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 rescued. 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?
Franco pushed me toward the taxi stands. Rows of cars waited, bright under glaring lights.
Shoving something into my hands, he said, “This is for your troubles. Goodbye, Ms. Snow.”
I wanted to scream as Franco strode away and disappeared. I hated my last name. I missed esclave. I missed what the word meant: belonging. Not just to Q, but an entire different existence.
I didn’t know how long I stood on the footpath, clutching the envelope Franco gave, but eventually I had no choice but to move. Move forward. Try and forget.
In a daze, I shuffled to the taxi stand.
A driver quirked a bushy black eyebrow. “No luggage, little lady?”
I blinked. The moment I got in the car, my life would suck me along, and I would never be able to stop it. I would become Tessie again. Fierce Tess would be no more. Q would be no more.
Q was wrong about one thing. Something about me was broken: my heart.
Shaking my head, I mumbled. “No, no luggage.”
Get through today, then think about tomorrow. One baby step at a time.
Sliding into the plastic wrapped interior, I gave him my address. Our address. Me and Brax.
I was going home.
Chapter 22
*Bell Bird*
I didn’t have a key.
Running fingers along the top of the doorframe, I found the spare. Our apartment resided on the bottom floor of a building of eight units. A one bedroom, chilly box, with no sun or views, but we decorated with bright fabrics and Brax’s DIY projects.
Dammit, fit.
The key wouldn’t slide into the lock because I shook so much.
I was home. The place where I’d been happy, but clueless as to who I was. Walking through the door meant so much more than just returning. By doing this, I let Q win. I let him disown me.
I hunched, holding my stomach, trying to gather strength. My eyes rested on Brax’s steel-capped boots on the door mat, and my heart hung heavy in my chest.
You can’t ever let Brax see you like this, Tess… Tessie. This pain is private.
I straightened, sucking in gulps of air. Brax expected a relieved and distraught girlfriend, not a woman vibrating with need for another. Not a woman craving a whip and violence.
I undid the lock and stepped over the threshold.
Fear hit first.
Fear of sameness—the overwhelming homeliness created by Tessie and Brax. It reached like eager claws ready to suck me unwillingly into the past.
My feet stuck to the floor, locking in place, battling an unbearable need to run. The longer I stood trembling with fear, the more confused I was. My mind struggled with two sets of memories: Tessie and Tess. Brax and Q. Australia and France. They wouldn’t mesh and in my swirling confusion, the apartment worked a terrible magic. Soothing my terror, making it feel as if I never left.
Q? Who was that? A figment of my imagination.
Mexico? As if, Brax would never travel so far from home.
In a blink, the last two and a half months faded from reality to dream. I grasped at tendrils, forcing myself not to forget. I could never forget. No matter how painful, I wanted to wear the memories like armour, so I never grew weak again.
I inched forward, hands curled. Daisy curtains were drawn haphazardly, just like Brax did every time. A dirty plate languished in the sink in our tiny cream kitchen, and his red tool bag blocked the corridor leading to the bathroom and bedroom.
No lights were on, only shadows. I tiptoed through my own home, feeling like an intruder. I didn’t belong. I never belonged.
A bang came from the bedroom.