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 n**ples 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 name, 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.
He called me girl, and yet, I doubted he was much older. Early thirties at the latest. But age didn’t matter when he shouted. He scared me more than Leather Jacket did. At least with him, I knew the man I fought. Q, I had no idea.
Trying to focus, I sucked in a breath. Q offered me a choice. If I wanted to escape, I had to bide my time. If Q put me to work, I might have more opportunity than being tied to a bed.
I mirrored him, placing hands on the table, strengthening my resolve. “What do you want to know?”
His shoulders relaxed a little, but the hardness in his pale green gaze never left. “Where are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
“Do you speak any other language but English?”
I shook my head.
He snorted. “That’s the first thing to change. I refuse to speak English for long periods. It’s a boring language. You will learn French.” Waving the comment away, he asked, “What other education do you have?”
I walked a spider’s web, one wrong answer and I tickled the wrong strand, inviting choice number one of rape and ruin.
“I’m still at university. I’ve waitressed and worked in retail.”
He huffed, inspecting perfect fingernails. “Nothing of importance. You better have more talent, otherwise…”
I rushed, “I’m training to be in property development. I’ve almost completed a project managing degree and side line in architectural sketches.”
He paused. Interest replaced the hardness in his eyes for a brief moment, before the shutters slammed closed again. “Go on.”
There wasn’t much else to say. “I’ve yet to sit final exams, but I studied how to do building budgets, deal with local councils, permits, trade requirements. I’m top in the class for an eco-sustainable village concept for our mid-terms.” I fibbed. I came second, but if he wanted me in property, shit, I’d be the best in property I could be.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers again. I fast recognized the trademark move. Q moved with power and the undeniable knowledge of perfect control. “How did they take you?”
The abrupt change in conversation side-lined me.
I thought I’d pushed the terror down deep from being kidnapped, and purged myself last night through a wash of tears, but panic rose and roared, blotting out everything, apart from the agony of seeing Brax bleeding and men knocking me unconscious. Oh, God, would I ever be free?
Q shifted, waiting. He neither cared, nor took sadistic interest as I struggled with memories. Why the hell did he bring it up? Bastard.
I answered in monotone, pretending I hadn’t lived it. Surprisingly, it helped distance myself, and a shot of pride filled me. I’d fought and taught Leather Jacket a lesson or two. I celebrated the small win. “I was taken in Mexico. They hurt my boyfriend, knocked me out, and took me somewhere.”
“Did they hurt you? Apart from your ankle?”
If he classified being beaten and tattooed, then yes. I nodded.
He sucked in a breath, forehead furrowing. “Did they rape you?”
Leather Jacket tried, but failed. A cold smile tugged my lips. “No. One tried. He wasn’t successful.”
His hard smile matched mine, and something webbed between us. Understanding? Respect? Something I said changed the way Q thought of me.
My pulse accelerated. Perhaps, if I made him see me, not as a possession but as a woman, things might not be so lost after all.
Whatever his feelings, if his respect granted safety, I was all for it.
Whatever happened between us disappeared when Q murmured, “What’s your name?” He kept eyes shadowed by looking at the newspaper on the table. Did he not think I noticed the casual question?
I pursed my lips, not answering.
After a moment, he looked up, glaring. “You will tell me your name.”
My breath came faster, hurting my rib, but I remained silent. What are you doing, Tess? Is another beating really worth keeping your name a secret? I knew the answer: yes, it was. My name was the only thing I owned. It was sacred.
I jumped as Q called, “Suzette!” His chin rose, showing a graceful neck and rough-smoothness. Cords of muscle hinted at a rigorous exercise program, yet his body wasn’t bulky. In another life, I would’ve drooled over him. He ought to be on the cover of a GQ magazine. My eyes narrowed. Was that why he called himself Q? So egotistical.
The maid appeared. Her soft smile and adoration for her employer shot me in the heart. How could she be loyal and like this man?
“Oui, maître?”
“Enfermer la dans la bibliothèque. Retirez le téléphone et l'ordinateur portable. Ca comprend?”
I blinked, wishing I’d stayed with French in high school. Rusty cogs worked hard, shedding dust on a language I knew, but hadn’t used in years. Something about a library and a computer.
My eyes flashed between Q and Suzette.
She bowed. “Oui, autre chose?”
My mind sped, letting my brain stretch and remember. She’d asked if he wanted anything else. I’d never been thankful for a good memory before, but I wanted to cry with relief—I wouldn’t be completely in the dark.