Twisted Together
Page 70

Hundreds of lenses zeroed in on me as I smoothed down my grey dress. A frill of lace decorated my chest, running diagonally down my torso to flare out at the hem. The matching jacket lay over the back of my chair. Winter had well and truly thawed—the heat in the room was stifling.
Striding forward, I climbed the three steps onto the small stage—thanking heaven I didn’t trip. The moment I was in grabbing distance, Q snaked his arm around my waist, holding me tight. “Took your f**king time, esclave,” he murmured in my ear. “You’ll pay for that later.”
My heart kicked harder, thrumming from his proximity, heat, and gorgeous scent of citrus and sandalwood. He tugged me behind the podium with him.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, trying to keep my lips from giving away my nerves to the press.
“I’m using you, obviously.”
I frowned. “Using me?”
He shook his head. “You still don’t get it do you, Tess? I wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t have found happiness. All of this is yours, not mine. I’m not going to take the limelight when it’s falsely given.”
A reporter grew impatient. “Mrs. Mercer—how does it feel to be married to a man who has personally saved over one hundred girls from trafficking?”
I lost the power to breathe, stunned stupid by the question. The microphones, the cameras—they all loomed closer, hemming me in.
Oh, God. I’d be on TV. Friends from school would know everything. Family who I hadn’t called would know what happened to the daughter they ignored. My life would be known by everyone.
Q tightened his hold, giving me strength.
But it doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Q was my life and no one else existed in our realm of togetherness.
I nodded, sucking up courage. “I’m privileged to share his life. He’s beyond incredible.” I cringed from my overly bright voice. I sound like a freaking five-year-old.
The reporter tilted his head. “Give me a real answer. You married the guy—why?”
My forehead furrowed. “Why?” What sort of ridiculous question was that?
Q stiffened, his muscles locking into place.
Hoping Q wouldn’t say anything reckless on a live broadcast, I said, “The truth? It’s simple. Marrying him was like coming home.”
A small murmur of satisfaction bled around the room. Cameras clicked faster, hands shot up with notepads and recording devices.
Questions rained.
“Tell us what happened.”
“What does fifty-eight mean to you?”
“Have you met any of the women your husband has saved?”
“Do you believe the cheating allegations that he uses the women he rescues?”
“Tell us about your wedding—is it true you released a thousand birds?”
Q held up his hand, silencing everyone with one savage downward sweep. “Enough! We’ve agreed to one interview, and those questions will be answered at the appropriate time.” Looking as if he wanted to shoot everyone in the room, he said, “I wish to thank everyone who donated to Feathers of Hope, for their continued support of Moineau Holdings, and for everyone who has been a true friend right from the beginning.” Holding up the scroll, he growled, “But this has been given incorrectly. I’m not deserving of this accolade. I’m nothing but a man with a past looking for a way to deserve everything I’ve been given.”
His eyes fell on mine, burning with desire; I flushed. Cameras clicked and I had no doubt the image would be splattered on newspapers around the world. Q had become a hot commodity, and he’d married me—an ex-slave…a kidnapped woman.
I’d caught my own prince. My own dark wonderful prince.
Q tore up the scroll.
I blinked. “Q—what are you—?”
The room rippled with concern. The prime minster stepped forward, his forehead furrowed. “Um, Mr. Mercer, I don’t think…”
Q cut him off. “Please give me a moment. It’s not what it looks like.” He continued to rip up the thick parchment. I hadn’t even read what he’d been graced with and now never would—he’d turned it into confetti.
Shit, what is he doing?
My heart raced, not wanting to interfere, but terrified he was making things worse.
Keeping the shards in his hand, he stalked off the stage, heading to the first row where doctors, therapists, and police—all who’d been with Q from the beginning—stood.
With a hard smile, he gave them a piece of the scroll.
Once everyone had a scrap, Q returned to the stage. Dragging a hand through his hair, he simply said, “Now the award has been rightfully given. To the men and women who fought on a daily basis—before any recognition or benefit. They fought against evil—just as all the supporters and workers of Feathers of Hope do. Thank you. And now, I’m leaving. We have another engagement.”
Cameras flashed as Q grabbed my hand, yanking me off the stage.
We didn’t go back to our seats, instead, Q slammed through the double doors, leading me into the huge entrance of the town hall.
“Q—we should wait—” I didn’t like going anywhere without security. Ever since committing murder to avenge my master, I’d been ruthless inside. I pretended to maintain my innocence, but beneath it, I was vicious. I wouldn’t have any qualms of killing or hurting if our life’s were threatened. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t let others get their hands dirty, however.
Where’s Franco?
Cameramen and reporters swelled behind us like an unstoppable wave. They clicked and queried, staying at a respectful distance.
“Franco’s behind us. I just want to get to the interview and get it over with.” Q’s jaw ticked, guiding me fast toward the exit. He didn’t say a word as he smashed open the doors, striding into the street.
A roar.
A cresting of voices, cheers, gratefulness.
My eyes widened, unable to comprehend. Q’s fingers tightened around mine. He cursed, eyes looking frantically for freedom. “Goddammit.”
Women.
So many women—some with friends, others with families, but all linked by the same look of reverence in their eyes for Q.
Q.
My husband was beloved.
Franco appeared, flanking Q while Frederick and Angelique appeared by my side. “Wow,” Angelique murmured. “How is this possible?” Her long black hair was coiled into a bun; her white dress setting off her dusky skin.
A policeman in full mob gear climbed the steps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer. We didn’t anticipate this.”
“What the hell happened here?” Q demanded.
The prime minster tapped Q’s shoulder. “The state invited some of the women you’ve had a hand in saving. I’m afraid we underestimated the response we would receive.” His wrinkled face and salt and pepper hair looked regal if not a little pompous. “It looks like you’re in for a long afternoon.”
Oh, my God. My heart went from thudding to whizzing. “Are these…”
Q’s face was stoic, but his pale eyes burned. “You did this without consulting me?”
So many women! So many risks. My instincts fanned out, seeking a threat. Q’s sacrifice to let Lynx hurt him had worked. No other death notes were delivered, no attempts on his life initiated.
But all it takes is one.
The prime minster looked at his shoes, abashed. “We wanted to show you just how honoured France is to have such an exemplary citizen. I’m sorry if it was the wrong thing to do.”
Q pursed his lips, scanning the crowd of women. His fingers twitched in mine, and I knew he recognised them—running through the catalogued condition they’d been in when they arrived—the environment in which he’d brought them from.
My stomach twisted with awe. Awe for how many lives he’d touched. I wished I could see his thoughts—follow his memories and understand.
“Q—this…it’s amazing. They came to thank you personally.” I clutched his arm, willing love through my fingertips. My chest cracked open with adoration for the man I called mine.
He looked at me, his face hard and unreadable. “This is extremely dangerous. Not just for me but for you. Don’t you think traffickers will be watching this? Waiting to see if they can pick off women who have already been prey?”
Panic shot through my system. I searched the crowd, relaxing a little, noticing the familiar bodyguards dotted in the swarm. We were protected. We had a team behind us now. A network of people we didn’t have before. No more attacks would be made.
I must stay confident.
“You have to say something…they need closure. Something, Q.”
Q’s face whitened. “What on earth can I say? Yes, I saved them, but I had no contact. I left them to Suzette to fix—I wasn’t there in their healing.”
I shook my head. “To them you’re the hero. The one who came for them when no one else did. You have to listen. You have to do something.”
The prime minster nodded. “Just a small speech, sir. Nothing big, then we can ask them to leave you in peace.”
Q dragged a hand over his face. His shoulders tightened, hiding his nerves. Letting his hand fall, his annoyance was veiled behind the stern, forcible nature I knew so well.
My core clenched. I wanted to tell him he may be my husband, and I was beside him every hour of every day, but he still made me wet—just by being him.
“Fine. Give me a damn microphone.”
A policeman appeared with a wireless one almost instantly. Q snatched it off him, never letting go of my hand. “If I’m doing this—so are you, Tess.”
He marched forward, giving me no choice but to follow in his footsteps. We stood at the top of the stairs, staring into the souls of victims who’d been saved. Clearing his throat, he said, “Bonjour.”
The crowd hushed, all eyes—blue, green, brown, grey—all landed on Q. Fixated by the man who gave them back their lives.
“I want to thank you for coming to see me today. The gesture is both gratifying and humbling. But I assure you, it wasn’t necessary. You gave me all the thanks I needed when you returned to your loved ones. The only payment I required was making you strong again.”
Murmurs rose from the crowd. A blonde woman darted between spectators, slowly making her way to the steps of town hall.
My heart whizzed, prickling with awareness. My eyes narrowed at the darting form.
Q continued, “Despite the evilness of the world, good has prevailed, and I hope each of you has been able to move on and not let them win.”
The blonde girl fought the crush of bodies. Her hand went to her pocket. Time slowed, moving in heartbeats, dying in increments.
“Franco!” I yelled, pointing at the girl. Petrified she had a gun—some weapon to kill Q.
Q yanked me behind his body, protecting me. Franco leapt down the stairs, imprisoning the girl’s arm. It all happened in a blink—swift, efficient, trapping the would be threat.
But then her blue eyes locked onto mine.
“Please, no more. You’ve done enough! You’re like them. You’re a monster!”
I stumbled backward; my palm went slick with glacial sweat. Q’s hand slipped from around my arm. I reeled away.
No. It can’t be.
My hands clutched my hair as a cloud of torrid memories sucked me under.
“Hurt her, puta.”
“I’m going to rape this one—then you’ll know what it will feel like when I start on you.”
My ears roared. My heart died.
Blonde Angel.
It can’t be!
But it was. I’d stared into her eyes while hitting her. I’d listened to her screams while Leather Jacket tortured her. I would recognise her anywhere. She was a tattoo upon my soul.
She raised her arm, pointing at me. Painting me like the witch who deserved to be burned. The blissfully happy six months evaporated under the weight of what I’d done. How could I forget? How could I pretend I’d paid the toll when I’d killed a woman? When I’d brutally tortured another?
“Tess—Tess?” Q’s voice cut through my horror, dragging me back to the sunny warm day in France. Innocent. Safe. But it wasn’t innocent or safe.
My past had found me.
And now I must pay.
“Her,” I croaked. “It’s her.”
Blonde Angel fought Franco, trying to climb the steps. Her eyes never left mine, locked together in purgatory. She wore such innocuous clothing—a pair of loose fitting jeans and huge yellow jumper. Her hair was up in a ponytail—she looked so young. So young!
My eyes fell to her walking stick, splintering my heart more surely than any bat I’d swung or any terror I’d rained.
“Please—I just want to talk,” she called.
Her voice sent me straight back to Rio—to my dreams. There she’d been reincarnated to die night after night. Here she was real—a figment of my nightmares come to haunt me for my crimes.
Q wrapped an arm around me. I didn’t register his warmth or comfort. I didn’t register anything but bugs and beetles and pain.
“Please—let me pass. I promise I mean no harm,” Blonde Angel pleaded.
Franco looked to me. His chiselled face was dark. “Tess—what do you want me to do?”
Blonde Angel fanned her hands. “I only need a minute.”
I couldn’t say no to her. Regardless if she was there to kill me. I couldn’t’ say no to the woman I’d hurt so badly.
“Let her go, Franco.” My voice was reedy, lost.
“Tess?” Q shook me, but I sank into memories.