Tears of Tess (27 page)

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 nipples 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 naked 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 fucking 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 fucked 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.

I
don’t know why, but I need you to want me!

I
collapsed to my knees, crying out as welts on my legs burned, and tiles slapped
against kneecaps. I bowed at his feet, not able to do anything else. He hated
me. He would throw me out, then where would I go? Who would want me after this?

“I’m
sorry!” I shouted, sucking in large, gulping breaths as something fractured. I
heaved as sadness, self-pity, and lostness asphyxiated. “You hurt me, you
torment me—” Sobs stopped my words; I wrapped arms around myself. “But I need
you!” I couldn’t do this.
I can’t!

Q
didn’t offer comfort; he didn’t give me what I needed—he stood there with his
aura of power and ruthlessness, watching me dissolve. Where had the man gone
who carried me upstairs? That was the man I needed. Not this bastard. This
owner.

Q
crouched, trying to unlatch my arms from round my ribcage, but I fought him and
huddled in the corner. Blonde hair tangled around me, offering protection from
his livid gaze.

“
Je
suis un salaud
,” he muttered, pulling me into his lap. His suit oozed with
liquid as he leaned against the wall, rocking me. I wanted to agree, he was a
bastard, but the ache in his voice hurt me deep. He truly believed it, on a much
deeper level.

So
many things ran through my body at being held. I wanted to snuggle, let him
whisper and soothe; another part wanted to run because his compassion was false
and hurt all the more. But I couldn’t do either. I was weak, and tears held me hostage.

Q
rubbed my back, long legs splayed on the shower floor. Through glassy tears, I
noticed he still wore shoes. Didn’t he care about anything he owned? Were we
all disposable?

I
cried harder.

Q
grabbed me tighter, murmuring, “You’re mine,
esclave
. Mine to care for.
Mine to fix. I’ll allow you to cry while I wash you, but the moment you’re
clean, you’re to stop. Do you understand?”

I
blinked through tears, shuddering so badly I couldn’t answer. 

“Everything
about tonight will be forgotten, and you’ll only have to remember what I do to
you. Is that clear?” He shook me. “Answer me,
esclave
.”

I
nodded. There was relief in being ordered to forget and I would obey. After
all, Q owned my sense of hearing, I couldn’t refuse. “I understand.”

Nodding
sharply, he reached above, to a glass shelf, where an array of crystal bottles
rested. Picking one, he dumped a handful of flowery scented shampoo and placed his
palms on my head.

The
moment his hands massaged, I cracked again. Wracking sobs exploded from my chest
and I doubled over with pain. Not from the rape, or Q’s anger, but because of
his touch. No one touched me so tenderly. Never had my parents cuddled or
offered comfort in their arms. I grew up never knowing how to hug or kiss or
love. Brax came along, and with his sweetness, helped heal me. Even with his
tender heartedness, he never just held me—never saw the real me or washed or
tended.

It
had taken being kidnapped, and sold to a man who didn’t want me, to show how
much my existence lacked. Q shattered my walls with his uncouth ways. How could
I ever go back to a life where my senses lived in limbo? Where no one cared
enough to kill for me?

Q
stopped washing my hair, gathering me tighter to him. I crushed against his wet,
suited chest, inhaling his unique scent.

He
let me cry and didn’t reprimand or control. He offered comfort in silence. Lips
pressed my forehead, whispering, “
Je suis ici
,” over and over. I’m here.
I’m here.

In
his kindness, he broke me into the perfect slave. I didn’t need his anger to
become devoted. I needed his softer moments—gentle love was my undoing, not
demands or threats. I was pitiful with how I needed compassion, companionship.

Tears
turned from depression to release. After twenty years of struggle, I finally
belonged.

Water
cascaded around us, but Q never stopped rocking, never stopped caring.

Everything
I knew about him was wrong. Who was this man who let me break in his arms? Who
was this man who cared so much?

Eventually,
I cried myself dry, and Q continued washing my hair. I stayed curled in his lap
as firm fingers massaged neck, shoulders, and back, working kinks from my body.
His hands showed a level of bliss I never experienced. On the floor of the
shower, I was his pet.
His.
Through and through. 

After
washing my hair, he dropped his hands to soap my breasts. His touch remained
platonic rather than lust-filled and demanding. Once my breasts were washed, he
lathered my arms, throat, and belly.

He
lulled me into complacency, blanketing me in newfound happiness. I froze when
his breath caught, hands circling my lower belly. The steam from the shower
laced with tension, and I knew his thoughts morphed from caring to need.

Pressing
his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you
forget. Let me give you a new memory
, esclave
.”

His
purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him
to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men.

I
nodded infinitesimally.

Q’s
breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonisingly slowly, he touched my leg,
avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up
my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat. 

I
jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away,
adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “
Écarté pour moi
.” Open
for me.

His
voice commanded and I obeyed, relaxing tense muscles, knees fell open slightly.
Q took full advantage.

He
inserted one finger, ever so gradually, inside. He made love to me with his
finger, but I flinched with pain from the abrasions by Brute.

Q
dropped his head, biting my collarbone, making me hiss between my teeth. “Only
think of me and what I’m doing. There is intimacy in pain,
esclave.
Let
me make your pain my pleasure.”

I
bucked as his finger entered forcefully, pressing against deep bruises, claiming
me for himself. I frowned, focusing entirely on his arms around me, his touch
inside. He was correct: there
was
intimacy in pain. I’d never felt so
stripped bare, so enchanted by someone as I did in that moment.

Q
rocked his palm against my clit, finger feathering inside. I became wet for
him, arching in his arms. This was the man who called to me. My master.

He
sucked in a raspy breath, pressing his face into my cleavage. Licking the
valley of my breasts, he inserted another finger, pressing deep. My mouth opened
wide, and I tried to pull away from the mind-shattering rock.

“You
beguile me when you let go,
esclave.
Let go.”

And
like the obedient slave, I obeyed. I mewled and cried, rocking hips to meet his
finger-thrusts. I moaned as my womb tightened, warmed, loving the intrusion of
his touch.