The brute grabbed my chin, making me look into black eyes. “I’m doing this because it’s high time that bastard Mercer gave me some pussy. He thought he could stop farming out women? Too bad, he has customers, and customers have needs.”
My world fell apart. That couldn’t be true. Q was many things, but I couldn’t see him sharing women, trading them, renting them out. But some terrified part wondered if that’s how he earned his money. Where did he go during the day? Were there other girls, hidden in the house, being used, abused?
I shook my head. Q hated himself for what Russian Lumberjack did. His apology ached with remorse. He couldn’t have those sort of emotions and be a trafficker, too. It didn’t make sense!
The driver spoke up. “That cunt Mercer has a lot to answer for, and we’re gonna take those answers from you.” He licked his lips. “The moment you said he was the one you ran from, I couldn’t believe my fucking luck! He lied to us, and now you’re the one who will pay.”
I whimpered as the Brute grabbed the back of my neck, shoving me toward the massive mattress on the floor. I fell, coughing as a billow of dust surrounded me. My eyes smarted but I refused to let any moisture fall.
The men laughed and punched each other in the shoulder, as if they were about to get lucky on a date. The world was infested with evil. I hated them. Hated, hated, hated!
I glared up. “I’m not an object to take your revenge out on. If you have issues with Q, take it up with him!”
Brute laughed, slapping meaty thighs. “Oh, treasure. You are the perfect revenge.” He removed his brown jacket, shrugging it to the floor. “I am curious, though. How many girls does he have now?”
I clamped my lips closed. Q conned me into believing I was his only slave—his only plaything. Once again, jealousy gripped my heart. Everything Q made me believe was a lie. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t have emotions, and he trafficked women. He was worse than the men who kidnapped me—at least they wore their true colours. Q was a chameleon, so clever at hiding the truth.
Driver went to one of the racks and chose a flogger. My heartbeats raced as he swatted his hand, testing the sting. He grabbed a couple of packets from a dusty bowl and threw one at Brute.
The man nodded. “Merci.” His eyes fell on me and darkness took over. I wouldn’t be able to reason as no soul remained. I knew with deadly certainty they would kill me after. I wished they’d kill me now, before they ruined me.
Driver went behind me and I swivelled my neck, hating him being there.
The air thickened and all three of us froze—caught in a tiny window where normalcy reigned—then my life ended for the third time.
Brute threw himself onto the mattress; his bulk crushed, expelling my breath. I yelped as Driver’s hands wrapped in my hair, tugging hard, so I had no choice but to lie down against the rank mattress. I always liked my long hair, but now I wished I was bald. My own body fettered me; I couldn’t get free. My scalp stung as he pulled harder. “Obey, slut.”
Brute wasted no time in clambering on top; his entire body made me retch. His breath reeked of cigarettes and sourness, and he pulled my legs apart as if they were matchsticks. He looked like a giant wildebeest, about to mount and rut to death.
My chest rose and fell; vision flickered with black spots as I hyperventilated. “Stop!”
The men laughed. “Keep begging, treasure. We like it when you cry.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. This was really going to happen. No humanity shone in his eyes. There wasn’t anyone to save me. No Brax. No Q.
Just me, two bastards, and an empty house.
I whimpered, squeezing my eyes closed as Brute unbuttoned my jeans and yanked them off. He did the same to my knickers as I scratched at Driver’s wrists, trying to make him let go of my hair.
Driver growled, letting go with one hand to slap me. The sound of his palm hitting flesh ricocheted around the room. He slapped me again, coaxing tears to stream. Then he reached down, snaking a hand inside my t-shirt, pinching my breast so hard I saw jagged stars.
I wanted to remain mute, to not give them pleasure by begging. But words sobbed. “Please. I just want to go home. You were supposed to help me!”
Driver chuckled, twisting my hair with an evil flourish. “Oh, we’ll help you alright.”
I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. There was nothing but animalistic lust and enjoyment at my pain. What had Q done to these men to make them so happy to destroy a woman? Why must I pay for his sins?
Driver placed a hand on my throat and pressed down, choking me.
Tess, disappear. Find that place. Hurry!
Brute spat on his fingers, putting them between my legs. He frowned, muttering, “She’s fucking dry as a husk.”
My mind exploded with thoughts of Brax. I was always dry for Brax. But Q… Q made me wet. He befriended my body, despite my hate. I’d broken myself—I didn’t need men to torture me. I’d done it every night since I hit puberty.
I wilted in terror as Brute forced his saliva inside. Fingers scraped and tore. My dryness granted pain… agony.
If someone offered me a gun or this, I’d take the gun.
How could I think I wanted to be dominated, commanded? The naïve fantasy of rape wasn’t fun. It wasn’t sexy or hot. This was true rape, and it would do more than just take my body. It would be what finally broke me into tinkling, unfixable pieces.
Brute’s fingers thrust harder; dirty fingernails scraped the inside of my core. I thrashed my head to the side, ignoring the ripping of hair.
The tear of foil echoed and my breathing accelerated; a low keening sounded in my chest.
Driver slapped my face. “Shut up. You’ll like it, slut. Then it’s my turn.”
I opened my eyes. Big mistake.
Brute had his cock out, rolling a slimy condom down the length. The smell of latex filled the air, gagging me. I tried to close my legs, to lock my knees together.
Driver laughed, passing the flogger over my head to him. “Use this. Make her ready.”
Brute’s lips stretched into a cruel smile. “Ah, treasure. You’re in for it now.” He raised his arm and struck.
The leather bit my naked thigh, welting immediately with angry blood. I bit my lip, trying so hard to pretend I was dead.
Brute hit me again. And again. Each lick eroded parts of me: my hopes, my stupid thoughts of escape, my love for Brax, my hatred for Q—everything twisted into a cauldron of filthy emotions, sucking me deep into the dark. The fight I prided myself on, disintegrated into pieces and I shrivelled. Each beat stripped me bare; I became lost. I no longer knew who Tess was—I didn’t want to know.
The flogger stopped and Brute wrenched my legs apart. Spitting on his fingers, he rubbed my entrance roughly.
“Please—” I moaned. “Don’t.”
Brute laughed, positioning himself between my legs. “Was that a beg, treasure? You want me?”
Driver panted heavily in my ear, pulling my hair in excitement. “I think she’s asking you to fuck her. Better give her what she wants.”
Please, oblivion take me. I wouldn’t survive. My mind rattled like fractured glass already.
Brute shifted, nudging me with his cock. My body revolted, stomach snarled, and tears flurried down my cheeks. No, no, no.
Brute grunted, forcing his way inside. My flesh rejected him, burning with violation.
His hips thrust, burying himself deep. His head dropped as he shuddered, grinning at Driver. “She’s fucking tight. You’ll enjoy this one.”
Driver growled. “Hurry up.” He forced horrible fingers into my mouth, tasting of sourness and metal.
While Driver fucked my mouth with his fingers, Brute thrust his hips, bucking with violence. Heavy breathing rained on my face, horrid, rancid.
I tried to shut everything off. I wanted to bite Driver’s fingers—I wanted to fight. I’d been reduced to a piece of meat.
My ears rang, and the room swam with delirium. Mirrors reflected Brute’
s naked ass as he fucked me. My eyes were haunted, and Driver loomed with a manic look on his face.
A loud bang sounded from somewhere in the house; Brute faltered in rhythm. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see if more men arrived—if I’d be subjected to endless purgatory. I never wanted to open my eyes again.
Another bang, then empty air. Brute’s horrible cock disappeared and his weight flew off. My hair jerked, then released as Driver screamed.
Grunts and shouts amplified around the room and I opened my eyes.
Three men in suits beat Brute where he huddled in a ball with jeans around his ankles and arms over his head. Blow after blow they rained, and I flinched when one kicked Brute’s jaw so hard, his head snapped back, and teeth flew.
My hands curled, loving retribution, the pain Brute suffered.
Driver was strung to the mirrored wall on the rack with whips and handcuffs. More guards punched him; his head lolled on shoulders, blood glinting on his temple.
My heart leaped free from my flogged and hurting body as Q strode into the room. He moved with angry grace, hands curled, mouth pursed. But his eyes—I’d never seen such rage contained.
“Putain de bâtards,” Q seethed, pulling a gun from his lower back, stalking toward where Brute lay whimpering on the floor. “You fucking touch a girl of mine and think you could survive?”
Brute reached for him, eyes imploring mercy. “We only took what we used to get from your family. Nothing more.” Blood and spittle flew from his mangled mouth.
Q closed his eyes, body shuddering. When he glared at Brute, so many things raged in his face, I ached. “Consider this payment for the past and present.” He squeezed the trigger and Brute existed no more. The back of his head exploded with red mist and I scrambled away, huddling on the mattress.
Q turned to me with terrifying calmness. “Ah, esclave.” He inched closer, tucking the gun away. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
In that moment, in my fragile and broken state, my feelings for Q changed. He morphed from monster to saviour. He did what Brax hadn’t done in Mexico: he found me, killed for me. He rescued me from horror and protected me from the bastards who hurt.
Q was no longer the devil.
He was my master and I belonged to him.
Chapter Sixteen
*Pigeon*
Murmuring in French, Q carried me through the house.
He found a blanket and bundled me up, speaking tenderly, as if I’d bolt at any moment. His touch was feather-soft when he scooped me in his arms, but his eyes glinted with fierce anger. His anger petrified, but I allowed myself to be gathered, cared for—kept safe.
In his arms, I found comfort I craved. His heavy heartbeats soothed more than words and I nuzzled into his neck, drowning myself in citrus and sandalwood. Q came for me. Q wanted me.
His guards stayed behind to deal with the bodies, and I started to tremble. Q’s arms bunched beneath my weight, holding me closer. “It’s over. You don’t have to fear,” he whispered. “I’ll kill anyone who hurts you.”
In his voice, the truth blazed bright. I believed him, completely and utterly. Q did for me what no one else had done: protected me. He fought harder than my parents ever did, and put Brax’s strength to shame. Q came after me like I meant the world to him, showing just how lonely and adrift I’d been.
Cold night air refreshed as we strode from the house and Franco jumped to attention. He opened the rear car door. Q slid in, with me still in his arms.
No one said a word the entire drive back to the mansion. Q did nothing but hold me, and for that, I was thankful. He let me drench his gorgeous graphite suit with salty tears as I relived what I’d been through. He squeezed tight when my trembling got so bad my teeth chattered.
I hated my stubbornness, my fight. I did this. Because of my stupidity, I ran into a situation that broke me.
The drive seemed both an eternity and a microsecond. When we drove up the sweeping driveway to Q’s stunning home, he kissed my temple, murmuring, “You’re safe.”
The two little words shot deep into my heart, irrevocably changing me. They opened the floodgates, and everything I knew, disappeared. Everything I had been, became nothing. The Tess who loved Brax, who fought to escape, vanished. She wasn’t worthy of Q’s protection. Wasn’t worthy of being rescued by a man who killed for her.
Q was right: I was safe with him. He made it so simple. I couldn’t comprehend how I ran before. I ran from Q’s safety, and monsters found me in the dark.
My heart wept for what I did, and fear clutched at the thought of leaving Q’s name on Brax’s answer machine.
I’d been problematic and wilful, but Q claimed me anyway. He was the first to chase me and blissful happiness warmed inside to finally have someone who wouldn’t let me go. His reasons were flawed and wrong, but knowing he would find me settled my mind, lending strength to deal with the rape.
Q did many things, but he never broke me. He offered things my body wanted without me knowing what those things were.
He was my home. My master. My new life.
My past didn’t define me. The horrible rape didn’t define me. Q defined me and he wanted me to be his esclave.
Why hadn’t I seen so clearly before? A huge weight lifted off my shoulders; I sighed with complete submission.
Q shifted, looking down, but I snuggled closer and didn’t look up. I had to make it up to him. To apologise, so he never sent me away at the mercy of the world again.
The car rolled to a stop and Franco opened the door. Q kept me tight in his arms, carrying me into the house.
The moment the door closed, contentment washed over me. Home.
Suzette skidded from the lounge. She looked at me in Q’s arms, clutching her chest with profound relief. “Oh, dieu, merci.”
He nodded slightly as Suzette came closer, brushing her hand over my blanket clad body. “I’m so happy Q found you. You’re part of this family, mon amie. Don’t run again.”
My body twitched. Mon amie. Suzette called me her friend.
Fresh tears sprouted for leaving her, for being so selfish. Brax didn’t need me anymore, but Q and this new life did.
Q rumbled a noise and strode up the stairs. Suzette watched us go. I expected Q to take me to my room, but on the first floor he slowed, and opened a door. My eyes widened as he carried me into the most amazing space I’d ever seen.
On the walls were life-size stencils of a carousel: a prancing pony, a carriage, a dancing bear, a soaring eagle. It should’ve been childish to have black and white images of a fair ride but it gave the room elegance, a whimsical edge playing well with the rest of the black and white theme. A four poster bed with white lacquered posts, and silver sweeping drapes welcomed, but Q didn’t head for the bed. He stalked to the bathroom, where iridescent tiles, double walk-in shower, and Jacuzzi bath invited.
Q marched straight into the shower, before slowly setting me down. I clung to his shoulders as he let go. I didn’t want him to leave. He was the only thing keeping my thoughts centred on him, and not what happened. I lingered in denial, refusing to dwell on what occurred. I shied away from the memory, letting it fester, layering with insecurity, pain, and overwhelming grief.
My life was no longer perfect—I ruined it by running. I throbbed with need for Q to forgive me. To say he would never let me escape again.
Q stared into my eyes. His pale green ones turned to pea soup as sadness glittered. Something silent passed between us. Reaching behind me, he turned the shower on.
Instantly, hot water rained from two massive showerheads, sending needles of heat through my clothes. I tilted my head toward it, letting each drop scald, purging my skin of filth and tragedy.
Q unwrapped the blanket and tossed it from the shower. He tugged the hem of my jumper, pulling it over my head.
His immaculate suit darkened as moisture seeped into cashmere and silk. He’d ruin it if he didn’t leave. But he didn’t seem to care that his perfectio
n became wrinkled and stained beyond repair. His focus was entirely on me. His hands moved swift and sure, face closed off and concentrated. But his eyes—they glowed with ferocity, an anger sending spasms of fear through me.
He tossed my jumper to the floor, and his eyes fell to my chest. My white bra turned see-through and nipples stiffened under his look. His jaw clenched as he dropped his gaze, down my body, over my nakedness, to criss-crossed welted thighs.
The pain from the flogger hissed under hot water, and I wished Q would look away. I was damaged—not a pretty slave anymore. He might send me away.
Q ran a whisper-soft fingertip along a welt. I flinched and tears rushed as memories took me hostage. The shower dissolved into the rotting grandeur of the Tuscan house, Q’s touch turned brutal and nasty.
I sucked in a breath, trying to stay in the present, refusing to let nightmares suck me into the dark.
Q’s face twisted; he captured my cheeks between hot hands. “What are you?” he clipped, face hard and unreadable.
The question anchored me and I looked into his pale ferocious eyes. I knew the answer he wanted. “I’m yours.”
He sucked in a heavy breath, body jerking. “Say it again, but not in English.”
Q intoxicated me. My lips parted, and I wanted to stay captured by him, forever. An ancient connection linked us together. I looked into his soul—it churned with agony and demons, but he wasn’t evil.
Q dropped his gaze to my lips. “Je suis à toi.” Something feral heated his features; he pressed his mouth against mine in one fast kiss. “It means, I am yours.”
My breath stuttered as power sliced, deep and fast, igniting broken parts of me with sparks. His allure, his power, all magnified to fist around my stomach. In the dark recess of my brain, I translated his words to him being mine. The power trip the little words gave was indescribable.
No wonder he wanted me to say it. I was drunk on them. He was mine. Mine.
What life did Q live, needing to hear such a strong affirmation? What ghosts haunted him?
Q tightened his fingers, biting into my jaw. “Say it.”
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