Holy hell, did I invite this by wanting to be rougher with Brax? Did my fate decide I had a life too perfect and granted my sick desires in the worst way possible?

I couldn’t breathe. I stared at the tablecloth as the maid entered the room with a dainty knock, and placed a plate of poached eggs in front of me. She bowed slightly to Q, putting the same in front of him.

Even though my limbs were weak with hunger, I pushed the plate away. How could I eat when I disgusted myself? All of this was my fault. I was responsible with my screwed up perversions.

“Eat, damn you,” Q ordered, face stoic.

After everything I’d been through, after the breath stealing kiss, and the bloody Mexicans, and my stupid naivety—I could go on and on—I embraced my gutter mouth. “Fuck. You.”

Eyes widened and jaw clenched, but he didn’t retaliate. He cut a delicate mouthful, chewing carefully. Every bite controlled and precise, as if he kept a tight rein on himself at all times. What did he battle with? Because he battled, I saw that in his eyes.

“If you won’t tell me your name, tell me something else about you.”

Why did he want to know? He’d already said nothing else mattered but being his.

Swallowing, I stared outside, toward the terrace and the huge bird table swarming with noisy sparrows and blackbirds. The manicured gardens, with perfect hedges and bare flowers, glittered with frost like sparkly lace. From hot Mexico to winter in France, I missed home miserably.

Q put his knife and fork down, placing hands in his lap. I made the mistake of looking at him, and we engaged in another staring competition. I yelled and screamed silently while he sat and dominated with unsaid threats.

He broke the contest, murmuring, “You have two choices.”

My ears pricked, but I pretended insolence. Two choices. Try three. Whatever the first two, the third was escape. I’d make it happen. I’d laser my tattoo off, cut the GPS tag off my ankle, and find a way to remove the node in my neck. I may have brought this on myself, but I would get myself out.

Q continued in his deep, accented voice, “One, I rape you, hurt you, do everything you expect of me, and make you live a miserable existence.”

I narrowed my eyes, watching closely. His shoulders tensed on the word rape, but excitement heated his gaze, too. Why the two emotions? One hot and wanting, the other repulsed and angry. Lacing fingers together, I squeezed. Fear threatened to close my throat.

“Or, tell me about yourself, and, if you have a skill I need, I’ll put you to work in other ways.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Other ways?”

Regret flickered across his face so quickly, I wondered if I imagined it. He nodded infinitesimally. “Other ways.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Tell me first.”

He slammed his hands on either side of his plate, rattling the china. “Goddammit, girl, I’m offering you a choice. But it doesn’t mean I can’t take that choice away.” He breathed hard and his anger sent fear spiralling inside.

He called me girl, and yet, I doubted he was much older. Early thirties at the latest. But age didn’t matter when he shouted. He scared me more than Leather Jacket did. At least with him, I knew the man I fought. Q, I had no idea.

Trying to focus, I sucked in a breath. Q offered me a choice. If I wanted to escape, I had to bide my time. If Q put me to work, I might have more opportunity than being tied to a bed.

I mirrored him, placing hands on the table, strengthening my resolve. “What do you want to know?”

His shoulders relaxed a little, but the hardness in his pale green gaze never left. “Where are you from?”

“Melbourne.”

“Do you speak any other language but English?”

I shook my head.

He snorted. “That’s the first thing to change. I refuse to speak English for long periods. It’s a boring language. You will learn French.” Waving the comment away, he asked, “What other education do you have?”

I walked a spider’s web, one wrong answer and I tickled the wrong strand, inviting choice number one of rape and ruin.

“I’m still at university. I’ve waitressed and worked in retail.”

He huffed, inspecting perfect fingernails. “Nothing of importance. You better have more talent, otherwise…”

I rushed, “I’m training to be in property development. I’ve almost completed a project managing degree and side line in architectural sketches.”

He paused. Interest replaced the hardness in his eyes for a brief moment, before the shutters slammed closed again. “Go on.”

There wasn’t much else to say. “I’ve yet to sit final exams, but I studied how to do building budgets, deal with local councils, permits, trade requirements. I’m top in the class for an eco-sustainable village concept for our mid-terms.” I fibbed. I came second, but if he wanted me in property, shit, I’d be the best in property I could be.

He leaned back, steepling his fingers again. I fast recognized the trademark move. Q moved with power and the undeniable knowledge of perfect control. “How did they take you?”

The abrupt change in conversation side-lined me.

I thought I’d pushed the terror down deep from being kidnapped, and purged myself last night through a wash of tears, but panic rose and roared, blotting out everything, apart from the agony of seeing Brax bleeding and men knocking me unconscious. Oh, God, would I ever be free?

Q shifted, waiting. He neither cared, nor took sadistic interest as I struggled with memories. Why the hell did he bring it up? Bastard.

I answered in monotone, pretending I hadn’t lived it. Surprisingly, it helped distance myself, and a shot of pride filled me. I’d fought and taught Leather Jacket a lesson or two. I celebrated the small win. “I was taken in Mexico. They hurt my boyfriend, knocked me out, and took me somewhere.”

“Did they hurt you? Apart from your ankle?”

If he classified being beaten and tattooed, then yes. I nodded.

He sucked in a breath, forehead furrowing. “Did they rape you?”

Leather Jacket tried, but failed. A cold smile tugged my lips. “No. One tried. He wasn’t successful.”

His hard smile matched mine, and something webbed between us. Understanding? Respect? Something I said changed the way Q thought of me.

My pulse accelerated. Perhaps, if I made him see me, not as a possession but as a woman, things might not be so lost after all.

Whatever his feelings, if his respect granted safety, I was all for it.

Whatever happened between us disappeared when Q murmured, “What’s your name?” He kept eyes shadowed by looking at the newspaper on the table. Did he not think I noticed the casual question?

I pursed my lips, not answering.

After a moment, he looked up, glaring. “You will tell me your name.”

My breath came faster, hurting my rib, but I remained silent. What are you doing, Tess? Is another beating really worth keeping your name a secret? I knew the answer: yes, it was. My name was the only thing I owned. It was sacred.

I jumped as Q called, “Suzette!” His chin rose, showing a graceful neck and rough-smoothness. Cords of muscle hinted at a rigorous exercise program, yet his body wasn’t bulky. In another life, I would’ve drooled over him. He ought to be on the cover of a GQ magazine. My eyes narrowed. Was that why he called himself Q? So egotistical.

The maid appeared. Her soft smile and adoration for her employer shot me in the heart. How could she be loyal and like this man?

“Oui, maître?”

“Enfermer la dans la bibliothèque. Retirez le téléphone et l'ordinateur portable. Ca comprend?”

I blinked, wishing I’d stayed with French in high school. Rusty cogs worked hard, shedding dust on a language I knew, but hadn’t used in years. Something about a library and a computer.

My eyes flashed between Q and Suzette.

She bowed. “Oui, autre chose?”

My mind sped, letting my brain stretch and remember. She’d asked if he wanted anything else. I’d never been thankful for a good memory before, but I wanted to cry with relief—I wouldn’t be completely in the dark.

Q froze, and Suzette locked him in her hazel stare. Her stance yelled protectiveness, understanding. Eyes urged him to do… what?

They stared for an eternity, involved in silent conversation, leaving me a third wheel. Finally, Q nodded, sighing, “Vous savez?” You know.

She relaxed, face full of sad acknowledgement. “Elle est différente.” She shrugged. “Ne vous punissez pas.”

She spoke so fast, I only caught different and punishment. My stomach clenched as Q glanced at me, a tortuous mix of lust and hatred in his face.

He nodded sharply, letting his guard down; eyes flared with hunger. “Oui.” His voice sent shivers across my skin.

Instinct knew before my mind. Something changed in Q. He’d given in to the battle he fought. My heart jumped from its prison of ribs, galloping around my chest. Sinister knowledge coiled through my veins. He gave up fighting. The decision shone in his resigned but tense body. Terror demanded to know exactly what he’d given in to.

Suzette looked at me with pity and hope, before disappearing into the lounge. I wanted to run after her, beg to know what was happening.

Q stood, brushing his immaculate suit and silver shirt. Avoiding my gaze, he said, “Suzette has her orders. Follow them. And, seeing as you refuse to tell me your name, you’ll be called esclave until you do. If you’re going to learn French, let that be your first word.”

Now was not the time to advise I knew enough to understand.

He went to walk around the table, but changed his mind. My skin heated as he came closer, and I sucked in a ragged breath as he pressed against me. His hard thigh connected with my shoulder. He rocked his hips, deliberately making me very aware of what was between his legs.

My mind rebelled as everything within flushed to an all-encompassing need. He was so hard and long—rigid and unforgiving. The way he loomed above sent fear fluttering, mixing with unwanted desire.

I twisted away, wincing from my rib, but the pain couldn’t stop the hatred for my traitorous body. How could I even think of desire? That was the thing—I didn’t think. My body reacted. Starved of something it needed for so long, coupled with the act of control, triggered buttons despite my terror and repulsion. Tears choked. How could I? I’m a sick, twisted freak.

Q interrupted my confusion and hatred. “Do you know that word?”

I didn’t have a clue, too involved mentally beating myself for such a horrid betrayal. Fight! Think of Brax. My heart stopped. No, don’t think of Brax.

Q captured my chin, a flare of heat clenched my stomach. “Esclave, answer me. Do you know that word?” His mouth was so close; I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Ordering my brain to work, ignoring my sinning body, I shook my head. I did know the word: slave. But ignorance was a weapon, and I didn’t want him to know my arsenal.

I thought fast, thankful when the threads of lust blazed to hate. Yes, hate. That emotion would be my salvation whenever Q managed to turn my body against me.

My voice shook. “I am not an esclave and you are not my maître. You will never be.”

His pupils dilated, and a hand shot from nowhere, wrapping around my neck. We stared nose to nose, him looming in an expensive Gucci suit. “You are my esclave. It isn’t negotiable. And consider my proposal for two options revoked. I can no longer do so.” He breathed hard with unmasked desire. “You’re mine, and I chose option one.”

I panted. I ached. Every cell erupted, dripping with black, dangerous thoughts. I struggled to remember how much I hated Q, as a carousel of emotions swirled, making me dizzy, hurtling into darkness. In the darkness lurked heat, fear, intoxication, hyperawareness.

A tear trickled down my cheek; I was ruined already.

Q growled and I liquefied deep inside. My traitorous body swelled and warmed all the while my mind revolted, spewing obscenities. How could I allow my body to betray me so completely? Why am I so f**ked up?

Q watched my unravelling in wonderment. His mouth parted, pale eyes blazing.

All of this was wrong. So, so wrong. I fell headlong into mourning.

Q ran his nose down mine, breathing deep. Something hard and tight squeezed my stomach. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

“I don’t want option one,” I whispered. I knew what it included: degradation, sexual torture, all manner of things one would do with an unwanted possession. Played with, toyed with, and ultimately thrown out with the trash.

Another rebellious tear escaped, and I hated the droplet with everything. It showed how weak I was, how ruined I already felt.

Q froze, watching the tear trail down my cheek, tickling heated skin. Eyes flashed to mine, and for a millisecond, I saw something human—compassion, remorse, then hunger reclaimed him and he ducked. His tongue swept over my cheek with gentle tenderness, capturing my salty remorse, then ran over his bottom lip.

Maybe because Leather Jacket licked me the same way, or once again instincts knew something I had yet to understand, I relaxed a little. Q didn’t lick with sick pleasure, he licked with kindness.

The screwed up, broken part of me, reacted to Q’s insolent possessiveness. I wanted so much to believe he would be kind and not hurt me. But he accepted me as a bribe! No one with a soul would do that. I couldn’t afford to let his act beguile me.

My eyes snapped closed, protecting all facets of my soul. Ten percent wanted him to deliver his threats—wanted him to be rough and use me. While ninety percent wanted to stab him with the butter knife over and over, until blood decorated the silver wallpaper and pretty tablecloth.