I glared. “Are you deliberately ignoring my question?”
He shut down. Eyes hazy with a hangover, jaw clenched. I couldn’t understand his aloofness. His coldness.
The knock came again, interrupting the building tension.
Q sighed, withdrawing even further. “I have to go.”
I stood proudly, not covering myself in the blanket. I wanted him to see what he did to me. How I wore the marks with passion. They showed everything I’d become. I was no longer virgin snow. I was claimed. Used. “You’re going to leave in the middle of a discussion?”
His eyes fell to my ruined body, heat and distress flickering over his face. “Don’t confuse what happened last night. It was fucking between a drunk master and his slave. You gave me what I wanted. But it’s morning, and other things demand my attention.”
He couldn’t have hurt me more if he tried. My eyes narrowed, stinging with tears. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you want to believe, esclave. I’m leaving.”
My heart shut down. Esclave. Not Tess. He disowned me so simply.
Before I could ask what the hell was going on, he unlocked the door and disappeared.
*
I took the walk of shame down the circular stairs and into my bedroom. I showered and rubbed arnica into my bruises, before slipping on a beautiful grey dress I found hanging in the wardrobe.
I no longer had aversions to Q dressing me. After what he did last night, a simple wardrobe preference seemed trivial. I let him flay me open in every sense, but instead of feeling treasured and complete, I felt empty and regretful. He did things I never thought I could agree to, yet I never used the safe word. Because I felt safe with him.
But that was another lie. He ruined that safety when he left with no explanation. My jaw ached from clenching so hard. Q had no right to shut down and leave. He has every right. He’s your master.
He’s more than that—even if he denies it until he passes out.
I brushed my hair with fierce strokes. Maybe I deluded myself into believing he felt more than he did. He admitted to having fifty-seven women before…what did little ole me matter?
His drunk rambling echoed in my mind. Winter. Birds. Thawing.
I dropped the brush.
Holy fuck. Could it be true? Q bought women, not to abuse them, but to save them?
My mind couldn’t comprehend it. Not after the music of demons inside, not after everything he did to me. But my heart fluttered with hope.
Needing to learn the truth, I bolted from the room.
I found Suzette in the kitchen slicing carrots; she barely acknowledged me. Dark clouds rolled over the spring sunshine, casting shadows.
Mrs. Sucre gave me a half-hearted smile before disappearing into the pantry. My skin pricked with unwelcome. I was a traitor, an outcast.
I moved forward, pressing against the countertop, not entering the massive kitchen. I wasn’t brave enough to encroach on Suzette’s domain while she glared machetes at me.
Unbearable silence thickened; the house had a weird vibe. Tense, static, as if a storm brewed within.
Whiplashes twinged as I hunched. I had no right to feel ignored. What happened with the police was my fault.
“Suzette… what happened last night? Why didn’t the police arrest Q?” I started with an easy question. I needed to break the ice before confirming my suspicions. It made sense though—Suzette told me all along Q rescued her, but I’d been too pig-headed to listen.
She pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. “What do you think happened? The police came and accused Q of kidnapping you.”
“But they left. They must’ve found Q innocent, if they didn’t press charges.”
Suzette scoffed. “So much you don’t know, esclave. Things you’ve lost the right to learn.”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t realize how much I valued Suzette’s friendship. “I didn’t call the police. I called my boyfriend and told him about Q, but… that’s all.”
She stopped chopping. “And you think that makes it okay?” She closed her eyes, visibly forcing away her black mood. When she reopened, her hazel eyes sparkled, but no longer furious. “I know you were terrified when you first arrived. I know you suffered in Mexico. I know you missed your boyfriend—I can’t hate you for being a fighter, for running, for being brave. I just wish you’d given us more time before judging and making a bad decision.” She picked up the knife and resumed slicing.
Chills darted down my back. She spoke in past tense…
Mrs. Sucre opened an oven, and heavenly scents of cinnamon and sugar wafted as she removed perfectly cooked sweet buns. She placed them in front of me, waving a tea-towel, causing little wisps of steam to curl.
I tried to ignore racing heartbeats. I hated this feeling. This eerie sense of loss. “Mrs. Sucre. Have you seen Master Mercer? I need to speak with him.”
Suzette stiffened but didn’t look up.
She shook her head. “No. He left half an hour or so ago. I doubt he’ll be home for a while.”
Sadness rushed; I gripped the countertop. He left without a goodbye. What did you expect? Just because you let him whip you last night, you thought things would be different?
It shouldn’t hurt so much… it was to be expected. It was a week-day and he had an empire to run. But he didn’t just leave this morning. He ran. Something wasn’t right. “Oh,” was all I managed.
Mrs. Sucre gave me a compassionate look, sharp brown eyes assessing. With a soft smile, she passed me a warm bun. “Best eat, child. Never know when you’ll eat again.”
I locked eyes with her, shivers darting down my back. “Why won’t I know?” Instincts roared to life and I ran around the countertop to grab her wrist. “What do you mean?”
Suzette watched with wide eyes, anger changing to sadness. She opened her mouth to speak, but a masculine baritone came from behind me.
“She means your stay with us has come to an end, esclave.”
No.
Letting Mrs. Sucre go, I spun to face Franco. He stood, crisp and sharp, black shades on his head, the same folder Q first showed me when I arrived from Mexico in his hands. The file the kidnappers created. The file referring to me only as Blonde Girl on Scooter.
My heart convulsed. Q knew what he was doing the entire time. I was unbelievably stupid not to see it. Asking for one night to do what he wished. One night, because that’s all he needed. Then he kicked me out. The user. The bastard.
Franco came closer; I scuttled back, bumping into the warm, soft body of Mrs. Sucre. By throwing me out, Q tore me from people who cared more than my parents. The maternal comfort of Mrs. Sucre, the strange sisterhood with Suzette. Even my weird connection to Franco.
It was all over.
Franco smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stopped in front of me. Mrs. Sucre placed hands on my shoulders, offering support as Franco ducked to one knee and sliced through the GPS tracker. It fell off my ankle, clattering to the tiles.
The symbolism that Q no longer cared slapped like a bitch. He’d removed his protection, his strange affection. He was throwing me back to a world full of Brutes and Drivers.
“That’s it then? I have no say?” I fissured, hurting beyond comprehension. Q was too spineless to do this himself. He ordered his staff to remove me like an unwanted pet. I laughed morbidly. “I’m to be put down like some rabid poodle.” It might be best if I was shot. How would I cope with everything?
Franco chuckled. “Hardly, esclave. You’re going home.”
Home. The word didn’t conjure happiness and belonging anymore. It was foreign and bleak.
Q cast me back to a world I never wanted to return to. Tossing me out like the unwanted Christmas present.
Mrs. Sucre squeezed my shoulders, before dropping her hands and pushing me toward Franco. “Go, now. Put this all behind you.”
I dashed to Suzette, capturing her hands. Eyes flashed to mine; her pity made my heart blee
d. “I don’t want to go, Suzette. Running away was a huge mistake. You’ll explain to Q and let me stay, won’t you? You keep saying I’m good for him. That he’s a better man than I know. I want to be worthy, Suzette. I want to stay and hear his story.”
She unlatched my fingers, stepping back. “I know, Tess, but it’s too late. Q brokered a deal with the police. No charges will be brought against him if he sends you home. This is the only way.”
My heart ached so much it hurt to breathe. That was how he got the police to stay away. Giving me up to save his own ass.
“No! I can’t go. I want to stay. I need to stay.”
Franco appeared, gathering me in strong, prison-like arms. “Come along. We’re on a deadline.” And just like that, he carted me from the kitchen, away from Suzette, away from my new life.
As we walked through the lounge, I briefly contemplated hitting him and running. I could lock myself in the bedroom, and wait for Q to tell me himself he didn’t want me. But Franco was too strong. It would be pointless.
Franco marched me out the door, chuckling wryly. “Funny, how this began with me pushing you through the door to bow to your new master.” He laughed again before adding, “Never had to kick a slave out before.”
The lash marks Q gave me last night stood out in stark relief as my skin whitened in panic, reality hitting home. There was no stopping this. “I hated you that day and I hate you now.”
He nodded. “I understand, but I’m only following orders.”
In the same manicured field, with its windsock and landing lights, rested Q’s private plane with his initials. Wind whipped my hair into a snarl; black clouds above built with rain.
Seeing a chance, I said, “Should we really fly in such weather? It’s not safe.” I dug my heels in, trying to get free from Franco’s grasp. “Please, Franco. I want to stay. Call Q. Let me speak to him.”
He shook his head, propelling me toward the plane as if I wasn’t fighting at all. “Q doesn’t want to see you again, esclave. I’m sorry to say, but you’ve caused enough problems in his life.” His words stung but his tone was kind, sad.
I hung my head, giving in. Why fight? I couldn’t change my fate.
Franco helped me up the flight of steps and into the immaculate jet. Cream leather and honey wood was a prison. I slouched in the same chair as when I first flew. The same horror and grief from that night filled my lungs. I’m crazy. I’m going home! I should be excited.
The reoccurring theme in my life happened again. My parents didn’t want me. Brax didn’t fight to keep me. And Q… Q stole everything and then tossed me back into the shark infested waters of the world.
My hands curled. One thing was for sure, if Q was so heartless to do this, he didn’t deserve me. I glared at Franco as he loomed.
“It’s been fun, Tess. Just sit back and relax. We’ll have you home very soon.” He turned, and disappeared into the cockpit.
An airhostess appeared. Her blonde hair in a French twist and white uniform blazed with Q’s initials right over her breast. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to rip the uniform off and steal it. If anyone deserved to have Q’s initials branded over her tit, it was me. Shit, he’d owned every part of me last night.
Hot anger flowed and I wished I could tell Q exactly what I thought of him. The low-life coward.
He marked me to the core, all the while knowing he was sending me away. How did I not sense that? How did he lie so successfully?
Tears clouded my vision as the plane taxied, bumping on manicured grass. With a whir of sleek engines, we galloped down the strip, soaring into the air with a gust of turbulence and wind.
I twisted in my seat as Q’s pastel mansion shrank from imposing to miniature. Pressing a cold hand on the window, I gulped as black storm clouds swallowed the view, sending me into darkness.
Q stole my hopes and dreams, replacing my feelings with blackness and emptiness.
I was broken.
*
We crossed timelines in silence. Refuelled in places I didn’t care to know.
In a matter of hours, I left behind spring in France, and touched down in autumn Australia.
We taxied toward a private hangar while the moon danced in silver clouds. We left behind a gathering storm to arrive in a perfect, balmy night.
“Time to leave, esclave.” Franco appeared from the cockpit, holding out his arm to disembark.
Stomach filled with lead; I uncurled from my seat and stepped off the plane. I had no energy to scream or convince Franco this was a huge mistake. My brain hadn’t shut up the entire flight, and I was drained. There was no point rehashing everything when Q no longer cared.
I followed like a good sheep as Franco led me into a building reserved for exclusive arrivals. I looked over my shoulder to stare one last time at Q’s plane. It would be the last thing I would see of his.
My heart squeezed and hardened. Calligraphy letters—Q.M—taunted me. The plane belonged to a different world. A world I was no longer privileged to enjoy.
I grew from timid girl with secret fantasies, to a fighter who would happily kill her captors in Mexico, to a strong woman who embraced her true desires, to a broken, tired girl who only wanted to sleep and forget—a full, sick circle.
I did the unthinkable: I broke myself, and fell for my master.
Fuck you, Q.
I stared at the floor as Franco spoke rapidly to a customs officer, handing over what I assumed was fake documentation. A conversation later and a nod from both men, Franco placed his hand on the small of my back, pushing me from airside to Melbourne soil.
Warm, dry Australian air swirled with a gentle breeze. Despite the fact I didn’t want to be here, I sucked in a lungful. The scents of Melbourne tickled memories and a small wave of comfort descended. Home.
I just have to relearn how to belong. The thought overwhelmed. I had to go back to fibbing to myself and Brax. Go through the motions of living with no excitement or intoxicating thread of sexual fear. Oh, God.
Franco grunted as I slammed to a halt. “Keep going, escl—, I mean, Ms. Snow.”
I spun to face him. “Take me back. I don’t belong here anymore.”
He scowled. “I can’t take you back. The French police will know. That was the deal. Mr. Mercer has a long standing arrangement with the authorities.”
My ears pricked. “What long standing arrangement?”
Franco sighed, glaring. “For a slave, you ask a lot of damn questions.”
“I’m no longer a slave. Tell me.”
He grumbled. “If you’d listened and paid attention, Mr. Mercer isn’t in the game of keeping slaves.”
The revelation wasn’t earth-shattering, I had figured out as much. Q and his frustrating tipsy comments. “Give me something I don’t know. I’m number fifty-eight. That means he’s had fifty-seven before. That makes him a dealer in women.” I couldn’t stand it. The thought of Q having so many women made me want to kick and punch and scream. Now I was gone, there would be more. Undoubtedly. “But I know he did it for the right reasons. He helped them… didn’t he?” I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t, not for that.
Franco grabbed my bicep, jerking me to the side, away from prying ears. He muttered, “Yes, Mr. Mercer has had fifty-seven slaves. Twelve of those were when he was sixteen. He buys women, accepts them as bribes, but never lays a finger on them.” He sighed, “Q rehabilitates broken women, and returns them to their loved ones. He dedicates his money, staff, and home to helping women who’ve been shattered beyond repair. With some sort of Mercer superglue, he manages to put them together again.”
Truth rang sweet. I finally knew.
After two months of living with an unreadable master, I knew the man behind the mask. Suzette hinted all along—the sparrows and birds screamed messages in my face. They symbolized women Q had saved. My eyes widened, finally understanding his tattoo. The black storm and brambles represented the horridness of the world—or him. The birds flapping free were girls he res
cued. He wore it as a talisman. A badge of honour.
If I didn’t hate him, I’d love him for that.
I softened, accepting why Q threw me out. He had to protect future women. He couldn’t have me ruining his life because he dedicated his time to saving others. I hated that I understood. I would’ve done the same thing.
My heart wrung dry and I accepted there was no going back. Franco would never betray Q. I had to know one thing, though.
I looked up. “Why me? When he didn’t touch anyone else? Why did he try to break me if he fixes broken things?”
Franco looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “He didn’t want to break you. He—” Lips snapped shut, and shame shadowed his face. “This isn’t for me talk about.”
I grabbed his arm, squeezing hard muscle. “Please, Franco. Tell me. I need to know. I can’t deal with anymore. I thought Q cared for me. I care for him, and I made the biggest mistake of my life running and calling Brax.” Tears welled and spilled. “If I could take it all back, I would. You owe me the truth.”
Franco patted my hand over his. “I know, Ms. Snow, but it doesn’t change the fact that for the first time, Q responded to a slave the way a normal master would. He saw your fight and loved you weren’t broken. He wasn’t trying to break you by doing what he did.” He dropped his voice so I could barely hear. “He was hoping you could break him.”
Blood rushed into my ears. The songs about needing to fight and claim. I wanted to slap myself for not seeing. Q needed someone who matched his darkness, waged the same war between pleasure and pain.
We were so similar, yet he never let me get close to show him. I ruined it. The police gave an ultimatum, and Q had no choice but to accept.
Swallowing hard, Franco added, “Q deals with a lot. I hoped he finally found the one person who could help him. But then you ran, and it’s come to an end.”
Franco dropped his arms, stepping back, withdrawing in one swift move. “I’m sorry for what you dealt with in Mexico, and what Lefebvre did to you, but it’s time for you to forget about Mr. Mercer, and go back to your boyfriend.”
The mention of Brax shot a poker through my heart. What a terrible girlfriend I turned out to be. If Q wanted me, I would never have left. I would’ve let Brax fumble without me, stomping on my promise that I would never leave. Will I ever live with myself?
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 276
