Tears of Tess

by Pepper Winters

  I had an insane urge to laugh. It was complete overkill. I had a barcode tattooed into my flesh, a beacon in my neck, and a GPS on my foot. I glared, hating him as much as I hated the men in Mexico. What happened to the other women? Did the little Asian girl who was as fierce as me end up in the same circumstances?

  The man picked up the paper from the floor and passed it to me. “This is all I have on you. I want to know more.”

  I took it and my throat closed.

  Subject: Blonde Girl on Scooter

  Barcode reference: 302493528752445

  Age: Twenty to thirty

  Temperament: Angry and violent

  Sexual status: Not virgin

  Sexual heath: No diseases

  Ownership guidelines: Recommend strict punishment to break temper. Trim body, fit enough for extreme activities.

  History: No living relatives

  Oh, God. Brax. Did that mean he didn’t survive? No, I’d feel it if he were gone for good. Wouldn’t I? Something would break inside; become a void if he was gone forever.

  I looked up, wide-eyed, hoping for some sort of compassion, something to latch onto while I swirled in misery, but the man stayed straight and taut, eyes closed off.

  “What is your name?” he asked, French accent floating over me. I’d always thought the French accent was sexy, suave. Now, all I wanted to do was throw up and rip my ears off.

  Anger dispelled my fear about Brax, and I snarled, “If I’m no one, why do you want to know my name?”

  A flash of erotic yearning flickered across his face. “You’re right. It’s not necessary. However, it’s a lonely existence if no one calls you by your name.” The way he said it bristled with dark intensity. Don’t try to get my sympathy vote. You don’t know true loneliness.

  “Why did you buy me?”

  He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I didn’t. You were a gift. An unwanted gift.” His lips twitched. “A bribe, if you will.”

  My stomach coiled like a viper. I’d been given to someone who didn’t even want me. At least if someone had bought me, spent a lot of money, they might treat me a little better. Like a prized racehorse or an expensive breed of cat. But this… I was an unwanted present. Like a pair of hand knitted jumpers at Christmas.

  “What will you do with me?” My voice was barely a whisper.

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “You don’t think my future is any of my concern?”

  “No. Because your future is mine.”

  I breathed hard at the unfairness.

  He stood, looking down at me. In a flash of movement, he pressed me into the chair, hands over mine on the armrests. I stopped breathing. I stopped everything. I was immobile.

  His gaze captured mine, holding me prisoner in their pale green depths. Something dark and urgent flashed, then disappeared. Eyes dropped to my lips and his mouth parted.

  The heavy, heated air from the fire seared us. Every crackle of flames made me twitch.

  Do not move. Do not move.

  Finally, the man pulled back. It looked like it took a lot of effort and he readjusted himself discreetly. “Don’t you want to know who you belong to?”

  The jump from overbearing to questioning took a while to catch up. Slowly, I shook my head. Why would I want to know his name when I had no intention of using it? “No.”

  Nostrils flared, and he strode away. His suit whispered with every footstep and he paused in the doorway.

  “You have to call me something, and I don’t want master or owner. You’re ordered to call me Q.”

  “Q?”

  He didn’t answer. Striding away, he said over a shoulder, “My staff will show you to your room. Remember. Don’t try to escape. There isn’t any.”

  *Blackbird*

  The moment Q left the library, a silhouette appeared. I jumped a mile, holding my chest.

  Images of a dark minion throwing me in a cellar to live with rats, filled me with fear. I tried to stay calm, remembering Q hadn’t liked my injuries. I doubted he’d make me sleep in a dank dungeon where I could get sick. After all, if I died of pneumonia where was the fun in that?

  The girl, probably mid-twenties, with chestnut hair plaited in a tidy knot, smiled. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her accent was soft and feminine; hazel eyes glowed in dusky skin. Why the hell was she working for a man like Q?

  Did she know who I was? What I was?

  “Please, follow me.” She motioned out the door and into the foyer. “Do you have possessions with you?” she asked as we walked awkwardly side by side.

  My eyes popped wide, and I snorted darkly. “No, I don’t have any possessions.”

  I was one.

  The thought snatched me around the throat. I had to stop thinking that. I wasn’t anything but Tess. I’d survive.

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. I’m sure Maître Mercer can arrange a new wardrobe.”

  “Mercer?” I trotted beside her up the flight of stairs. The thick blue carpet was like a cloud between my toes. Hang on, Q told me not to speak to the staff. I paused, weighing if talking to this girl was worth whatever punishment he’d grant. I curled my hands.

  Screw it, for the first time in a week, someone wanted to talk rather than order or demand.

  “The owner of this household. He’s—well, he’s the master.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I wanted words like fair and a nice employer. Not for the maid to flush and shut up.

  In silence, we walked down the longest corridor I’d seen in my life and ascended another twirling staircase before stopping outside a white lacquered door.

  “This is yours. I’ve arranged for new bedding, and prepared it for your arrival.”

  How long did they know I was coming? Days? Weeks? Fluffing sheets and ironing towels for an unwanted bribe. Who gave a stolen woman as a present, and for what? My mind ran with thoughts of drug dealing, or illegal weaponry, something completely far out to warrant a trafficked girl as collateral. Underhanded bastard Q.

  I steeled against using his name. Q. What a ridiculous title.

  I opened the door and slammed to a halt. I wanted to laugh. Sure, I was surrounded by elegant wealth, but I was a lowly slave and didn’t deserve space, or light, or niceties.

  Stark and bare, the bedroom did nothing to invite or warm. The single bed, wardrobe, and shelves looked barren and unwelcoming, but the linen smelled clean and the air was fresh.

  It was a cell, for all intents and purposes, but thankfulness swelled at having my own room with a hygienic bed. After a week in the Mexican trafficker jail, this was five stars.

  My heart plummeted at the thought of Brax. He would hate the thought of me living here. Even our tiny, one bedroom apartment was comfy and designer style. Many a weekend, Brax knocked together a DIY project, the last being a sleigh bed from an old gum tree. This little room rested inside a mansion—owned by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use me, however he wanted.

  Oxygen turned to soup and I gave up trying to be fierce. Tears glassed my vision and spilled. My life would never be the same.

  The maid tutted in concern, pushing me toward the bed. “There, there. Don’t cry. You have your own bathroom, and we can get some personal things to decorate.” Her warm arm descended timidly around my shoulders and I rocked.

  Now I was here, in the destination of my fate, I lost strength. I wanted to stay angry and strong, but pity and loss swelled.

  The simple contact of a caring woman unbuckled me.

  I sobbed.

  Into my hands, into a pillow, into sleep.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, I was left to my own devices. I showered, and dressed in my sack of a sweater. Not knowing, or caring, if clothes had been bought for me. The rebellion at such a simple thing kept my fire smouldering deep inside.

  I left my socks off and padded bare foot down the staircase. I could only assume I’d been put in the staff quarters. The ruckus at five a.m., with people ha
ving showers and preparing for the day, kept me up.

  Not that I slept. I was foggy headed with tears and awoke with a splitting headache, but crying purged me, leaving me eerily empty and ready to face my new future.

  One thing niggled, though. I didn’t have experience in the way of slavery and ownership, but found it surprising Q let me wander freely with no supervision. Probably some sort of chauvinistic mind game and power trip.

  I couldn’t shed my apprehension as I entered the lounge and followed the sounds of cutlery clinking. Scents of freshly brewed coffee coaxed me forward, despite trepidation. My mouth watered for caffeine.

  Rounding the corner, I halted as the kitchen came into view. Pale green tiles ran floor to ceiling, acting like a coloured mirror. They’re the same colour as Q’s eyes.

  I had to admit my strange new owner had taste. White cabinetry with silver handles glinted like fresh snow, thanks to the sun streaming from the massive skylight. Three stainless steel ovens, a huge cooktop, and a fridge big enough to fit a whole cow completed the huge expanse. Another room, with a temperate gauge and wooden shelving, housed countless bottles of wine. No doubt from a vineyard close-by if we were, indeed, in France.

  The girl who’d been so kind to me last night, smiled behind a counter. “Bonjour. Are you hungry?”

  I didn’t think I could eat with all the strangeness, but nodded anyway. I had to keep my strength, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been fed. No wait, I did remember—the night Leather Jacket tried to rape me. Fucking bastard.

  My lips curled, thinking how quickly I’d gone from a girl who never cursed, to a gutter mouth. In a way, it gave me strength, being crude and crass.

  My stomach growled, taking control out of my hands.

  The maid giggled. “Guess that answers the question. But before we can feed you, the master requested you join him. He’s in the dining room.” She cocked her head at the other end of the lounge. A pair of sliding glass doors blocked a decadent, old English style dining room.

  Q sat at the head of the table. A newspaper spread wide, blocking his face.

  Seeing him sent barbwire tangling around my stomach. The house lulled me into some sense of acceptance, but I’d never get used to being owned—of being someone’s slave.

  Not that he bought me, only accepted as a bribe. Curiosity rose, wanting to know what I was accepted for, but I shoved it away. I didn’t care as I wouldn’t be staying long. I’d find a way to run—soon.

  I shook my head, looking back at the maid. “I’m not seeing him.”

  The maid stilled, hands full of pastries. “You have no choice. He summons. You go. That’s the law.”

  “Law?” My eyebrow twitched. I instantly hated the word. The law was something officers upheld. A word implying safety, not rules dictated by a mad man.

  “Law.” The masculine baritone came from behind. His presence sent chills up and down my spine. I didn’t jump. I prided myself on that, but I’d have to get used to how silently he moved. I did not want to be snuck up on, surprised, and taken advantage of.

  Keeping my head high and back straight, I turned to face the master.

  “I obey no such law.”

  Q growled, rubbing a hand over his stubbly cheek. His dark brown hair was glossy, short, almost like a pelt rather than hair. His wintery green gaze froze me to the core. Dressed in a graphite suit with silver shirt and black tie, he looked distinguished, intelligent.

  I cried out as he grabbed me. “I summon. You come. That’s the only law you need to understand. I am your owner. You haven’t forgotten that so soon, have you?”

  He marched me through the lounge and into the dining room. Tossing me into a high backed chair at a table set for twenty people, he breathed hard and leaned over me. “You are mine. You are mine. Repeat that until it gets into your head. You cannot disobey. Unless...” A glint of interest smouldered in his eyes. “Unless you want to be punished?”

  My heart kicked into high gear, thrumming with hummingbird wings. I shook my head hard. My tongue turned useless, incapable of speech. I’d never been so overpowered by someone’s sheer will, but Q flattened me with his intense demeanour. How could I hope to disobey when he only had to threaten with mere words and I turned horribly docile?

  “You’ve forgotten how to fight, so soon?” His accent thickened and fingers captured my chin, pressing painfully. A rumble sounded in his chest, and, fast as lightning, he kissed me.

  The force of the attack crashed my head against the back of the chair, radiating pain in my temples. His lips forced mine open, and a tongue darted into my mouth, stealing my will, my fight. He stole everything with one touch.

  Growling, his tongue plundered mine ruthlessly, out of control. Fingers trailed from my chin to throat, circling possessively; an unspoken threat that he could kill me and no one would know or care. I was his—to do with how he pleased.

  I moaned and scratched his face with ragged nails.

  He jerked back, breathing like an angry bull. His lips glistened from ravaging my mouth, leaving the taste of rich coffee and something darker—a promise of more.

  He glared, swiping his cheek with a shirt cuff. It came away with a drip of crimson. His body tensed at the sight of blood.

  My heart swelled with pride. He may be able to molest me, but he wouldn’t stay whole while he did.

  Grabbing a napkin from the table, he patted his cheek. “You will obey. Don’t make me use you like any other buyer would do.”

  “Isn’t that what you mean to do anyway? Rape and ruin me?”

  Throwing the napkin down, he stalked back to his chair at the head of the table. The discarded newspaper crackled as he placed hands in front of him. Every move was precise, calculated, as if he knew every nuance illustrated domination.

  Four place settings separated us, giving a sense of space. I breathed easier, wishing the taste of darkness and sin would leave. Why did he have to kiss me? A kiss meant intimacy and romance, but that kiss—it claimed me more than any kiss from Brax. It made me hate Q all the more.

  Ignoring my question, he demanded, “What is your name?”

  I crossed my arms, glaring. Never.

  “Fine,” he barked. “I’ll call you Dove, until you answer. Like the grey-blue of your eyes.”

  My heart tinkled into tiny, irreplaceable pieces. Dove? Anger ran up my neck and flamed as memories of Brax swarmed. The soft toy he bought me when I was in hospital. The many times he called me his little Dove.

  “No!” I screamed, violence etching my tone.

  He didn’t even blink at my outburst. Deliberately, he ran a finger along his bottom lip, glaring coldly. His face shadowed with authority, and to my utter shame, my nipples hardened. My body recalled the way he kissed—responding to every part I dare not acknowledge, parts I wished didn’t exist. It made me feel as if I led him on—invited all of this to happen with my twisted desires.

  Holy hell, did I invite this by wanting to be rougher with Brax? Did my fate decide I had a life too perfect and granted my sick desires in the worst way possible?

  I couldn’t breathe. I stared at the tablecloth as the maid entered the room with a dainty knock, and placed a plate of poached eggs in front of me. She bowed slightly to Q, putting the same in front of him.

  Even though my limbs were weak with hunger, I pushed the plate away. How could I eat when I disgusted myself? All of this was my fault. I was responsible with my screwed up perversions.

  “Eat, damn you,” Q ordered, face stoic.

  After everything I’d been through, after the breath stealing kiss, and the bloody Mexicans, and my stupid naivety—I could go on and on—I embraced my gutter mouth. “Fuck. You.”

  Eyes widened and jaw clenched, but he didn’t retaliate. He cut a delicate mouthful, chewing carefully. Every bite controlled and precise, as if he kept a tight rein on himself at all times. What did he battle with? Because he battled, I saw that in his eyes.

  “If you won’t tell me your n
ame, tell me something else about you.”

  Why did he want to know? He’d already said nothing else mattered but being his.

  Swallowing, I stared outside, toward the terrace and the huge bird table swarming with noisy sparrows and blackbirds. The manicured gardens, with perfect hedges and bare flowers, glittered with frost like sparkly lace. From hot Mexico to winter in France, I missed home miserably.

  Q put his knife and fork down, placing hands in his lap. I made the mistake of looking at him, and we engaged in another staring competition. I yelled and screamed silently while he sat and dominated with unsaid threats.

  He broke the contest, murmuring, “You have two choices.”

  My ears pricked, but I pretended insolence. Two choices. Try three. Whatever the first two, the third was escape. I’d make it happen. I’d laser my tattoo off, cut the GPS tag off my ankle, and find a way to remove the node in my neck. I may have brought this on myself, but I would get myself out.

  Q continued in his deep, accented voice, “One, I rape you, hurt you, do everything you expect of me, and make you live a miserable existence.”

  I narrowed my eyes, watching closely. His shoulders tensed on the word rape, but excitement heated his gaze, too. Why the two emotions? One hot and wanting, the other repulsed and angry. Lacing fingers together, I squeezed. Fear threatened to close my throat.

  “Or, tell me about yourself, and, if you have a skill I need, I’ll put you to work in other ways.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Other ways?”

  Regret flickered across his face so quickly, I wondered if I imagined it. He nodded infinitesimally. “Other ways.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Tell me first.”

  He slammed his hands on either side of his plate, rattling the china. “Goddammit, girl, I’m offering you a choice. But it doesn’t mean I can’t take that choice away.” He breathed hard and his anger sent fear spiralling inside.