinguished, intelligent.

I cried out as he grabbed me. “I summon. You come. That’s the only law you need to understand. I am your owner. You haven’t forgotten that so soon, have you?”

He marched me through the lounge and into the dining room. Tossing me into a high-backed chair at a table set for twenty people, he breathed hard and leaned over me. “You are mine. You are mine.

“Repeat that until it gets into your head. You cannot disobey. Unless...” A glint of interest smoldered in his eyes. “Unless you ~want~ to be punished?”

My heart kicked into high gear, thrumming with hummingbird wings. I shook my head hard. My tongue turned useless, incapable of speech.

I’d never been so overpowered by someone’s sheer will, but Q flattened me with his intense demeanor.

How could I hope to disobey when he only had to threaten with mere words and I turned horribly docile?

“You’ve forgotten how to fight, so soon?” His accent thickened and fingers captured my chin, pressing painfully. A rumble sounded in his chest, and, fast as lightning, he kissed me.

The force of the attack crashed my head against the back of the chair, radiating pain in my temples. His lips forced mine open, and a tongue darted into my mouth, stealing my will, my fight.

He stole everything with one touch.

Growling, his tongue plundered mine ruthlessly, out of control.

Fingers trailed from my chin to my throat, circling possessively; an unspoken threat that he could kill me and no one would know or care. I was his—to do with how he pleased.

I moaned and scratched his face with ragged nails.

He jerked back, breathing like an angry bull. His lips glistened from ravaging my mouth, leaving the taste of rich coffee and something darker—a promise of more.

He glared, swiping his cheek with a shirt cuff. It came away with a drip of crimson. His body tensed at the sight of blood.

My heart swelled with pride. He may be able to molest me, but he wouldn’t stay whole while he did.

Grabbing a napkin from the table, he patted his cheek. “You will obey. Don’t make me use you like any other buyer would do.”

“Isn’t that what you mean to do anyway? Rape and ruin me?”

Throwing the napkin down, he stalked back to his chair at the head of the table. The discarded newspaper crackled as he placed hands in front of him.

Every move was precise, calculated, as if he knew every nuance illustrated domination.

Four place settings separated us, giving a sense of space. I breathed easier, wishing the taste of darkness and sin would leave. Why did he have to kiss me?

A kiss meant intimacy and romance, but that kiss—it claimed me more than any kiss from Brax. It made me hate Q all the more.

Ignoring my question, he demanded, “What is your name?”

I crossed my arms, glaring. ~Never.~

“Fine,” he barked. “I’ll call you Dove, until you answer. Like the grey-blue of your eyes.”

My heart tinkled into tiny, irreplaceable pieces. ~Dove?~ Anger ran up my neck and flamed as memories of Brax swarmed. The soft toy he bought me when I was in hospital.

The many times he called me his little Dove.

“No!” I screamed, violence etching my tone.

He didn’t even blink at my outburst. Deliberately, he ran a finger along his bottom lip, glaring coldly. His face shadowed with authority, and to my utter shame, my nipples hardened.

My body recalled the way he kissed—responding to every part I dare not acknowledge, parts I wished didn’t exist.

It made me feel as if I led him on—invited all of this to happen with my twisted desires.

Holy hell, ~did~ I invite this by wanting to be rougher with Brax? Did my fate decide I had a life too perfect and granted my sick desires in the worst way possible?

I couldn’t breathe. I stared at the tablecloth as the maid entered the room with a dainty knock, and placed a plate of poached eggs in front of me.

She bowed slightly to Q, putting the same in front of him.

Even though my limbs were weak with hunger, I pushed the plate away. How could I eat when I disgusted myself? All of this was ~my~ fault. I was responsible for my screwed up perversions.

“Eat, damn you,” Q ordered, face stoic.

After everything I’d been through, after the breath-stealing kiss, and the bloody Mexicans, and my stupid naivety—I could go on and on—I embraced my gutter mouth. “Fuck. You.”

His eyes widened and jaw clenched, but he didn’t retaliate. He cut a delicate mouthful, chewing carefully. Every bite controlled and precise, as if he kept a tight rein on himself at all times.

What did he battle with? Because he battled, I saw that in his eyes.

“If you won’t tell me your name, tell me something else about you.”

Why did he want to know? He’d already said nothing else mattered but being his.

Swallowing, I stared outside, toward the terrace and the huge bird table swarming with noisy sparrows and blackbirds.

The manicured gardens, with perfect hedges and bare flowers, glittered with frost like sparkly lace. From hot Mexico to winter in France, I missed home miserably.

Q put his knife and fork down, placing his hands in his lap. I made the mistake of looking at him, and we engaged in another staring competition.

I yelled and screamed silently while he sat and dominated with unsaid threats.

He broke the contest, murmuring, “You have two choices.”

My ears pricked, but I pretended insolence. Two choices. Try three. Whatever the first two, the third was escape. I’d make it happen.

I’d laser my tattoo off, cut the GPS tag off my ankle, and find a way to remove the node in my neck. I may have brought this on myself, but I would get myself out of it.

Q continued in his deep, accented voice, “One, I rape you, hurt you, do everything you expect of me, and make you live a miserable existence.”

I narrowed my eyes, watching closely. His shoulders tensed on the word rape, but excitement heated his gaze, too. Why the two emotions? One hot and wanting, the other repulsed and angry.

Lacing my fingers together, I squeezed. Fear threatened to close my throat.

“Or, tell me about yourself, and, if you have a skill I need, I’ll put you to work in other ways.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Other ways?”

Regret flickered across his face so quickly, I wondered if I imagined it. He nodded infinitesimally. “Other ways.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Tell me first.”

He slammed his hands on either side of his plate, rattling the china. “Goddammit, girl, I’m offering you a choice.

“But it doesn’t mean I can’t take that choice away.” He breathed hard, and his anger sent fear spiraling inside.

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 my 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 sideline 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 midterms.” 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 sidelined 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 a 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 at 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 his 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. Vous avez compris?”~

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 la 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 me 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 fast, 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, me in a tattered jumper. “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 me 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.

His eyes flashed as he whispered, “Until tonight,~esclave~.”