The moustached men raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. But no sense of urgency filled them; they didn’t stop nursing their brandies and cigars.
What the hell is going on? I barged in to save the day, expecting Q to be beaten and restrained, and they looked as if I were the interloper.
I opened my mouth and promptly shut it again. I wanted to ask what was going on, but what could I possibly say?
Shit, I should’ve thought up a cover story. I was so focused on saving the day, like a dragon-fighting princess saving my tortured knight, I hadn’t considered how.
The officer with a thin moustache and heavy wrinkles turned to Q, mumbling in French, “That’s the girl?”
Q clenched his jaw, looking at me with a piercing gaze. He nodded ever so slightly. “That’s Tess Snow, if you’re looking for her.”
My womb clenched hearing my name on his lips. I trembled to hear it again. I stepped forward.
Q stood in one fluid move, wincing as the migraine etched his eyes. He really shouldn’t be drinking in his condition. “Leave, Ms. Snow. You are not welcome.”
The order poured salt on already painful wounds. Not welcome.
My eyes flickered to the cop with the bushy moustache. He looked like a cuddly father, and a doting husband. How would he react to Q telling a woman he kept captive to leave?
The man sipped his liquor, watching, as if Q and I were a daytime soap opera.
This wasn’t going how I expected. “I wanted to clarify a few things, for the record. In case you had the wrong idea,” I muttered, ignoring the way Q glared.
The policemen looked at each other, then shrugged. Bushy Moustache scooted forward, leather creaking under his weight. Placing his glass down, and the cigar in a crystal ashtray, he said, “What would you like to clarify, Ms. Snow?”
I fought the urge to look at Q. Holding my head high, I said, “If you can inform me of why you’re here, I can let you know the truth.” No way did I want to blabber things they might not be aware of.
Busy Moustache nodded with a wry smile. “Fair enough.” Pulling a notepad from his breast pocket, he flicked it open. “We are here because the Australian Federal Police contacted us about a missing woman fitting your description. They were advised by a Braxton Cliffingstone of your kidnapping in Mexico.”
The officer with the thin moustache spoke. “He gave detailed evidence of how he was beaten and when he came to, you were gone. He also provided us with a phone message from you, implicating Mr. Mercer in your disappearance. As you can imagine, up to that point, Mr. Cliffingstone was incredibly upset, thinking you were dead.”
Bushy Moustache jumped in. “He’ll be relieved to hear you’re alive and well.”
Q’s fingers tightened around his glass. He never took his eyes off me, flinching at Brax’s name.
The police ceased to exist as the library grew smaller, entrapping just Q and I in our own private world. His power reached for me, face harsh and stern, eyes raging with emotion. He watched, not with treason or hate, but loneliness and understanding.
My hands curled, fighting the urge to hurl myself at his feet. Even suffering a headache, Q vibrated with authority and feeling. I glimpsed just how much I meant to him.
His body called to mine and like the obedient slave I was, I went. Q jerked as I touched his fingers, wrapped around the goblet. His nostrils flared, looking over my shoulder at the two policemen who were no doubt watching.
But I didn’t care. They had to see what existed between Q and me. They may not understand it—shit, I didn’t understand it—but it thrummed in the space.
Q’s fingers rose from the glass, capturing mine in one sharp move. Skin sparked and fireworked; I gasped, looking deep into pale eyes.
He straightened and brushed past, going to stand by the fireplace.
My heart raced, hating his withdrawal. Despair replaced my desire and I nodded once. He’d already let me go.
I hated the police for ruining my tentative new existence. I hated Brax for finally coming to find me. I hated myself for being too weak.
Balling my hands, I spoke loud and true. “I’m Tess Snow, and I was kidnapped in Mexico. But this man,” I pointed at Q, “Q Mercer, and his household, rescued me and kept me safe. I stayed here on my own accord. The message on Mr. Cliffingstone’s voice mail was a mistake. He misheard.”
I fell into another realm of awful for lying about Brax, but I was only focused on Q, focused on repairing the unrepairable.
Bushy Moustache stood, nodding. “Thank you for clarifying, Ms. Snow. But now we really must speak to Quincy alone.”
Quincy.
Quincy.
My eyes shot to Q. I knew his name.
So enamoured fighting our silent battle of wills, it took outside parties to spill the truth.
I looked at him with such longing, his lips parted. Something arched and sparked and ruptured between us. I couldn’t breathe. I accepted everything he said in the conservatory about debasing and owning me.
Q wanted to debase and own me. Quincy wanted to share parts of his life with me. It was Quincy who spoke about his business, Q who ordered me to suck him.
I wanted both. Oh, God, how I wanted both.
Images of Q behind bars, with no one to feed his aviary of birds, slammed into me. I almost collapsed to my knees to beg forgiveness.
Every emotion was raw; tears spilled. “Please don’t arrest Q—Quincy. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Then, I fled.
Chapter Twenty
Tern
‡
I tossed and turned in bed, terrified of what morning would bring.
After running like a coward, I tried to eavesdrop, but voices didn’t travel up the staircase.
The unknown haunted me and I couldn’t remove the image from my mind of Q in a cell.
I glanced at the clock; my heart stuttered like a faulty object. 2:14 a.m.
No one had come for me. No noise signalled that Q had been forcefully removed from his home. Was he bribing them to turn the other way? I hoped beyond hope this might all blow over, and life would continue. If it didn’t, I would latch onto the bedpost and refuse to go. I didn’t want to return to Brax or parents who didn’t care.
I didn’t know how a warrant worked—didn’t it give the right to explore the house? How come no one explored?
It didn’t make sense. I was still in the man’s house, who Brax accused of keeping me prisoner. Somehow, Q kept the law from stealing me or arresting him. He’s more powerful than I thought.
It was yet another unknown.
At two-thirty, I gave up the pretence of trying to sleep. Pulling the sketchpad Q gave me from my bedside table, I turned on the lamp.
With a painful squeeze in my chest, I cracked open fresh pages and took out a charcoal. My fingers twirled the pencil like an old friend, but I sat staring at the paper, lost.
So many things fought for space inside. I wanted to run, or fight, or scream. I wanted to apologise to Q, then yell at him for making me feel so many things.
Sketching was my outlet, and I wanted to pour everything onto the page.
Slowly, my hand feathered quick strokes, followed by heavier touches here and there. As I worked, I recalled the release drawing gave. It soothed and eased, helping calm my overworked mind. Following lines and contours of buildings from memory, I disappeared into the realm of property and architecture, finding blissful silence from worry and lust.
I frowned as I made a mistake, but kept going. I preferred sketching from a photograph or directly in front of a building, the sun on my face and the world buzzing around.
Sitting in bed, waiting to hear my fate, I sketched Q’s mansion. I drew his home on the sketchpad he gifted. His gesture gripped my heart; I throbbed for him. Please, don’t let him be in custody. My uncertain future tried to steal the oasis of calm and I sighed. Where had Suzette gone? I hadn’t seen her since the conservatory. I flinched to think she would’ve slapped me if Q had
n’t stopped her.
Night turned into early morning, yet I didn’t turn off the light. I huddled, sketching as if the world would crumble if I didn’t. Q’s pastel mansion came to life. I added sconces and plasterwork beneath sweeping windows, capturing ruddy cheeked cherubs and intricate architraves.
Normally, my passion lay in crisp lines of concrete and steel, not a historic manor, but the drawing would be one of my best. I wished I could draw humans. Capture Q’s face on the page, his sternness, his posture. But nothing, not even a perfect photograph, would capture Q’s essential being. Q was vibrant. Q was unique.
Q radiated… as Quincy he turned human. I didn’t want human. I wanted my master. A lover who dominated.
Exhaustion warred with sadness, and I sank deeper into pillows.
I fell asleep with the pad on my lap, and charcoal-smeared hands cupping a cheek.
*
“Esclave. I mean… Tess.”
My heart catapulted, blood pumping.
Brute. Driver.
Hands. Cock. Pain.
Nightmares shattered, leaving me with breath-stealing fear. A hand landed on my shoulder, hot and heavy. I snapped.
Screaming, I struck, connecting with something solid. Pain blazed in my wrist and I shot upright, yelping. “What the fuck?”
A man’s umph filled the night-silence. The smell of citrus hit, with the reek of bourbon and brandy.
Q stumbled back. “Merde. You didn’t have t—to fucking hish m—me,” Q slurred, rubbing his chest, climbing drunkenly off the bed.
Oh, my God. Q.
My body warmed, even as my mind told me to be careful.
He grunted, swaying toward the mattress again, almost tumbling on top.
Hell, my master was inebriated. I knew he shouldn’t drink with his migraine. His shoulders rolled, rather than straight and proud, eyes glazed and watery. Don’t tell me he’s been drinking with the police all this time?
I sat up, pushing covers off and climbing out of bed.
Q blinked, shaking his head. He tripped, grabbing hold of a bedpost. I approached him warily, with hands up in surrender and heart rabbiting. “Q… get into bed, before you fall over.”
He giggled. Literally giggled like a little girl. “Trying to t—take advantage in m—my intoxicated state, esclave?” French accent thickened, slurred. I had trouble understanding.
I stepped closer, my palate catching the smell of booze. He scooted back and swayed like a human tower of Piza. For God’s sake, how much did he drink?
I darted forward and caught him, propping him up with a shoulder. The alcoholic whiff tingled my senses. I swear I grew high off the fumes. Or was it his hot, hard, sinful body pressed against mine? Or the deep musky scent of aftershave and sandalwood?
My stomach twisted as Q leaned heavily, turning his head to sniff my hair. He sighed. “Smell so good. So fucking good. Like rain… no, no like frost. Sharp and fresh and icy and cold and…and painful.” He closed his eyes, voice trailing into a whisper. “You love c—causing pain.”
My heart stopped. I hurt him? It was the other way around. Completely. I never suffered so much since he owned me.
Eyes flashed to mine, swirling with liquor and lingering headache. “That’s what you are. Painful.” He thumped his chest. “Painful to me.” Closing his eyes again, he frowned and swallowed.
Unable to address the swirling mess of feelings inside, I pushed him toward the bed. “Sit before you fall.” Breathing hard, I helped lower him till he lay down.
He moaned, clutching my forearm when I moved away. His grip was a death trap, and I had no choice but to sit by his side, letting him wrap strong, heated fingers around my barcoded wrist.
Inching closer, I hesitantly ran fingers through his short hair, relishing once again in being able to touch him. I thought I wouldn’t see him again—be alone with him again. The fact he wouldn’t remember visiting me in the morning didn’t matter. He was here. For now. In this window of time, before the sun rose—he was all mine.
He quieted, purring under my gentle touch. Sadness fell as I realized he was about to pass out. So much for having him to myself. He came to hog my bed and left me out in the cold.
His breathing settled, low and even; I pulled away. He was asleep. The moment I moved, fingers tightened on my wrist. “Snow. Snow. You’re named after winter… my favourite season.”
I froze. He spoke with no holds barred. Voice clearer, but still loose with booze. “Why do you like winter?” I whispered, so afraid he would comatose before answering.
“The season where everything dies, but is reborn better than ever.” His eyes flared, and wedged himself upright on elbows, wincing. “That’s what I do, you know. I’m winter.”
I had no clue what he meant, but stayed as quiet as possible. Please, keep talking.
A strange light filled his pale eyes. “Fifty-seven,” he mumbled.
Heartbeats raced. Somehow, I knew Q was about to open up. He dropped his guard, allowing me to glimpse inside. I launched into interrogation mode. Trying hard not to look too interested, I linked fingers with his, stroking ever so gently. “Fifty-seven what, master?”
His eyes closed and he moaned, swaying toward my touch. Then his lips twitched and he jerked away. “Not master. Fucking hate that word.” Jaw clenched, and he waged a war inside. Smouldering jade eyes entrapped and I couldn’t move.
Drunken glaze stole him again; he sighed with the weight of the world. “Not true. Love that word when I’m your master. I love hurting you, fucking you, playing mind games with you. It makes me just like him.”
Q curled a fist, and I yelped as he punched himself hard in the chest. “I’m sick. Nothing but evil lives inside.” He grabbed me, dragging me close, almost pressing his nose against mine. “You came along, and made me accept the darkness.”
I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t like the rage and strange glint in his eyes. I felt lost and breakable. Swallowing, I changed the subject. “Why fifty-seven? What does the number represent?”
Q chuckled darkly. “Girls, of course. Fifty-seven little birds I froze in my winter frost and helped thaw.”
Girls? He owned and lived with fifty-seven girls before me? Sick jealously rolled, and I froze. What the fuck does that mean? My brain hurt. Q’s drunken metaphors didn’t make sense. No one could have fifty-seven women. It was monstrous.
I wanted to slap him. “You’ve owned fifty-seven girls?”
He nodded, as if it made perfect sense. “Fifty-seven.” A finger connected between my breasts, marking, branding. “You’re fifty eight.” His eyes dropped to my chest and he cupped my flesh fiercely. “Number fifty-eight, who ruined my life.”
I whacked his hand away. “I ruined your life?” Fierce rage consumed, mixing with jealously, drowning in jittery angst. My heart refused to stop beating a billion flurries a minute. “You sleep with fifty-seven slaves and have the audacity to question how many men I’ve been with? You’re a fucking hypocrite.” I shot off the bed, tangling fingers in my hair, inflicting pain to stop the bone-crushing agony of the truth. “You have no idea how fucked up you’ve made me.”
Q flung his long legs off the bed, standing. He promptly sat heavily, holding his head. “Stop screeching, esclave. Come here.” He kept his head bowed, but a hand outstretched, fully expecting me to obey. Not this time. I’d reached my limit.
I stalked back and slapped him. “I was right to call the police. You’re a bastard.”
Oxygen cracked with tension as Q looked through heavy lids. His teeth ground and the sloppy drunk morphed into angry drunk. In a flash, Q whipped upright, picked me up and threw me on the bed. I yelped as he collapsed on top, pinning me to the mattress.
He growled, “I’m a bastard? Isn’t that a requirement to being a master? To be cruel and unapproachable?” He traced my ear with a tongue, lacing me in brandy. “I love treating you like dirt. It gets me fucking hard.” Q ground his raging hot cock against my flimsy night shorts. “Can you
feel that, esclave? See what you do to me by fighting? By defying me? I’m a walking hard on needing to punish you, fuck you, remind you that your place is beneath me to take my come and welcome my palm.”
He thrust again, a feral shadow on his face. “Every moment with you in my home is delicious fucking torture. Every time I see you, I want to make your skin flush with pain, your breath ragged from pleasure. I want to do everything that I shouldn’t want to do. Do you get it? You cause immeasurable pain as you bring alive the sickness in me.”
My mind whirled with every word; I tried to push him off. My arms were weak and trembly, body wet and needy. The blackness in his tone warmed, thrilled, repulsed, terrified. Not one sense, but everything, sprang to hyperawareness. I wanted to scratch his eyes out—to draw more anger from him for some ludicrous reason.
My core rippled, needing to be taken violently, even as my mind rebelled against the thought of him being with so many others. “Get the fuck off me.”
His answer was to kiss me. His tongue darted past my lips, thrusting, claiming with every angry stroke. I wriggled, but it was no use. While he smothered me with taste, he pinned my wrists above my head, breathing hard. Biting my lower lip, he pulled away. “Why didn’t you want me to know your name?”
The sudden change from anger to inquisition left me reeling. I pursed my lips, glaring.
Temper blazed on his face, and he kissed me so hard, I cried out with the pain. Q took advantage of my open mouth, plunging his tongue deep, almost choking with ferocity. When he finally let me breathe, he bit my neck and shook his head like a lion with prey. My skin stung then screamed as teeth punctured my skin.
“Fuck!” I jolted; he laughed.
His tongue lapped the wound, saliva stinging with liquor.
I squeezed my eyes and just lay there. “Why are you being so cruel?”
Tears pressed and my topsy-turvy emotions flicked from lust to lusty hate. “I wish the police arrested you.” I could never make up my mind which feeling was true when it came to Q. One moment, I thought I might be able to give him what he needed, be his slave if I got something more in return, other times, I wanted him dead.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 273
