Tears of Tess
Page 30
She took two angry steps toward me, but Q held up his arm, barricading. “How could you? You—you…” She trailed off, mouth twisting with grief. “We all trusted you.”
My life shattered for the fourth and final time.
Q froze, all trace of pain and emotion, gone. “That’s your name? Tess?”
My body fissured with longing. He spoke my name. Finally, after almost two months of esclave.
It rolled off his tongue in one beautiful French twist; I wanted his tongue on me. I wanted to forget everything—to pretend he never said such horrid things or that I brought his life and business to ruin. I wanted to give him my heart and forget.
“Tess…” Q whispered, before baring his teeth. Shadows cloaked him and the look of betrayal flayed more than any whip. “You called the police.” His shoulders sagged, and the pain he hid smothered again.
Suzette leaned into him; he welcomed her, tugging her close.
My body rebelled as jealousy glowed bright and green. How dare he find solace in his maid. I was his slave. Find solace with me—even though I’m the crux of your ruin!
He nodded once. “So be it.”
Chapter 19
*Goldfinch*
Q and Suzette left.
Without another glance or word, Q turned his back and strode out of my life.
My legs hurt from kneeling, but it was nothing compared to the paralyzing heartbreak.
I should be happy. Brax was alive! But I was dead to my master and didn’t know what my future held. The police would arrest him. They’d take me back to Australia, and return me to a half-life—a false life—a life I no longer wanted.
I didn’t know how long I rocked, but a puddle of tears dampened the marble below.
You did this. You ran because you knew it isn’t right. Q isn’t right. I tried to convince myself to stand, to embrace my freedom, and leave this house where so many bad things happened, but I couldn’t gather the energy.
Stumbling to my feet, I shivered. The birds were silent and the hushed world of plants made it seem like I was the only one alive. No one wanted me. My abandonment issues crested, swamping with wretchedness.
In a daze, I walked from the conservatory, through the photograph room, and down the long corridor. Every step felt as if I walked to the hangman’s noose. I never wanted to see Suzette again—face her rage and tears. She loved Q and I sentenced him to jail. She would never call me Ami again.
I didn’t want Q to go to jail. He was many things, but he didn’t deserve what I did. He could’ve broken me, raped me like Brute, but he never did. He fought his desires to ensure I remained whole and strong. He sacrificed everything for a lowly slave.
My stomach cramped and I folded in half. What have I done? I evicted myself from a home I wanted, to a world who didn’t want me. Back to a man who could never give what I needed. Back to a half existence.
Tears slid down my face. Running away had been a disaster. Anger flared toward Franco. This was all his fault. If he kept a better eye, I would never have been able to leave. He should’ve caught me, before I ruined so many lives.
My thoughts jumped to Brax. Guilt engulfed me. How had the last months been for him? He must hate me for breaking my promise—I said I would never leave, and I did. The first time not on my own accord, but the second time—that was all me. I willingly sliced him from my thoughts, my heart, and made room for my master.
Images of Brax, distraught and heartbroken, made my heart twist. My brain short-circuited refusing to think about him.
Q consumed once again, and I slid down the wall, drawing my knees up to wrap arms around them. What if the police took him into custody already? I would never see him again. Oh, God. Would I be made to testify? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
No doubt, he would hate me for all eternity, wishing he let Brute kill and bury me with the potatoes.
My heart died.
I wanted everything from him. I wanted the domination. The anger. But I also wanted love. I needed the connection he offered only half an hour ago. A brief glimpse into a softer side—a side I desperately wanted to know. I’m a stupid, stupid girl.
“Esclave. What are you doing on the floor?” Franco appeared in his shiny black suit, squatting in front of me.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. He would be implicated, too. Why hadn’t the police rounded everyone up? I didn’t hear sirens or shouts. Suzette said only a warrant had been served… maybe… maybe they wouldn’t do anything?
Franco patted my shoulder, vivid emerald eyes sad. “You regret running, don’t you?”
I sucked in a sob, wrapping arms tighter. Franco had been nothing but nice to me. Strict and a prick when I first arrived, but nice just the same. His tough façade hid a man who loved his employer for reasons I was only beginning to understand.
He sighed, brushing tear-damp curls off my cheek. “There, there. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.”
I shook my head. “It is the end of the world. My world. My master’s world. Your world. Everything is broken.”
“Is that what you were doing? When I found in you in the café? Calling the police?” he asked, no glimmer of anger, just curiosity.
I breathed hard. “No. I called my boyfriend. I was going to call the police, but you turned up.”
He tensed. “So, you didn’t call them directly?” Light gleamed in his gaze. Guilt pressed ever harder. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t turn on Q. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t betray them.
I whispered, “I left a message on my boyfriend’s machine with Q’s name.” I looked into his eyes with difficulty. “I would’ve called the cops, Franco. Don’t doubt my desperation to run.” But even in my desperation, I was conflicted. I huddled into a little ball, tucking my head into my arms.
Franco stood, pulling my elbow so I had no choice but to rise. “You can fix this.” He tugged me down the corridor. “It isn’t your fault, esclave. You did what you had to do. And now… I believe you wouldn’t do it again, and I forgive you.”
I looked up, sniffing. I sent his master off to a life of imprisonment and he forgave me?
He smiled kindly, green eyes vibrant compared to Q’s smouldering pale jade. “Speak to the police. Tell them it was a mistake. You can repair the damage you caused.”
The idea blazed with white-hot hope; I threw myself at him, grabbing him into a hug. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Franco chuckled, pushing me away uncomfortably. “You’re dealing with a lot, but now you—”
I didn’t let Franco finish. I was the key to saving Q’s life, his business. I wasted so much time already.
I flew.
Paintings blurred as I sprinted through the house. I wouldn’t steal Q’s livelihood. My place was by his side. I accepted it. I had to make him forgive me and find a way to stay. I messed up, he messed up. Together, we could fix it.
I darted into the lounge. Empty.
Panting, I pirouetted and dashed across the foyer to the library. The glass was no longer clear but frosted, hiding people within. I didn’t care; I burst through the doors.
Q looked up, eyes clouded with pain. Two plain clothes detectives sat opposite on the button leather couch.
I stood, like an idiot, trying to reconcile the image in my head of a horde of police and Q in handcuffs, to the sedate scene.
Small puffs of cigar smoke languished in the air, while the smell of brandy and liquor tantalized. I couldn’t make sense of the two older men, both with moustaches—one thin and trimmed, another bushy and grey—sitting relaxed and content, puffing away as if they were there for an after dinner chat, rather than a kidnapping charge.
Q swirled his crystal goblet, amber liquid sloshing up the sides. He watched with hooded eyes. I waited for a wave of hate, a look crippling with betrayal, but nothing came. He was remote, aloof—the perfect, unreadable master.
The moustached men raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. But no sense of urgency filled them; they didn’t stop nursing their brandies and cigars.
What the hell is going on? I barged in to save the day, expecting Q to be beaten and restrained, and they looked as if I were the interloper.
I opened my mouth and promptly shut it again. I wanted to ask what was going on, but what could I possibly say?
Shit, I should’ve thought up a cover story. I was so focused on saving the day, like a dragon- fighting princess saving my tortured knight, I hadn’t considered how.
The officer with a thin moustache and heavy wrinkles turned to Q, mumbling in French, “That’s the girl?”
Q clenched his jaw, looking at me with a piercing gaze. He nodded ever so slightly. “That’s Tess Snow, if you’re looking for her.”
My womb clenched hearing my name on his lips. I trembled to hear it again. I stepped forward.
Q stood in one fluid move, wincing as the migraine etched his eyes. He really shouldn’t be drinking in his condition. “Leave, Ms. Snow. You are not welcome.”
The order poured salt on already painful wounds. Not welcome.
My eyes flickered to the cop with the bushy moustache. He looked like a cuddly father, and a doting husband. How would he react to Q telling a woman he kept captive to leave?
The man sipped his liquor, watching, as if Q and I were a daytime soap opera.
This wasn’t going how I expected. “I wanted to clarify a few things, for the record. In case you had the wrong idea,” I muttered, ignoring the way Q glared.
The policemen looked at each other, then shrugged. Bushy Moustache scooted forward, leather creaking under his weight. Placing his glass down, and the cigar in a crystal ashtray, he said, “What would you like to clarify, Ms. Snow?”
I fought the urge to look at Q. Holding my head high, I said, “If you can inform me of why you’re here, I can let you know the truth.” No way did I want to blabber things they might not be aware of.
Busy Moustache nodded with a wry smile. “Fair enough.” Pulling a notepad from his breast pocket, he flicked it open. “We are here because the Australian Federal Police contacted us about a missing woman fitting your description. They were advised by a Braxton Cliffingstone of your kidnapping in Mexico.”
The officer with the thin moustache spoke. “He gave detailed evidence of how he was beaten and when he came to, you were gone. He also provided us with a phone message from you, implicating Mr. Mercer in your disappearance. As you can imagine, up to that point, Mr. Cliffingstone was incredibly upset, thinking you were dead.”
Bushy Moustache jumped in. “He’ll be relieved to hear you’re alive and well.”
Q’s fingers tightened around his glass. He never took his eyes off me, flinching at Brax’s name.
The police ceased to exist as the library grew smaller, entrapping just Q and I in our own private world. His power reached for me, face harsh and stern, eyes raging with emotion. He watched, not with treason or hate, but loneliness and understanding.
My hands curled, fighting the urge to hurl myself at his feet. Even suffering a headache, Q vibrated with authority and feeling. I glimpsed just how much I meant to him.
His body called to mine and like the obedient slave I was, I went. Q jerked as I touched his fingers, wrapped around the goblet. His nostrils flared, looking over my shoulder at the two policemen who were no doubt watching.
But I didn’t care. They had to see what existed between Q and me. They may not understand it—shit, I didn’t understand it—but it thrummed in the space.
Q’s fingers rose from the glass, capturing mine in one sharp move. Skin sparked and fireworked; I gasped, looking deep into pale eyes.
He straightened and brushed past, going to stand by the fireplace.
My heart raced, hating his withdrawal. Despair replaced my desire and I nodded once. He already let me go.
I hated the police for ruining my tentative new existence. I hated Brax for finally coming to find me. I hated myself for being too weak.
Balling my hands, I spoke loud and true. “I’m Tess Snow, and I was kidnapped in Mexico. But this man,” I pointed at Q, “Q Mercer, and his household, rescued me and kept me safe. I stayed here on my own accord. The message on Mr. Cliffingstone’s voice mail was a mistake. He misheard.”
I fell into another realm of awful for lying about Brax, but I was only focused on Q, focused on repairing the unrepairable.
Bushy Moustache stood, nodding. “Thank you for clarifying, Ms. Snow. But now we really must speak to Quincy alone.”
Quincy.
Quincy.
My eyes shot to Q. I knew his name.
So enamoured fighting our silent battle of wills, it took outside parties to spill the truth.
I looked at him with such longing, his lips parted. Something arched and sparked and ruptured between us. I couldn’t breathe. I accepted everything he said in the conservatory about debasing and owning me.
Q wanted to debase and own me. Quincy wanted to share parts of his life with me. It was Quincy who spoke about his business, Q who ordered me to suck him.
I wanted both. Oh, God, how I wanted both.
Images of Q behind bars, with no one to feed his aviary of birds, slammed into me. I almost collapsed to my knees to beg forgiveness.
Every emotion was raw; tears spilled. “Please don’t arrest Q—Quincy. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Then, I fled.
Chapter 20
*Tern*
I tossed and turned in bed, terrified of what morning would bring.
After running like a coward, I tried to eavesdrop, but voices didn’t travel up the staircase.
The unknown haunted me and I couldn’t remove the image from my mind of Q in a cell.
I glanced at the clock; my heart stuttered like a faulty object. 2:14 a.m.
My life shattered for the fourth and final time.
Q froze, all trace of pain and emotion, gone. “That’s your name? Tess?”
My body fissured with longing. He spoke my name. Finally, after almost two months of esclave.
It rolled off his tongue in one beautiful French twist; I wanted his tongue on me. I wanted to forget everything—to pretend he never said such horrid things or that I brought his life and business to ruin. I wanted to give him my heart and forget.
“Tess…” Q whispered, before baring his teeth. Shadows cloaked him and the look of betrayal flayed more than any whip. “You called the police.” His shoulders sagged, and the pain he hid smothered again.
Suzette leaned into him; he welcomed her, tugging her close.
My body rebelled as jealousy glowed bright and green. How dare he find solace in his maid. I was his slave. Find solace with me—even though I’m the crux of your ruin!
He nodded once. “So be it.”
Chapter 19
*Goldfinch*
Q and Suzette left.
Without another glance or word, Q turned his back and strode out of my life.
My legs hurt from kneeling, but it was nothing compared to the paralyzing heartbreak.
I should be happy. Brax was alive! But I was dead to my master and didn’t know what my future held. The police would arrest him. They’d take me back to Australia, and return me to a half-life—a false life—a life I no longer wanted.
I didn’t know how long I rocked, but a puddle of tears dampened the marble below.
You did this. You ran because you knew it isn’t right. Q isn’t right. I tried to convince myself to stand, to embrace my freedom, and leave this house where so many bad things happened, but I couldn’t gather the energy.
Stumbling to my feet, I shivered. The birds were silent and the hushed world of plants made it seem like I was the only one alive. No one wanted me. My abandonment issues crested, swamping with wretchedness.
In a daze, I walked from the conservatory, through the photograph room, and down the long corridor. Every step felt as if I walked to the hangman’s noose. I never wanted to see Suzette again—face her rage and tears. She loved Q and I sentenced him to jail. She would never call me Ami again.
I didn’t want Q to go to jail. He was many things, but he didn’t deserve what I did. He could’ve broken me, raped me like Brute, but he never did. He fought his desires to ensure I remained whole and strong. He sacrificed everything for a lowly slave.
My stomach cramped and I folded in half. What have I done? I evicted myself from a home I wanted, to a world who didn’t want me. Back to a man who could never give what I needed. Back to a half existence.
Tears slid down my face. Running away had been a disaster. Anger flared toward Franco. This was all his fault. If he kept a better eye, I would never have been able to leave. He should’ve caught me, before I ruined so many lives.
My thoughts jumped to Brax. Guilt engulfed me. How had the last months been for him? He must hate me for breaking my promise—I said I would never leave, and I did. The first time not on my own accord, but the second time—that was all me. I willingly sliced him from my thoughts, my heart, and made room for my master.
Images of Brax, distraught and heartbroken, made my heart twist. My brain short-circuited refusing to think about him.
Q consumed once again, and I slid down the wall, drawing my knees up to wrap arms around them. What if the police took him into custody already? I would never see him again. Oh, God. Would I be made to testify? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
No doubt, he would hate me for all eternity, wishing he let Brute kill and bury me with the potatoes.
My heart died.
I wanted everything from him. I wanted the domination. The anger. But I also wanted love. I needed the connection he offered only half an hour ago. A brief glimpse into a softer side—a side I desperately wanted to know. I’m a stupid, stupid girl.
“Esclave. What are you doing on the floor?” Franco appeared in his shiny black suit, squatting in front of me.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. He would be implicated, too. Why hadn’t the police rounded everyone up? I didn’t hear sirens or shouts. Suzette said only a warrant had been served… maybe… maybe they wouldn’t do anything?
Franco patted my shoulder, vivid emerald eyes sad. “You regret running, don’t you?”
I sucked in a sob, wrapping arms tighter. Franco had been nothing but nice to me. Strict and a prick when I first arrived, but nice just the same. His tough façade hid a man who loved his employer for reasons I was only beginning to understand.
He sighed, brushing tear-damp curls off my cheek. “There, there. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.”
I shook my head. “It is the end of the world. My world. My master’s world. Your world. Everything is broken.”
“Is that what you were doing? When I found in you in the café? Calling the police?” he asked, no glimmer of anger, just curiosity.
I breathed hard. “No. I called my boyfriend. I was going to call the police, but you turned up.”
He tensed. “So, you didn’t call them directly?” Light gleamed in his gaze. Guilt pressed ever harder. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t turn on Q. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t betray them.
I whispered, “I left a message on my boyfriend’s machine with Q’s name.” I looked into his eyes with difficulty. “I would’ve called the cops, Franco. Don’t doubt my desperation to run.” But even in my desperation, I was conflicted. I huddled into a little ball, tucking my head into my arms.
Franco stood, pulling my elbow so I had no choice but to rise. “You can fix this.” He tugged me down the corridor. “It isn’t your fault, esclave. You did what you had to do. And now… I believe you wouldn’t do it again, and I forgive you.”
I looked up, sniffing. I sent his master off to a life of imprisonment and he forgave me?
He smiled kindly, green eyes vibrant compared to Q’s smouldering pale jade. “Speak to the police. Tell them it was a mistake. You can repair the damage you caused.”
The idea blazed with white-hot hope; I threw myself at him, grabbing him into a hug. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Franco chuckled, pushing me away uncomfortably. “You’re dealing with a lot, but now you—”
I didn’t let Franco finish. I was the key to saving Q’s life, his business. I wasted so much time already.
I flew.
Paintings blurred as I sprinted through the house. I wouldn’t steal Q’s livelihood. My place was by his side. I accepted it. I had to make him forgive me and find a way to stay. I messed up, he messed up. Together, we could fix it.
I darted into the lounge. Empty.
Panting, I pirouetted and dashed across the foyer to the library. The glass was no longer clear but frosted, hiding people within. I didn’t care; I burst through the doors.
Q looked up, eyes clouded with pain. Two plain clothes detectives sat opposite on the button leather couch.
I stood, like an idiot, trying to reconcile the image in my head of a horde of police and Q in handcuffs, to the sedate scene.
Small puffs of cigar smoke languished in the air, while the smell of brandy and liquor tantalized. I couldn’t make sense of the two older men, both with moustaches—one thin and trimmed, another bushy and grey—sitting relaxed and content, puffing away as if they were there for an after dinner chat, rather than a kidnapping charge.
Q swirled his crystal goblet, amber liquid sloshing up the sides. He watched with hooded eyes. I waited for a wave of hate, a look crippling with betrayal, but nothing came. He was remote, aloof—the perfect, unreadable master.
The moustached men raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. But no sense of urgency filled them; they didn’t stop nursing their brandies and cigars.
What the hell is going on? I barged in to save the day, expecting Q to be beaten and restrained, and they looked as if I were the interloper.
I opened my mouth and promptly shut it again. I wanted to ask what was going on, but what could I possibly say?
Shit, I should’ve thought up a cover story. I was so focused on saving the day, like a dragon- fighting princess saving my tortured knight, I hadn’t considered how.
The officer with a thin moustache and heavy wrinkles turned to Q, mumbling in French, “That’s the girl?”
Q clenched his jaw, looking at me with a piercing gaze. He nodded ever so slightly. “That’s Tess Snow, if you’re looking for her.”
My womb clenched hearing my name on his lips. I trembled to hear it again. I stepped forward.
Q stood in one fluid move, wincing as the migraine etched his eyes. He really shouldn’t be drinking in his condition. “Leave, Ms. Snow. You are not welcome.”
The order poured salt on already painful wounds. Not welcome.
My eyes flickered to the cop with the bushy moustache. He looked like a cuddly father, and a doting husband. How would he react to Q telling a woman he kept captive to leave?
The man sipped his liquor, watching, as if Q and I were a daytime soap opera.
This wasn’t going how I expected. “I wanted to clarify a few things, for the record. In case you had the wrong idea,” I muttered, ignoring the way Q glared.
The policemen looked at each other, then shrugged. Bushy Moustache scooted forward, leather creaking under his weight. Placing his glass down, and the cigar in a crystal ashtray, he said, “What would you like to clarify, Ms. Snow?”
I fought the urge to look at Q. Holding my head high, I said, “If you can inform me of why you’re here, I can let you know the truth.” No way did I want to blabber things they might not be aware of.
Busy Moustache nodded with a wry smile. “Fair enough.” Pulling a notepad from his breast pocket, he flicked it open. “We are here because the Australian Federal Police contacted us about a missing woman fitting your description. They were advised by a Braxton Cliffingstone of your kidnapping in Mexico.”
The officer with the thin moustache spoke. “He gave detailed evidence of how he was beaten and when he came to, you were gone. He also provided us with a phone message from you, implicating Mr. Mercer in your disappearance. As you can imagine, up to that point, Mr. Cliffingstone was incredibly upset, thinking you were dead.”
Bushy Moustache jumped in. “He’ll be relieved to hear you’re alive and well.”
Q’s fingers tightened around his glass. He never took his eyes off me, flinching at Brax’s name.
The police ceased to exist as the library grew smaller, entrapping just Q and I in our own private world. His power reached for me, face harsh and stern, eyes raging with emotion. He watched, not with treason or hate, but loneliness and understanding.
My hands curled, fighting the urge to hurl myself at his feet. Even suffering a headache, Q vibrated with authority and feeling. I glimpsed just how much I meant to him.
His body called to mine and like the obedient slave I was, I went. Q jerked as I touched his fingers, wrapped around the goblet. His nostrils flared, looking over my shoulder at the two policemen who were no doubt watching.
But I didn’t care. They had to see what existed between Q and me. They may not understand it—shit, I didn’t understand it—but it thrummed in the space.
Q’s fingers rose from the glass, capturing mine in one sharp move. Skin sparked and fireworked; I gasped, looking deep into pale eyes.
He straightened and brushed past, going to stand by the fireplace.
My heart raced, hating his withdrawal. Despair replaced my desire and I nodded once. He already let me go.
I hated the police for ruining my tentative new existence. I hated Brax for finally coming to find me. I hated myself for being too weak.
Balling my hands, I spoke loud and true. “I’m Tess Snow, and I was kidnapped in Mexico. But this man,” I pointed at Q, “Q Mercer, and his household, rescued me and kept me safe. I stayed here on my own accord. The message on Mr. Cliffingstone’s voice mail was a mistake. He misheard.”
I fell into another realm of awful for lying about Brax, but I was only focused on Q, focused on repairing the unrepairable.
Bushy Moustache stood, nodding. “Thank you for clarifying, Ms. Snow. But now we really must speak to Quincy alone.”
Quincy.
Quincy.
My eyes shot to Q. I knew his name.
So enamoured fighting our silent battle of wills, it took outside parties to spill the truth.
I looked at him with such longing, his lips parted. Something arched and sparked and ruptured between us. I couldn’t breathe. I accepted everything he said in the conservatory about debasing and owning me.
Q wanted to debase and own me. Quincy wanted to share parts of his life with me. It was Quincy who spoke about his business, Q who ordered me to suck him.
I wanted both. Oh, God, how I wanted both.
Images of Q behind bars, with no one to feed his aviary of birds, slammed into me. I almost collapsed to my knees to beg forgiveness.
Every emotion was raw; tears spilled. “Please don’t arrest Q—Quincy. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Then, I fled.
Chapter 20
*Tern*
I tossed and turned in bed, terrified of what morning would bring.
After running like a coward, I tried to eavesdrop, but voices didn’t travel up the staircase.
The unknown haunted me and I couldn’t remove the image from my mind of Q in a cell.
I glanced at the clock; my heart stuttered like a faulty object. 2:14 a.m.
