I moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help. Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let go of my gift.”
The words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.
“Just having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder, no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust h*ps backward, trying to kick him off balance, but he remained unmovable.
Tension knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough, but nothing came.
Silence reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”
I didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.
I struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.
“I wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat, slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed. My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every scrape of awful hardness.
Eyes glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood. Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.
The Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.
I didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It hurt. It hurt! Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep inside.
A shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.
The Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the r**ist knife with him. He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his jumpsuit.
“Fuck!” he shouted.
Q raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the f**k out of my house.” His arm outstretched, holding a small silver gun.
My head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.
The rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.
Q yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”
The green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.
Q immediately jumped and spun, waving the gun. “Putain. Stop! I know what I’m doing, Frederick. Leave.”
The guy frowned, clearly not believing him, but after a moment, nodded and strode out the door.
Silence settled, broken only by Q and mine’s heavy breathing. I swung by my arms, tears glassing my vision. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up and my shoulders screamed. But none of it came close the aching soreness inside. I felt ripped in two, reliving the first hard thrust, the mind-shattering agony, over and over.
How could Q allow this to happen? I was his, goddammit, and he didn’t protect me. He let another man hurt me.
I splintered, wanting to crawl back into the silent void that saved me last time, but my mind wouldn’t fly away. My mind was broken.
I must have passed out. I came to with my cheek bobbing against a warm shoulder and body cocooned in strong arms. The scent of citrus and sandalwood hugged me, sending a mixture of longing and panic kicking in my blood.
“Je suis tellement désolé,” a tortured voice whispered. I’m so sorry. Kisses flurried on my hairline, never stopping. I floated through the house in his arms. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make it right.”
His voice confused me. It dripped with aged pain and sorrow, remorse so great, it weighed down with pressure.
Why did he hurt? He allowed the man to do what he wanted. It was his fault it happened and I refused to listen to his pain. My own pain kept me plenty occupied. His apologies weren’t worth shit.
I tried to gather enough energy to hit him, scream, tell him he’d successfully hurt me worse than anyone in my entire life, and that was saying something seeing as I grew up a leper in my own family.
But my mind finally decided it’d had enough and went blank.
Chapter 14
*Hummingbird*
I woke to a gnawing ache in my womb and a smear of blood between my legs. I washed gently in the shower, forcing all memories and horror into a cage inside my mind. I would never think about that night again. Even in nightmares, the night was banned, erased as if it never happened. Some might say running wasn’t a good idea; I say it helped me stay healthy and focused, rather than suffocate in self-pity and things detrimental to my sanity.
I buried my head in the sand, but in return gained freedom and immunity against things hurting my soul. My body hurt, but no more than other injuries I sported. What lacerated me most was Q. He let me down.
In the sick hierarchy of owner and slave, my protection and well-being should be paramount, yet he turned a blind eye.
Out of everything he’d done, last night might’ve broken me beyond repair, but it only strengthened. The time had come to leave. I deserved better. I deserved to live my life without sick bastards raping me with objects, or Q’s twisted mind games. Nothing would stop me from busting the hell out and going back to humanity.
* * * * *
Four days passed after the horrible dinner, and Suzette refused to make eye contact. Q did his disappearing act again, turning music so loud, lyrics corroded my fierce decision to leave. French laments full of regret and self-loathing throbbed through the speakers:
Mes besoins sont ma défaite. Je suis un monstre dans une peau humaine.
My needs are my downfall. I’m a monster in human skin.
I hated the songs. Soft songs made Q seem human, living with mistakes and anguish, just like the rest of us. I preferred the raging songs. Ones with a heavy beat, heating my blood, filling me with energy to escape.
Et je vais prendre ce que je veux et payer mon propre désir. Cauchemars de ma solitude. L'obscurité pour un ami.
And I'll take what I want and pay for my own desires. Nightmares for my loneliness. The darkness for a friend.
The longer I lived in Q’s house, the more my French improved. Rust gave way to smoothness and it happened without my knowledge. I no longer frowned and worked out every word—gist of sentences became clear, no longer fumbling in the language dark.
Although I missed Suzette and her friendship, I didn’t care about the isolation. I was left alone; it kept me focused.
Under the disguise of cleaning, I searched the library and lounge for weapons. A letter opener, scissors, something to help me dispose of the GPS tracker. I couldn’t run until I removed it. Q would find me too easily.
My escape plan wasn’t well thought out. I had no Mission Impossible idea of taking Q hostage and forcing him to release me. All I had were my legs, and a few apples I managed to steal from the kitchen. Living in an open home granted the illusion of freedom—to go where I pleased, move around at will—but in searching for weapons, I realised how false the freedom really was.
Guards patrolled the upstairs level, keeping me from entering bedrooms. Black suited goons patrolled the sweeping grounds outside, their breath sending foggy plumes into late winter air.
I could enter the library, lounge, kitchen, and bedroom only. It was a tiny cage compared to the expanse of the house. If I cared about staying, I would’ve sneaked and investigated. Where did Q sleep? What other rooms were there? More like the pedestal room where the Russian bastard hurt me, or worse?
But I didn’t care. I’d been here long enough. I wouldn’t play damsel in distress waiting for Brax or the police to rescue me. They would never come. It was up to me, and I was ready.
I stepped out of the library, wafting a duster, disappointed yet again I couldn’t find a sharp implement, and froze.
Heartbeats raced as a whiff of sin and citrus assaulted. Q was close.
“Je suis allé trop loin, Suzette.” I went too far. Q’s voice twisted with unforgiving darkness.
I wanted to crawl into a ball and hide. I hated eavesdropping. Whenever I did as a child, I heard nasty things that cramped my stomach. Things about being unwanted, a nuisance, a hindrance.
My parents even spoke about adopting me out when I fell violently ill with the flu. They didn’t want to deal with a sick child, being older and vulnerable. Caring more for themselves than an innocent girl.
Suzette answered, her voice coming from behind the blue velvet stairs. The place where the hidden door to the gaming room lurked. “She didn’t break. You should see her, maître. The fire is still in her eyes.” The air bristled with passion, they spoke of me. My entire body boycotted. I wanted to move, but if I moved they’d hear me. What would Q do then?
Q muttered something I didn’t catch.
“You’re not like him. Don’t let this stop you. She feels something other than hatred. Believe me. A woman knows when another wants a man.”
Q chuckled. “You want me, Suzette?”
She giggled darkly. “You know I do. But I also appreciate your promise, and that’s why I think you need to keep going.” The sad resignation made me feel sorry for her.
Q was ruthless and closed off; I didn’t care what demons he dealt with. It didn’t give him the right to do what he did. So why did jealously prick my skin at the thought of him f**king another? I knew nothing about him, yet my body pined for more—against all my wishes.
If Suzette was on my side, why hadn’t she talked to me the last four days? If she’d shown she still wanted to be a friend, I might not have shut off—become so remote and focused on freedom.
My eyes widened. You don’t mean that, Tess. Would I have stayed even after what happened?
I shook my head, anger hot. No way. I couldn’t stay. All I needed was a split second opportunity, and I was gone. Just like the sparrows on the wall—darting to heights where Q could never find me.
“Enough. I will not talk about this,” Q snapped, different to his previous tone. Clothing rustled and I darted to the library, ducking next to a bookcase. Q’s silhouette stalked past the door, heading outside. The quick flash of sunlight beckoned; I wanted to run after him. To sprint into the fresh air and leave this place—this confusing, horrible place.
A car waited outside, but Q didn’t climb in and drive off. Instead, he stalked out of sight.
I didn’t dare move, and Suzette shouted. “I’m heading to the village, Mrs. Sucre. It’s my half day off, and I need to run some errands.”
I didn’t hear Mrs. Sucre’s response, but it sounded like she argued. My heart galloped. Suzette was leaving. This is my chance! I might not get another. A village meant people. And people meant safety in numbers.
Suzette grumbled and stomped away, obviously summoned by the cook. Not wanting to waste a moment, I pushed off the floor like an Olympic sprinter and darted into the foyer. I fumbled with the front door with anxious fingers, then sprinted down the sweeping steps toward the car. Please, let there be keys.