Russian’s hand grabbed my breast, twisting painfully. His mouth clamped down on my ear.
I opened my mouth to scream, to demand Q to claim me, but an obscenely large hand clamped over my mouth. Blocking nose and mouth, just like Leather Jacket had done.
My lungs seized, and I fought. He chuckled as my feeble attempts made a repulsive hard cock wedge between my ass cheeks. My eyes flew to the sparrows. I wished I could sprout wings and fly. I tried to lose myself in the painting, willing my mind to leave.
Fumbling between us, he withdrew something, bringing it to my stomach. Something icy cold bit flesh. I gasped, heart bucking.
“Hush, little whore. This is between us. You cost me a lot of money, you know. I think it’s only fair I sample you.” A fat hand fumbled on my lower belly, and the loathsome sound of dress ripping filled me with black dread. My eyes rolled, trying to see below. What was the icy thing slicing through the material?
With another sharp tug, the dress hung ruined and the tightness around my ass softened as filigree strands went from tight to gaping.
He licked my ear, flashing a hunting knife. I groaned and thrashed. The blade was rust spotted and tarnished, but glinted wicked sharp. “Stop wriggling, little fish. I’m not going to cut you.” He flipped the blade so sharp metal rested in a calloused palm and a sweat stained, wooden handle faced upward.
Oh, shit.
Instincts screamed. He’s going to rape you with the handle of a knife!
I moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help. Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let go of my gift.”
The words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.
“Just having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder, no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust hips backward, trying to kick him off balance, but he remained unmovable.
Tension knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough, but nothing came.
Silence reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”
I didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.
I struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.
“I wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat, slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed. My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every scrape of awful hardness.
Eyes glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood. Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.
The Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.
I didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It hurt. It hurt! Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep inside.
A shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.
The Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the rapist knife with him. He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his jumpsuit.
“Fuck!” he shouted.
Q raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the fuck out of my house.” His arm outstretched, holding a small, silver gun.
My head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.
The rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.
Q yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”
The green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.
Q immediately jumped and spun, waving the gun. “Putain. Stop! I know what I’m doing, Frederick. Leave.”
The guy frowned, clearly not believing him, but after a moment, nodded and strode out the door.
Silence settled, broken only by Q’s and my heavy breathing. I swung by my arms, tears glassing my vision. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up and my shoulders screamed. But none of it came close the aching soreness inside. I felt ripped in two, reliving the first hard thrust, the mind-shattering agony, over and over.
How could Q allow this to happen? I was his, goddammit, and he didn’t protect me. He let another man hurt me.
I splintered, wanting to crawl back into the silent void that saved me last time, but my mind wouldn’t fly away. My mind was broken.
I must have passed out. I came to with my cheek bobbing against a warm shoulder and body cocooned in strong arms. The scent of citrus and sandalwood hugged me, sending a mixture of longing and panic kicking in my blood.
“Je suis vraiment désolé,” a tortured voice whispered. I’m so sorry. Kisses flurried on my hairline, never stopping. I floated through the house in his arms. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make it right.”
His voice confused me. It dripped with aged pain and sorrow, remorse so great, it weighed down with pressure.
Why did he hurt? He allowed the man to do what he wanted. It was his fault it happened and I refused to listen to his pain. My own pain kept me plenty occupied. His apologies weren’t worth shit.
I tried to gather enough energy to hit him, scream, tell him he’d successfully hurt me worse than anyone in my entire life, and that was saying something seeing as I grew up a leper in my own family.
But my mind finally decided it’d had enough and went blank.
Chapter Fourteen
Hummingbird
‡
I woke to a gnawing ache in my womb and a smear of blood between my legs. I washed gently in the shower, forcing all memories and horror into a cage inside my mind. I would never think about that night again. Even in nightmares, the night was banned, erased as if it never happened. Some might say running wasn’t a good idea; I say it helped me stay healthy and focused, rather than suffocating in self-pity and things detrimental to my sanity.
I buried my head in the sand, but in return gained freedom and immunity against things hurting my soul. My body hurt, but no more than other injuries I sported. What lacerated me most was Q. He let me down.
In the sick hierarchy of owner and slave, my protection and well-being should be paramount, yet he turned a blind eye.
Out of everything he’d done, last night might’ve broken me beyond repair, but it only strengthened. The time had come to leave. I deserved better. I deserved to live my life without sick bastards raping me with objects, or Q’s twisted mind games. Nothing would stop me from busting the hell out and going back to humanity.
*
Four days passed after the horrible dinner, and Suzette refused to make eye contact. Q did his disappearing act again, turning music so loud, lyrics corroded my fierce decision to leave. French laments full of regret and self-loathing throbbed through the speakers:
Mes besoins sont ma défaite. Je suis un monstre dans la peau d’un homme.
My needs are my downfall. I’m a monster in human skin.
I hated the songs. Soft songs made Q seem human, living with mistakes and anguish, just like the rest of us. I preferred the raging songs. Ones with a heavy beat, heating my blood, filling me with energy to escape.
Et je prendrai ce que je veux et payerai mes propres désirs. Cauchemars de ma solitude. L’obscurité comme ami.
And I’ll take what I want and pay for my own desires. Nightmares for my loneliness. The dark
ness for a friend.
The longer I lived in Q’s house, the more my French improved. Rust gave way to smoothness and it happened without my knowledge. I no longer frowned and worked out every word—gist of sentences became clear, no longer fumbling in the language dark.
Although I missed Suzette and her friendship, I didn’t care about the isolation. I was left alone; it kept me focused.
Under the disguise of cleaning, I searched the library and lounge for weapons. A letter opener, scissors, something to help me dispose of the GPS tracker. I couldn’t run until I removed it. Q would find me too easily.
My escape plan wasn’t well thought out. I had no Mission Impossible idea of taking Q hostage and forcing him to release me. All I had were my legs, and a few apples I managed to steal from the kitchen. Living in an open home granted the illusion of freedom—to go where I pleased, move around at will—but in searching for weapons, I realised how false the freedom really was.
Guards patrolled the upstairs level, keeping me from entering bedrooms. Black-suited goons patrolled the sweeping grounds outside, their breath sending foggy plumes into late winter air.
I could enter the library, lounge, kitchen, and bedroom only. It was a tiny cage compared to the expanse of the house. If I cared about staying, I would’ve sneaked and investigated. Where did Q sleep? What other rooms were there? More like the pedestal room where the Russian bastard hurt me, or worse?
But I didn’t care. I’d been here long enough. I wouldn’t play damsel in distress waiting for Brax or the police to rescue me. They would never come. It was up to me, and I was ready.
I stepped out of the library, wafting a duster, disappointed yet again I couldn’t find a sharp implement, and froze.
Heartbeats raced as a whiff of sin and citrus assaulted. Q was close.
“Je suis allé trop loin, Suzette.” I went too far. Q’s voice twisted with unforgiving darkness.
I wanted to crawl into a ball and hide. I hated eavesdropping. Whenever I did as a child, I heard nasty things that cramped my stomach. Things about being unwanted, a nuisance, a hindrance.
My parents even spoke about adopting me out when I fell violently ill with the flu. They didn’t want to deal with a sick child, being older and vulnerable. Caring more for themselves than an innocent girl.
Suzette answered, her voice coming from behind the blue velvet stairs. The place where the hidden door to the gaming room lurked. “She didn’t break. You should see her, maître. The fire is still in her eyes.” The air bristled with passion, they spoke of me. My entire body boycotted. I wanted to move, but if I moved they’d hear me. What would Q do then?
Q muttered something I didn’t catch.
“You’re not like him. Don’t let this stop you. She feels something other than hatred. Believe me. A woman knows when another wants a man.”
Q chuckled. “You want me, Suzette?”
She giggled darkly. “You know I do. But I also appreciate your promise, and that’s why I think you need to keep going.” The sad resignation made me feel sorry for her.
Q was ruthless and closed off; I didn’t care what demons he dealt with. It didn’t give him the right to do what he did. So why did jealously prick my skin at the thought of him fucking another? I knew nothing about him, yet my body pined for more—against all my wishes.
If Suzette was on my side, why hadn’t she talked to me the last four days? If she’d shown she still wanted to be a friend, I might not have shut off—become so remote and focused on freedom.
My eyes widened. You don’t mean that, Tess. Would I have stayed even after what happened?
I shook my head, anger hot. No way. I couldn’t stay. All I needed was a split second opportunity, and I was gone. Just like the sparrows on the wall—darting to heights where Q could never find me.
“Enough. I will not talk about this,” Q snapped, different to his previous tone. Clothing rustled and I darted to the library, ducking next to a bookcase. Q’s silhouette stalked past the door, heading outside. The quick flash of sunlight beckoned; I wanted to run after him. To sprint into the fresh air and leave this place—this confusing, horrible place.
A car waited outside, but Q didn’t climb in and drive off. Instead, he stalked out of sight.
I didn’t dare move, and Suzette shouted. “I’m heading to the village, Mrs. Sucre. It’s my half day off, and I need to run some errands.”
I didn’t hear Mrs. Sucre’s response, but it sounded like she argued. My heart galloped. Suzette was leaving. This is my chance! I might not get another. A village meant people. And people meant safety in numbers.
Suzette grumbled and stomped away, obviously summoned by the cook. Not wanting to waste a moment, I pushed off the floor like an Olympic sprinter and darted into the foyer. I fumbled with the front door with anxious fingers, then sprinted down the sweeping steps toward the car. Please, let there be keys.
Sun burned my retinas even as the cold temperature bit through clothing. The freshness of being outside gave me a burst of happiness. I would save myself. Tess, the survivor.
Gasping with adrenaline, I checked to see if keys dangled in the ignition.
Nothing.
Shit! I couldn’t drive to freedom, but I could stowaway while Suzette drove. Not wanting to be discouraged, I tried the back door, almost crying in relief when it opened.
I threw myself inside, huddling as tight as I could in the foot well.
Suzette bounced down the steps. “Bonjour, Franco. You’ll drive me to the village?”
Oh, fuck. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Why couldn’t Suzette drive herself? Were none of Q’s staff allowed to go unchaperoned? My heart raced faster. So many things could go wrong—Franco could catch me, Q would punish.
“No problem. I need some cigarettes, so perfect timing.” Franco’s voice sounded friendly, upbeat, like any man with no care in the world. Obviously, his conscience didn’t care what his employer did to women.
Suzette hopped in the front, smoothing her uniform. Franco climbed into the driver’s seat and the car settled with his bulk. His crisp, black suit framed muscles and my hope of running dwindled.
The car started; the loud purr vibrated in my teeth. I curled smaller as Franco put the vehicle into gear and rolled smoothly into motion. The crunching of gravel sounded loud and the three-horse fountain disappeared as we drove away.
The further we travelled, the more I freaked. This could go terribly wrong, but if it worked, I’d never see Q again. Never hear his voice or smell his unique scent. Something deep inside panged uncomfortably. I hated that he owned two of my senses—possibly even three. He was a master at coercing my body’s needs, sacrificing my mind for erotic pleasure. I’d had enough of betrayal from my own flesh.
Every roll of tyres brought a cocktail of eagerness and disappointment. My life would belong to me again. My body would return to being dormant, hiding its secret desires. But I want that! Q was a monster in human clothing—even he knew it, judging by his song choice. If he let a man rape me with a knife handle, who knew what he’d do next.
My hands curled with fury. I couldn’t afford to feel anything but hatred for Q. Suzette was wrong—I didn’t feel any more than repulsion. Hopefully, over time, my senses would belong to me again. I would forget about this nightmare.
Excitement bubbled beneath layers of apprehension as we drove in silence away from hell, toward salvation.
Suzette and Franco didn’t talk and I breathed as quiet and shallow as possible. It was odd to run with no belongings. How far would I get without money, credit cards, or a passport?
My passport and purse were in the hotel in Cancun. Then again, the hotel probably checked us out when we never returned. Did Brax go back? I was heading home, and refused to entertain the thought he might be gone. I needed him alive. He was my end goal. If I didn’t have him, who was I running back to?
You’re leaving a life of overwhelming senses for comfort, Tess.
The thought rocked my
soul. While being Q’s prisoner, I’d never been so alive. Sure, he was a bastard, and the things he did weren’t legal, but at the same time he made me live.
I brought the nightmare on myself with unwholesome thoughts, but Q showed me the life I lived with Brax wasn’t fully… complete. Brax treated me with utmost care, but never made me vibrant.
On the floor of a car, escaping from my kidnapper, I re-evaluated my entire life. I’d lived in denial for so long, it came naturally. I loved Brax, I couldn’t deny that. But my love skirted around sibling love. Friendship love. A love that would never die, but would never consume me either. I loved Brax because he took me in. He wanted me and I settled, rather than have the guts to find a man who made my soul sing.
Guilt crushed, pressing me against the floor. By lying to myself, I hurt Brax so much. A few tears dribbled and I fought the urge to sniff. One thing I knew, if he still lived, I’d make it a lifelong mission to make it up to him. I’d be the princess he always wanted, and take care of him, regardless if he couldn’t save me in Mexico.
Suzette and Franco started chatting aimlessly about the weather, and I forced myself to listen, pushing away debilitating thoughts. I couldn’t afford to think about sad things. I needed to be ready to run.
Through the window, hedges and shadowy trees flickered past, rolling hills and farm land. So quaint and picture perfect, it was hard to believe Q lived amongst perfect innocence and followed such darkness.
The twists and turns of the tiny country lanes made nausea swell and I closed my eyes.
I didn’t know how long it took, maybe twenty minutes, before the car slowed. Suzette asked, “Can you pull up on Rue La Belle? I won’t be long.”
Franco grunted in acknowledgement, and after a few turns, we entered a bustling township. Sounds of chattering voices and traffic thrilled me. So close to being free.
I dared open my eyes. Pedestrians skirted the car, and cute ancient buildings hovered in French glory.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 264
