Tears of Tess
Page 22

“Please—” I moaned. “Don’t.”
Brute laughed, positioning himself between my legs. “Was that a beg, treasure? You want me?”
Driver panted heavily in my ear, pulling my hair in excitement. “I think she’s asking you to f**k her. Better give her what she wants.”
Please, oblivion take me. I wouldn’t survive. My mind rattled like fractured glass already.
Brute shifted, nudging me with his cock. My body revolted, stomach snarled, and tears flurried down my cheeks. No, no, no.
Brute grunted, forcing his way inside. My flesh rejected him, burning with violation.
Hips thrust, burying himself deep. His head dropped as he shuddered, grinning at Driver. “She’s f**king tight. You’ll enjoy this one.”
Driver growled. “Hurry up.” He forced horrible fingers into my mouth, tasting of sourness and metal.
While Driver f**ked my mouth with fingers, Brute thrust his hips, bucking with violence. Heavy breathing rained on my face, horrid, rancid.
I tried to shut everything off. I wanted to bite Driver’s fingers—I wanted to fight. I’d been reduced to a piece of meat.
My ears rang, and the room swam with delirium. Mirrors reflected Brute’s na**d ass as he f**ked me. My eyes were haunted, and Driver loomed with a manic look on his face.
A loud bang sounded from somewhere in the house; Brute faltered in rhythm. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see if more men arrived—if I’d be subjected to endless purgatory. I never wanted to open my eyes again.
Another bang, then empty air. Brute’s horrible c**k disappeared and his weight flew off. My hair jerked, then released as Driver screamed.
Grunts and shouts amplified around the room and I opened my eyes.
Three men in suits beat Brute where he huddled in a ball with jeans around his ankles and arms over his head. Blow after blow they rained, and I flinched when one kicked Brute’s jaw so hard, his head snapped back, and teeth flew.
My hands curled, loving retribution, the pain Brute suffered.
Driver was strung to the mirrored wall on the rack with whips and handcuffs. More guards punched him; his head lolled on shoulders, blood glinting on his temple.
My heart leaped free from my flogged and hurting body as Q strode into the room. He moved with angry grace, hands curled, mouth pursed. But his eyes—I’d never seen such rage contained.
“Putain de bâtards,” Q seethed, pulling a gun from his lower back, stalking toward where Brute lay whimpering on the floor. “You f**king touch a girl of mine and think you could survive?”
Brute reached for him, eyes imploring mercy. “We only took what we used to get from your family. Nothing more.” Blood and spittle flew from his mangled mouth.
Q closed his eyes, body shuddering. When he glared at Brute, so many things raged in his face, I ached. “Consider this payment for the past and present.” He squeezed the trigger and Brute existed no more. The back of his head exploded with red mist and I scrambled away, huddling on the mattress.
Q turned to me with terrifying calmness. “Ah, esclave.” He inched closer, tucking the gun away. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
In that moment, in my fragile and broken state, my feelings for Q changed. He morphed from monster to saviour. He did what Brax hadn’t done in Mexico: he found me, killed for me. He rescued me from horror and protected me from the bastards who hurt.
Q was no longer the devil.
He was my master and I belonged to him.
Chapter 16
*Pigeon*
Murmuring in French, Q carried me through the house.
He found a blanket and bundled me up, speaking tenderly, as if I’d bolt at any moment. His touch feather-soft when he scooped me in his arms, but eyes glinted with fierce anger. His anger petrified, but I allowed myself to be gathered, cared for—kept safe.
In his arms, I found comfort I craved. His heavy heartbeats soothed more than words and I nuzzled into his neck, drowning myself in citrus and sandalwood. Q came for me. Q wanted me.
His guards stayed behind to deal with the bodies, and I started to tremble. Q’s arms bunched beneath my weight, holding me closer. “It’s over. You don’t have to fear,” he whispered. “I’ll kill anyone who hurts you.”
In his voice, the truth blazed bright. I believed him, completely and utterly. Q did for me what no one else had done: protected me. He fought harder than my parents ever did, and put Brax’s strength to shame. Q came after me like I meant the world to him, showing just how lonely and adrift I’d been.
Cold night air refreshed as we strode from the house and Franco jumped to attention. He opened the rear car door. Q slid in, with me still in his arms.
No one said a word the entire drive back to the mansion. Q did nothing but hold me, and for that, I was thankful. He let me drench his gorgeous graphite suit with salty tears as I relived what I’d been through. He squeezed tight when my trembling got so bad my teeth chattered.
I hated my stubbornness, my fight. I did this. Because of my stupidity, I ran into a situation that broke me.
The drive seemed both an eternity and a microsecond. When we drove up the sweeping driveway to Q’s stunning home, he kissed my temple, murmuring, “You’re safe.”
The two little words shot deep into my heart, irrevocably changing me. They opened the floodgates, and everything I knew, disappeared. Everything I had been, became nothing. The Tess who loved Brax, who fought to escape, vanished. She wasn’t worthy of Q’s protection. Wasn’t worthy of being rescued by a man who killed for her.
Q was right: I was safe with him. He made it so simple. I couldn’t comprehend how I ran before. I ran from Q’s safety, and monsters found me in the dark.
My heart wept for what I did, and fear clutched at the thought of leaving Q’s name on Brax’s answer machine.
I’d been problematic and wilful, but Q claimed me anyway. He was the first to chase me and blissful happiness warmed inside to finally have someone who wouldn’t let me go. His reasons were flawed and wrong, but knowing he would find me settled my mind, lending strength to deal with the rape.
Q did many things, but he never broke me. He offered things my body wanted without me knowing what those things were.
He was my home. My master. My new life.
My past didn’t define me. The horrible rape didn’t define me. Q defined me and he wanted me to be his esclave.
Why hadn’t I seen so clearly before? A huge weight lifted off my shoulders; I sighed with complete submission.
Q shifted, looking down, but I snuggled closer and didn’t look up. I had to make it up to him. To apologise, so he never sent me away at the mercy of the world again.
The car rolled to a stop and Franco opened the door. Q kept me tight in his arms, carrying me into the house.
The moment the door closed, contentment washed over me. Home.
Suzette skidded from the lounge. She looked at me in Q’s arms, clutching her chest with profound relief. “Oh, dieu, merci.”
He nodded slightly as Suzette came closer, brushing her hand over my blanket clad body. “I’m so happy Q found you. You’re part of this family, ami. Don’t run again.”
My body twitched. Ami. Suzette called me her friend.
Fresh tears sprouted for leaving her, for being so selfish. Brax didn’t need me anymore, but Q and this new life did.
Q rumbled a noise and strode up the stairs. Suzette watched us go. I expected Q to take me to my room, but on the first floor he slowed, and opened a door. My eyes widened as he carried me into the most amazing space I’d ever seen.
On the walls were life-size stencils of a carousel: a prancing pony, a carriage, a dancing bear, a soaring eagle. It should’ve been childish to have black and white images of a fair ride but it gave the room elegance, a whimsical edge playing well with the rest of the black and white theme. A four poster bed with white lacquered posts, and silver sweeping drapes welcomed, but Q didn’t head for the bed. He stalked to the bathroom, where iridescent tiles, double walk-in shower, and Jacuzzi bath invited.
Q marched straight into the shower, before slowly setting me down. I clung to his shoulders as he let go. I didn’t want him to leave. He was the only thing keeping my thoughts centred on him, and not what happened. I lingered in denial, refusing to dwell on what occurred. I shied away from the memory, letting it fester, layering with insecurity, pain, and overwhelming grief.
My life was no longer perfect—I ruined it by running. I throbbed with need for Q to forgive me. To say he would never let me escape again.
Q stared into my eyes. His pale green ones turned to pea soup as sadness glittered. Something silent passed between us. Reaching behind me, he turned the shower on.
Instantly, hot water rained from two massive showerheads, sending needles of heat through my clothes. I tilted my head toward it, letting each drop scald, purging my skin of filth and tragedy.
Q unwrapped the blanket and tossed it from the shower. He tugged the hem of my jumper, pulling it over my head.
His immaculate suit darkened as moisture seeped into cashmere and silk. He’d ruin it if he didn’t leave. But he didn’t seem to care that his perfection became wrinkled and stained beyond repair. His focus was entirely on me. Hands moved swift and sure, face closed off and concentrated. But his eyes—they glowed with ferocity, an anger sending spasms of fear through me.
He tossed my jumper to the floor, and eyes fell to my chest. My white bra turned see-through and ni**les stiffened under his look. His jaw clenched as he dropped his gaze, down my body, over my nakedness, to criss-crossed welted thighs.
The pain from the flogger hissed under hot water, and I wished Q would look away. I was damaged—not a pretty slave anymore. He might send me away.
Q ran a whisper-soft fingertip along a welt. I flinched and tears rushed as memories took me hostage. The shower dissolved into the rotting grandeur of the Tuscan house, Q’s touch turned brutal and nasty.
I sucked in a breath, trying to stay in the present, refusing to let nightmares suck me into the dark.
Q’s face twisted; he captured my face between hot hands. “What are you?” he clipped, face hard and unreadable.
The question anchored me and I looked into his pale ferocious eyes. I knew the answer he wanted. “I’m yours.”
He sucked in a heavy breath, body jerking. “Say it again, but not in English.”
Q intoxicated me. My lips parted, and I wanted to stay captured by him, forever. An ancient connection linked us together. I looked into his soul—it churned with agony and demons, but he wasn’t evil.
Q dropped his gaze to my lips. “Je suis à toi.” Something feral heated his features; he pressed his mouth against mine in one fast kiss. “It means, I am yours.”
My breath stuttered as power sliced, deep and fast, igniting broken parts of me with sparks. His allure, his power, all magnified to fist around my stomach. In the dark recess of my brain, I translated his words to him being mine. The power trip the little words gave was indescribable.
No wonder he wanted me to say it. I was drunk on them. He was mine. Mine.
What life did Q live, needing to hear such a strong affirmation? What ghosts haunted him?
Q tightened his fingers, biting into my jaw. “Say it.”
With his command, I fumbled into the victim I was, the rape survivor, the slave. The brief sense of ownership left me bereft.
Q twisted my nipple under the wet material of my bra. His cruelty reddened my skin and fight skittered into yielding. He sent me reeling into needful and damaged. I’d been so close to finding strength, but he took it away in an instant.
Fresh tears spilled as I whispered, “Je suis à toi.”
Q sighed heavily, resting his forehead on mine. “Will you run again? Will you leave the one man who wants you above all others? Leave his protection?” His voice wavered with regret, resignation, as if he expected me to run, and already suffered loneliness.
My eyes popped wide; I shook my head. “No, I won’t run again.”
He looked with half-hooded eyes. “How can you be so sure? Don’t I scare you? Repulse you?”
He never repulsed me, and fear where Q was concerned was an aphrodisiac. But I couldn’t tell him. “I will never escape. Je suis à toi.”
With a sharp nod, he reached around to unclip my bra. Droplets stuck to his eyelashes as he frowned, throwing the flimsy lingerie from the shower.
The dynamic of him fully dressed in a soaking wet suit, and me na**d and beaten, reminded me once again, I wasn’t on equal footing. This wasn’t a man caring for me
because he loved or wanted me—he was my owner, fixing a possession.
Q pushed me against tiles, and my body panged with pain. He wrapped strong fingers around my throat and panic soared. Q dropped the barrier, unleashing his anger. “You f**king ran, you bitch! Do you know how hard I’m trying to make you happy? To enjoy you while trying not to break you? Have I seriously hurt you? Have I raped you? Have I done untold damage to you?”
He pushed away, as if horrified with what he’d done. He watched with wide, incredulous eyes as I coughed and rubbed my neck. Phantom fingers lingered around my flesh.
I trembled, watching, waiting for another outburst, waiting for him to hit me. After all, I deserved it.
Q growled, running hands over his sleek hair. “Answer me, esclave. Is it really so bad to be owned by me?”
I hung my head. I was so f**ked up when it came to Q. He hadn’t raped me, but put me in situations that raped my mind, turned me inside out, and made me face dark desires despite clinging to the ideology of loving a man like Brax.
He tortured with games, and let a man shove a dagger hilt inside me. So many things he did, but none as bad as Brute and Driver.