Monsters in the Dark

by Winters, Pepper

  Tears caught in my throat. “I told you what you want. I’m yours. Please, give it back. I’m yours!”

  His powerful body tightened, buttoning his blazer with precise movements. The silver tantalized in his fingers before he shoved it into a suit pocket. “You say the words but you don’t believe it. I told you. I don’t like liars.”

  He turned and opened the door, fingers turning white around the doorknob. “Stay up here. Your punishment for not obeying is starvation. Good night.”

  Swiping his face, he left.

  Chapter Twelve

  *Wren*

  That night, I dreamed.

  I dreamed of red and passion and violence. Of being taken, owned, possessed—of Q filling me with hardness, fucking me over the pool table.

  I woke to my fingers sliding in my wetness. Toes curled and back arched as the orgasm Q denied me rippled with an intensity echoing in my teeth.

  My heart raced as I came back to earth, uncramping my feet. A damp spot formed below my ass and cheeks pinked with how wet I was. But lying in the dark, stomach empty, heart ruined, I found peace.

  My body no longer throbbed, and for the first time in weeks, I slept soundly.

  * * *

  Time slowed.

  Seconds crawled into unwilling minutes, turning into tomorrow and next week. Q didn’t come find me, and I never saw him return home from work.

  But I knew when he arrived, as the house filled with passionate music. Lyrics thrummed, stroking with warning. He lived in the same house as me—any moment he could come, but never did.

  Most of the time, music throbbed with French laments, but then one night, an English song rained from the speakers.

  Every second my temper frays, every moment my beast desires

  you think you can win, but you’re not consumed by sin

  delicate and sweet are no match for hell and ruin

  I don’t want you to see the depth of my blackness

  for there-in lie demons and madness

  don’t look in my eyes, the truth is not for you

  you should run, you should flee, you should hide away forever

  I couldn’t describe the loneliness aching in my bones. The song reached like a plea, freezing me with confusion.

  Ever since that night and the painful song, I couldn’t shake the feeling Q tried to tell me something in the music he played. But I couldn’t believe it, because if I did—what did that mean? I couldn’t feel sorry for my captor. I had to remain aloof, distant. Be that icicle—sharp and deadly.

  Life settled into a rhythm: an unwanted rhythm, but an ebb and flow nevertheless. I drifted along, wondering why Q granted peace and left me alone. Did he grow bored of his new possession already? Or did work demand his time and grace me with a limited amount of freedom?

  Whatever the reason, Sunday burned my memory as the day Q twisted my emotions so much, I found a place inside where I could run. In a way, he taught me how to save myself, even as he broke me further.

  Five days passed, each one scratched on a calendar of waiting. My life existed to dust and clean, while Suzette helped smooth my rusty French. I stared longingly at the front door, wanting freedom, but the green-eyed guard was never far away. Watching, always watching.

  The only bright spot was Suzette. She welcomed me with open arms into the Mercer household, and became the rock in the turbulent seas I swam.

  She never pried, always chatted about nothing and everything, giving me a sense of normalcy. Every now and again, I caught her watching, a frown on her face and curiosity in her gaze. She plotted something, but I didn’t know what.

  Even Mrs. Sucre tolerated my presence in the kitchen, as I became a permanent feature—helping prepare evening meals and hovering in the welcome embrace of the busy hub.

  Suzette supplied rags and brooms and gave me chores. They helped keep boredom at bay; I needed it. Boredom brought thoughts of escape and endangerment. But no amount of scrubbing stopped my heart twinging every time I remembered Q had Brax’s bracelet.

  A cold sweat would drench my back at the thought of him smashing it to smithereens to teach me a lesson—ruining something of mine to get back at me for ruining something of his.

  He hadn’t replaced the clothes I slashed. For a week, I scuffed around in the same jeans and cream jumper, but I didn’t care. Suzette mourned the items more than I did. To me, they signified a gaudy uniform: an outfit for a toy.

  While cleaning the windows in the lounge on Friday, I contemplated hurling myself through the glass. Not to die, but to get outside. The fluttering of birds and gentle thawing of winter taunted. I hadn’t been outside in weeks.

  The thought of smashing the glass and bleeding to death stopped the urge, but it didn’t deflate the need to run. Surely, this mansion had a gym—a treadmill. Running stationary would be better than no running at all. Q kept fit so he must have equipment somewhere.

  My anklet buzzed, shocking me. I sat on one of the fluffy couches and hoisted my jeans. Why did it buzz? The GPS tracker drove me nuts—a constant nuisance when I tried to sleep or dress. I had hoped it wasn’t waterproof, and spent an hour trying to drown it in the shower. Turned out, it was waterproof.

  “Esclave?” Suzette asked, appearing in the doorway. “Maître Mercer just called. He has a business dinner tonight with prospective clients.”

  I stood, stretching. The one good thing about Q not coming for me meant my body

  healed. The bruises from Leather Jacket faded to an ugly yellow, and my rib ached, rather than screamed.

  The slap from Q hadn’t caused any damage, unfortunately. I had the feeling he wanted to hurt me, but didn’t quite have the balls. I wish he had branded me, and it horrified him so much, those feelings never strengthened.

  I didn’t want to listen, but my gut said he’d get worse. I had to escape before instincts proved true. Suzette was wrong about him—there were no redeeming qualities. And I wouldn’t be suckered in by songs with lyrics oozing sadness.

  “Do you want help preparing the meal?” I smiled. Cooking with Suzette was a highlight of my restrictive new life. I never cooked a lot, as Brax had been the chef in our family, but I found a flair for it. My heart lurched at the thought of Brax. Memories constantly caught me unaware, and I wanted to mourn, but at the same time, couldn’t. I wouldn’t accept he was dead, or that I’d never see him again. It wasn’t an option.

  Suzette came forward. Something changed; she watched with sadness and resignation. My skin prickled as she asked, “Is it easier?”

  I knew immediately what she meant and pursed my lips. Easier? It would never get easier.

  She sighed, whispering, “Has he taken you fully yet?”

  My heart raced to see jealousy flashing in her eyes. She was jealous? Of what? Being humiliated and used?

  I stepped away. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  She dropped her eyes. “I need to know. Tonight… this business meeting. I need to know how prepared you are.”

  Relief coursed. If I could handle what I’d been through, I could handle a dinner party. After all, a role as a servant or waitress would be a lot easier than sucking off a man who forced me. My pulse thudded. Perhaps I could tell one of the guests Q kept me prisoner. That I needed the police.

  A smile tugged, but I fought it. Suzette mustn’t know my hopes. But then my happiness disintegrated, rethinking the idea. The men were probably like Q: sick fucks.

  She stared for a moment, before nodding. “You don’t need to help with dinner. We’ve got it covered. You need to head upstairs and get ready. The guests will arrive in an hour.”

  My eyes flew to outside, gauging the time. The sun kissed horizon, already giving brightness to shadow. When did it get so late?

  Suzette pushed me toward the stairs, murmuring, “Can I ask another question?”

  I stiffened, but nodded. “Okay.”

  “Don’t you find him attractive?”

  I slammed to a stop in the foyer. “Attract
ion has nothing to do with it, Suzette. It’s the circumstances, the way he treats me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Q treats you better than all my owners ever treated me. You’re so lucky.” Her tone turned sullen. “You don’t even know.”

  Anger thickened and I couldn’t speak. I felt sorry for her and what she lived through, but to say I had it better? Hah!

  She continued, “Just think of his requests as rent money, or protection expenses. You give him what he wants, and he’ll take care of you. Q won’t ever seriously hurt you. Not like—” Suzette shuddered and stopped. Hazel eyes flashed with secrets buried in their depths. “Give him what he needs, then you can test the boundaries of your cage.”

  Curiosity overrode anger. I took a deep breath and asked softly, “What men, Suzette? How did you come to be here? Were you stolen, like me?”

  She twisted her fingers, looking at the marble floor. “The day I was sold to Q was the best da—”

  The front door swung open and the devil himself stood framed in twilight. His hair was slightly shorter, as if he’d instructed the hair dresser to make it look like an otter’s pelt—sleek, shiny, impenetrable. A light silver suit and turquoise shirt made him look like an expensive jewel.

  His eyes shot to mine, naked without his normal barriers. In the brief moment, I saw bone weary loneliness, surprise, and protectiveness. My heart ached to see such longing. What if Suzette was right? Q was deeper than I gave him credit for. Something lurked, dark and vile, but there was a human, as well as a monster, inside.

  My body was torn between offering to dispel such unhappiness and killing him to end his misery, and mine.

  Blank hardness hid his true thoughts, shattering the moment. I hadn’t seen him since he stole Brax’s bracelet, avoiding me like the plague, as if giving me time to grieve, to get over his thievery.

  My fingers rubbed my wrist absentmindedly and his eyes followed. His face shut down, leaving nothing but domineering arrogance. “Suzette, I thought I told you to get her ready?”

  Suzette bowed. “Oui, maître.” Pushing me gently, she added, “Get dressed into the gown you’ll find in your wardrobe.”

  “And if you ruin that one, the punishment will be a lot worse,” Q murmured. His tone rippled across my skin, sending fire into my blood.

  I ran up the stairs.

  Safe in the cell of a room, I opened the wardrobe and gasped.

  The one and only garment was nothing but gold lace. Long, clinging filigree, offering no coverage apart from a thicker weave around the groin and chest. The fabric train whispered against the floor as I plucked it from the wardrobe.

  I was dumbfounded.

  Oh, my God, he expected me to wear this? To dinner? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  The door burst open; I clutched the dress to my throat. The guard, with the bright green eyes, glared. His body, much wider than Q’s, intimidated. “Mr. Mercer sent me to make sure you dressed correctly.” His gaze slithered over me, and he puffed his chest. “Strip. I’ll help, if you require.”

  I recoiled in horror. Q wouldn’t let his guard have me, would he? I didn’t think he would, but who knew. The air in the tiny room sucked into nothing. I breathed hard. “I need privacy.”

  He shook his head. “No privacy.”

  Gritting my teeth, I didn’t move. I deliberated screaming and ramming into him, but realistically, what would it achieve? Q proved to me, I had no power here. As much as it killed me, I had no choice.

  My shoulders fell in surrender; his lips curled. I turned away, my hands shaking as I laid the dress on the bed and pulled the jumper over my head. My skin crawled, knowing the man watched.

  I shimmied from my jeans, and left them on the floor. Reaching for the dress, I tried to figure out how to put it on when a heavy palm fell on my shoulder. “Take off your underwear. You aren’t allowed to wear anything under the dress.”

  My entire body revolted, and I leaped away, running to the corner of the room. His touch didn’t infect me like Q’s. I didn’t warm or react; I tightened and crackled with unwillingness.

  The guard snorted, holding up his arms. “I’m not going to touch you, girl. That’s the maître’s right.” His eyelids dropped as excitement glowed. “However, the guests will also get a turn tonight.”

  What? My ears rang. No. Please. Horrid realization buckled my knees. The dinner party—there would be no dinner. I was to be the main course. Betrayal settled deep in my heart. I hated Q, but never believed he’d be able to let another touch me. Not with the possessive edge surrounding him.

  The guard held out a hand. “Give me your bra and panties. The guests will arrive any moment, and you’re to be in place before they do.”

  My hands curled with the urge to punch his ruggedly handsome face—to make him bleed. But again, what would it achieve? Nothing. The result would be the same, just more painful.

  I unclipped my bra and threw it. I refused to give him my knickers—those I kicked behind, wadding them against the wall.

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t sniff them, if that’s what’s worrying your pretty head. Wouldn’t put it past the master, though.” He chuckled loudly, way too impressed with his joke.

  Keeping my head high, I scrunched the dress and pulled it over my head. I had to wriggle to inch the clingy material down. The spun threads offered no protection from eyes or temperature, and by the time it encased me fully, I felt trapped.

  I could only walk with dainty steps, and my breasts strained as filigree designs stamped patterns into my skin.

  The train pooled around my feet, looking like a golden mermaid’s tail—a poor creature who didn’t belong. I related completely.

  The moment I finished, the guard grabbed my tattooed wrist, carting me downstairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  *Finch*

  I bit my lip as we descended the stairs and entered an entirely new room. It reeked of sex and money and power. Quintessentially Q, his signature scent of lust and darkness permeated the air.

  Crimson booths surrounded a tiny pedestal, round and high—for a priceless figurine or statue. Leather straps with cuffs dangled from the ceiling in the centre. Heavy drapery blocked large windows, and thick black carpeting silenced any noise.

  The room was a decadent tomb.

  The guard let me go, only for me to be caught by Q. Where the hell did he come from? I’d never get used to how silently he moved.

  My skin singed beneath his touch; arcs of animalistic hunger scattered across my body. Q sucked in a breath. I wasn’t the only one this crazy need affected. I cursed my body for responding. I needed some serious counselling. I shouldn’t grow wet when a man who lived to make my life hell touched me. I shouldn’t have mixed emotions of hatred and need. I should just hate.

  He jerked me against his chest, never looking away. “Esclave...” He ran his nose along my cheek, dipping to my neck and collarbone. His hot breath increased heart flurries to a million a second. I wanted to run fingers through his hair, to press my hips against his—but I swallowed the diabolical urges. That wasn’t what I really wanted to do. I want to slit his throat so I can run home to Brax.

  Sharp teeth nipped my throat, stealing my balance.

  It’d been a week since his last touch, but it could’ve been a minute or a millennium and I would’ve exploded the same. I hated him. He turned everything against me and it hurt, so much.

  Walking me backward, lips on my neck and hands on my waist, he steadied us when I connected with the pedestal and tripped. Taking my hand, he helped me perch on the platform. He gazed up, face at chest height, lust glowing in lime coloured eyes.

  Unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around me, dragging my breasts against his face. Keeping me prisoner, he licked through the holes of the dress, sending wet trails scorching.

  “Stop,” I whimpered, cursing my trembling stomach and melting core.

  To my surprise, he obeyed and stepped up, joining me on the podium. With a slight smile, he reached above
and caught the leather cuffs.

  I couldn’t look away as he pulled my right arm up and wrapped the leather cuff around my wrist. The buckles tightened and I sucked in a breath. It reminded too much of Mexico, the tattoo, inspection, injection. My fear consumed, and I jerked away. My shoulder bellowed as I tried to get free. I shoved Q in panic, tugging at the cuff, fingers fumbling to undo the buckle.

  Q laughed softly, rubbing his lower lip with a thumb. “I’ll let you in on a secret, esclave. This is a first for me, too.” His hand dropped, cupping his erection through his trousers. “And it turns me the fuck on, watching you struggle.”

  Two things I wanted most in the world: for Q to die a miserable death, and for him to fuck me. Being restrained highlighted all my stupid fantasies; I couldn’t stop the building moisture. Wetness coated my inner thighs as Q gathered me closer.

  “Fuck, tu me rends fou.” Fuck, you make me hot. His voice throbbed, making me ache, yearn.

  My heart broke a little more. He owned my sense of hearing as well as my sense of smell. I couldn’t ignore the baritone of seduction, or the overwhelming need to obey.

  Q pushed my left arm up and secured it. My lungs stuck together when he stepped back, leaving me shackled with arms in the air. My ribcage rose and fell with panicked breathing, igniting pain. “You can’t do this.”

  He cocked his head. “I just did.”

  “You know what I mean.” Swallowing back fear, I added brazenly, “You don’t want to do this. Something in you doesn’t want to abuse me. I can sense it.”

  He froze, nostrils flaring. We stood, silently glaring, before he fisted my hair. “You don’t know anything, esclave. I want this. I’ve wanted this for too damn long, and you’re wrong that it hurts.” His chest strained in his immaculate suit as he leaned in, kissing the shell of my ear. He whispered, “I’m not afraid of hurting you. I’m afraid of how far I’m willing to go.”

  If not restrained, I would’ve collapsed.

  “Maître, vos invités sont arrivés,” Suzette said. The guests are here.