Twisted Together
Page 72

The moment we stepped into the room, a blanket of peace descended, hushing my racing heart, letting me relax for the first time since this morning.
My feet throbbed in my heels as we crossed the richly decorated suite. Q released me, dropping onto the English rose-print couch. “That was exhausting.”
I smiled, slouching next to him. “Yes, but so incredible—to see those women worship you, Q. To know she’s okay—it’s amazing.”
He scowled. “Not worshipping, esclave. Never that. They only have themselves to thank for taking their lives back. I was only the beginning, not the solution.”
I wanted to kiss him senseless for being so proud—unable to accept the good he did.
His lips quirked into a gentle smile. “And who knew you had fans already. I’m going to get jealous if people start hugging my wife.”
I laughed. “No fans—just a part of my past giving me freedom to let go.” My eyes faded, thinking of Sophie. I was so glad she survived. So happy she’d been invited by the prime minister, giving me absolution.
“Come here, Tess,” Q murmured.
My tummy flip-flopped at the quiet authority in his tone. I scooted closer, falling into his open arms. “What do you need, maître?”
He smirked. “Oh, I can think of many things I need.” His lips landed on my ear, making me shiver. “I need you naked. I need you strung up, so I can show you how damn proud I am. And I need you screaming because my nerves are shot and being in public isn’t getting any easier with you so vulnerable by my side.”
I’m not vulnerable. I have you.
“If you promise to do that thing with your tongue again—I’ll scream for you.”
I gasped as his lips descended on mine, kissing me stupid. His tongue speared my mouth, dragging moans and pleas and promises from my soul.
The hotel door opened.
Q growled, his arms tensing around me. For a moment, I feared he wouldn't let me go—to hell with the reporter.
But then he released me, moving away. My lips twitched, noticing the way he crossed his legs, hiding his impressive, delicious erection.
The reporter, with her plaited black hair and vibrant hazel eyes, entered. We’d agreed to one interview. Only one. And then it was back to work.
A hotel staff member followed, wheeling in a trolley full of pastries, éclairs, and coffee.
The woman smiled, sitting down, brushing her navy skirt around her legs. She pulled free a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from her bag, placing them on her nose. Her smile was cupid-sweet and bright pink.
We waited in comfortable silence as the coffee was poured. Once the waiter had left, Q grabbed a steaming cup, holding it to his lips. His sharp attention fell on the reporter, sizing her up with one glance. “Bonjour.”
She snagged a cup of caffeine, mimicking Q in a sip. “Hello, Mr. Mercer. Mrs. Mercer.” Her warm gaze landed on me; I smiled. “Hello, nice to meet you.” Collecting the last cup from the table, I held it, letting the hot liquid soothe my fluttering nerves.
I’d never been interviewed. I had no idea what to say. What not to say.
I needed a rule book so as not to embarrass myself or Q.
Taking another sip, she said, “My name’s Fiona, and I’ll be conducting the interview today.” She placed a recording device on the low coffee table between us, opening her notepad. Reclining into the Louis Vuitton styled chair, she grinned. “I wish to extend my gratitude for your time and expect us to be here for a few hours—but it all depends on how deeply you wish to tell me your story—and if you’d like to break during questioning.”
I’ll need a break. If only to gather my thoughts from the very distracting male seething with energy beside me.
Q nodded. “That’s fine.”
Fiona looked to me, a bond of femininity shot between us. She turned off the recording button. “Just before we start, I wanted to say on a personal level, your story has inspired me to help with Feathers of Hope. I’ve signed up to report on the women who want to tell their stories. I didn’t think anyone would be interested in speaking, but I’ve been overwhelmed with their tales already.”
Her eyes flickered to Q. “I feel out of bounds saying this, but I think I’m a little bit in love with you—mainly because of how much you love your wife.”
Q choked on a sip of coffee, before rearranging his face into something resembling coolness. “I think the only answer to give is thanks?” He glanced at me. His eyes yelled a message: what sort of interview is this?
The sort of interview where you finally understand how much people adore you.
I laughed. “I think a few women are in love with my husband for what he’s done—and I can share in that respect—but I do get rather possessive.”
Q’s lips tugged into half a smile. “Are you talking about the threatened restraining order last month, Tess? Surely not. Not you, my sweet blonde wife who would never put any claim on me.”
My heart raced remembering my threat and the consequences that came with it. Q had thoroughly proven why I had no need for jealousy—granting me another mark right above my belly button, so I would always remember.
I grinned, placing an owning palm on his thigh. “I’d fight for you, Q. I did fight for you. And every day I’ll never let you forget who you married and why.”
Fiona giggled. “Is it just me or did it rise a few degrees in here?” Pinching an éclair, she took a bite, and turned on the recording device again. “It’s so nice to see true love these days. I can tell I’m really going to enjoy this interview.”
The atmosphere changed from friendly to business. Crossing her legs, Fiona asked, “Okay, my first question is for Mrs Mercer. In fact, I don’t have any questions.” She waved her pen in the air. “Basically, I want to hear everything. Call me greedy, but I don’t want you to leave anything out.”
Q tensed, his leg muscles locking under my hand.
Fiona didn’t notice. “Tell you what—start from the day you got on the plane to Mexico.”
Q moved. Uncrossing his legs, he sat forward, steepling his hands between spread legs. Dominating. Governing. Stealing all my concentration and making me shamelessly wet.
My heart bolted, filling with words and memories and everything I would share.
This was it.
My story. My legacy. The one thing that would be immortalized onto pages and told forever. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t easy. But I would spare no emotion or detail. I would be honest to the very last word.
I opened my mouth to start. To tell my tale of heartache, love, and loss.
I’d waded through blackness and survived.
I’d fallen in love with a monster and thrived.
I’d danced into riches in every conceivable way.
But through it all, Q had been there. My monster in the dark.
Q grabbed my hand, bringing it to his lips. “L'histoire n'a pas commencé au Mexique.” The story didn’t start in Mexico.
Fiona frowned, “Oh? Where did it start?”
My brand seared, resonating with heat from Q’s intensity.
He glanced at me, sending fire into my soul. “Not where, but what.”
I melted. Utterly melted for my incredible husband. He understood me. He’d always understood me.
Fiona leaned forward, hanging on Q’s every word. “What?”
“A number. It all began with a number. For me anyway.”
My heart soared from my chest on sparrow wings. Birds filled my body—blackbirds, robins, and fantails.
I smiled. “That’s true. That was the beginning. The rest doesn’t matter.”
Fiona’s cheeks pinked as Q never looked away from me, sending the room swirling with desire. The moment the interview was over, Q would take me.
And I would be ready to accept whatever he wanted to give.
“What number?” she breathed.
Q tore his gaze from mine, locking her in his fierce pale stare. He riveted us with his power, trapping us in his net. “Fifty-eight. It all began with fifty-eight. And that’s where my wife will start.”
I looked at my wrist, tracing the numbers beneath the barcode and sparrow. I’d once been merchandise for sale. But then the winds of fate changed and blew me straight to Q. His cage became my home. His love became my wings. I became his bird through and through.
Tears pricked my eyes. I was so utterly happy, so faultlessly content, so completely complete.
Fifty-eight.
I’m Esclave Fifty-Eight. The girl who broke her owner.
My master had spoken.
I began.