“And if I don’t want to learn?”

Suzette stood, looking overcome with endless sadness. “Then you don’t deserve him.”

* * * * *

That night, Q came for me.

I spent the day with Suzette and Mrs. Sucre, battling two different emotions. One moment, my body would warm and liquefy, remembering Q’s strength, his lust in the shower. The next, I’d freeze and swallow nausea while memories of Brute crushed.

The two extremes never ended, and by the time we finished dinner in the kitchen, my eyes were heavy, body lethargic. I needed sleep and hoped I wouldn’t be hounded by nightmares.

I lay in bed, staring at the silver canopy above. I hadn’t cleared it with anyone if I could remain in the carousel room, but Franco spotted me opening the door earlier, giving a slight nod. I hoped his nod meant I could remain on the second level, and not banish myself to the cell of a maid’s room.

The door creaked ever so quietly, sending my heart into hyper-drive. I didn’t need to ask who. My entire body knew the answer—master.

Q padded across thick carpet, his silhouette proud and stealthy. I wriggled beneath my sheets. What exactly was he doing here at two in the morning on a week day? I knew how hard he worked. I expected him to be in bed. The moment I thought of Q in bed my mouth went dry. Where did he sleep? What did his room look like?

Then again, I assumed Q worked hard. I knew nothing about him, and after the comments from Brute about Q’s family, I didn’t want to know. If I learned the truth, and it was disastrously horrid, I would have to run again.

And I didn’t want to run. The world was dangerous; I preferred to live with the devil I knew.

I held my breath as Q padded closer. It seemed with every step, he pulled energy toward him until the gloom sparkled. An image of Q na**d and asleep in bed assaulted me. My mouth watered at the thought of seeing him so vulnerable.

He stopped by the side of the bed. I couldn’t see his features in the dark, but his breathing was measured and strong.

He stood in faded jeans and a scruffy white t-shirt. I’d never seen him in something so…ordinary. He wore suits like a persona—a uniform amplifying his demands for submission. It worked. It turned him into a sharp, merciless weapon; the female in me licked her lips at his dangerous edge. But Q in jeans and t-shirt showed another side. A clue into the man behind the suits, a man with too many thoughts and no one to talk to.

He didn’t say a word, but simply placed two items on the foot of the bed. He paused, lurking in the dark.

I lay, unmoving, waiting to see what he’d do. I wouldn’t let him walk out the door without getting what I wanted. I wanted to talk to him, unravel his secrets. I needed to know if he wanted me so much, he came to wake me in the middle of the night. Waiting in the dark, I ached for an order to serve.

I licked my lips as he ran a hand over his head, deliberating.

Finally, he stepped toward the door, stopped, and turned back. Sucking in a breath, he ordered, “Wake up, esclave.”

His voice stroked my skin; I embarrassed myself with a small pant. I couldn’t help it—my hearing belonged to him.

He chuckled. “Unless you’re awake already.”

Dammit.

Coming closer, he leaned down and turned on the diamante side lamp, casting a soft glow, an oasis of illumination. “Bon soir.” His lips twitched a little as he stared from above. I grew too hot under the covers but daren’t kick them off. I wore a large t-shirt and shorts, but somehow they were insubstantial when Q looked at me. Like I was a chocolate éclair, and he desperately needed a sugar fix.

“Hello,” I murmured, loving the thrill of lust and fear. The knowledge I’d give him what he wanted and no longer suffer guilt. I was free from my feelings of Brax—I let him go. It hurt if I remembered his quirks and kindness, but there was no point torturing myself. Q owned me—that was all I needed to remember.

“I have gifts for you.” Q sat on the edge of the bed. His warm weight pressed hard against my thigh beneath the covers. I shivered.

He grabbed the sheets, fumbling beneath the quilt. I yelped as his hand found my ankle, tugging my leg out of bed.

I couldn’t speak as he rested my leg on his thighs, running a thumb around my bony ankle. “Something’s missing.”

His touch resonated directly between my legs. I trembled as he bent and pressed a possessive kiss on my shin. Reaching behind himself, he pulled a black bracelet into view, dangling it.

I gulped. Another GPS tracker.

“This saved your life, esclave, yet you cut it off to escape. If you’d have thrown it out the window while driving, instead of leaving it in the car, I would never have found you in time.” His voice verged on menacing, shooting horror into my heart.

Oh, my God, he was right. If I hadn’t thought I’d be free and in police custody, I might be buried with all the potatoes by now…or wishing I was.

In one swift move, I sat upright, stole the tracker, and secured it around my ankle. The snap of plastic echoed around the hushed space; heart thudded. I’d tagged myself. I willingly admitted I wouldn’t run again.

Q sucked in a breath, capturing my wrist when I went to pull away. He traced the barcode tattooed on my flesh. His face flashed with hatred and anger, but his ire wasn’t directed at me. My heart warmed, knowing he hated the people who stole me.

His fingers turned harsh, eyes captured mine. “How bad was it, when they took you?”

I waited for anger and terror for what they did, but I felt nothing. I didn’t know if I blocked it out, or if the rape dulled my senses.

Shrugging, I tried to tug my arm back. “It was the worst week of my life, until last night.”

“Worse than me?” he murmured. His voice held an edge, almost as if his question meant a lot more than what he asked.

Wanting to give him something, after all he did for me last night, I nodded. “A lot worse.”

He shook his head, eyes unfocused. Memories swirled in their depths and I wanted to chase him wherever he went. I wanted to know him. Would he ever let me get close? Was a slave allowed to help her owner, while letting him use her body? I didn’t know the rules.

Q finally released me, presenting the other package. “This is for you.” His jaw clenched as I held my hands out, accepting the large sketchpad and charcoal pencils. I opened it and couldn’t breathe. Inside, architectural graph paper—the exact kind I used in my university course—glowed fresh and new.

My eyes widened. “You remembered what I told you…that first breakfast when you kissed me.”

He sat straighter, tension rippling in his body. “I remember everything, esclave. I remember how you smell, how you taste. I remember how you feel inside and how terrified you were when I found you at Lefebvre’s residence. I also know things you haven’t told me. You secretly like what I do to you, you think you hide it, but I know that darkness in your eyes. It feeds me, calls to me.”

He fisted the covers, throwing them off me, exposing my body. “Why else do you think I can’t leave you alone?”

I couldn’t look away from his gaze; his intensity trapped me, searing with need and want. When I didn’t answer, he ordered, “Get out of bed.”

For a moment, I wanted to disobey, to see what he’d do, but some small part was truly scared of him. I hustled to leave the warm nest. Swinging my legs over the edge, I stood.

Immediately, he grabbed my hips, positioning me in front of him. Breathing grew harsh as he ran his gaze over my unsexy ensemble.

He frowned, thoughts running over his face. He pushed away, stalking to the dresser. Opening a drawer, he fumbled inside before withdrawing a lacy G-string. I gulped as he came back, swinging the knickers on his middle finger.

“Stand by the bed post.” His voice dropped even lower, yelling intentions in every syllable.

I didn’t move, fighting too many complexities to order my legs to work.

Grinding his teeth, he grabbed my arm, tugging me down the bed to stand in front of a white lacquered bed post. “Put your arms above your head.”

He was so close; a heavy cloud of sandalwood and spice buffeted, turning knees to water. I stretched, arching my back against the pillar, deliberately forcing my br**sts to touch his chest. He startled, raising an eyebrow, before reaching up and securing my wrists with the G-string. The lacy material bit into skin, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as being chained in the sparrow room. At least my feet were on carpet, and no guests saw my suffering.

Q bent his head, leaning his length against mine. His h*ps pressed hard, dominating.

I tilted my chin, positioning lips for him to kiss me. He never closed his eyes and pale green irises made me feel as if I’d entered a wood glen where naughty fairy men took advantage of fair maidens.

I swallowed hard as he came within a fraction of kissing me. But, with a crooked smile, he pulled back. “You want me to kiss you, esclave. That’s not how this works.”

Reaching into a back pocket, he pulled free a pair of silver scissors. Fear widened my eyes. What the hell?

“You don’t get to choose what I do to you. Because you want me to kiss you, I won’t.”

I moaned, then flinched, wishing I could slap a hand over my traitorous mouth. God, Tess, way to sound desperate. I didn’t want to be tied up and abused. So why do you ache for it? Shit, I was sick. The rape must’ve done something, made me a danger whore. But that was a lie. The only thing that happened was Q. He controlled my body like a puppeteer—I had no will to disobey—I couldn’t disobey.

Maybe I should try to find the centre of calm from the day I sucked Q. The safe zone might protect from more upsetting thoughts. Save my sanity, stop me from leaping willingly into a realm of bondage and kink.

I closed my eyes, trying hard to tap into blank safety. Fear swelled. If I didn’t stop my desires now, I might slide down a slippery slope, never finding my way back to normal.

You were never normal. I pursed my lips, feeling lost and confused. How could I want two things at the same time? Roughness, freedom… both taunted with agonising temptation.

Q took my chin in his thumb and forefinger, hypnotising me with his gaze. “Don’t. Stay with me.”

How did he feel me withdrawing? I shook my head, dislodging his fingers. “What gave me away?”

Q rolled his shoulders as if reigning himself in, bringing his energy to heel. “I told you—I sense you.” Toned muscles stood out beneath the white t-shirt; I couldn’t look away from the bulge in his jeans.

“Now, stay still and present.” His face remained stoic and cool as he advanced with the scissors, running the cold kiss of metal along my neck, dipping to my throat. His breathing quickened as the blade nicked my collar.

With perfect care, he cut my t-shirt right down the centre. Each snip undid me, thread by thread, until I was sure he opened my chest, revealing a rabbiting heart, and all my secrets.

Everything he did symbolised so much. Q relished in playing me with unsaid words, everything about him a mystery.

He won’t be so cocky when I discover who he is. I’d use those secrets to play the same game—a sick circle of mind-trips and power struggles. My core clenched at the thought of going head to head with Q in a battle of wills. I didn’t think I’d win, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to win. I could allow him to rule me—like I wanted him to.

He swallowed when he snipped the hem, splaying it wide, showing bare br**sts and rapidly breathing stomach. With perfect control, he ran the pinpoint of a blade from my lower lip, down my neck, between my cle**age, to the top of my cotton shorts.

Skin broke out in goosebumps as he pressed ever so gently. The blade puckered my skin, but didn’t pierce. The delicate balance of trusting and fearing him made my heart buck out of control.

Q seemed lost in contemplation, twisting the scissors in a circle around my belly button. He told me not to leave, to remain rather than disappearing in my mind, but he left. His face shadowed with thoughts and recollections. Things that didn’t seem pleasurable, things that made his body tremble. I’d give anything to follow him—to see if he lived in the dark or light.

I tested the boundaries of the restraints, no give at all. He’d tied the knickers well. I squirmed beneath the blade; his eyes snapped to mine. He blinked, casting shadows away.

Palming the scissors, he leaned closer, wrapping fingers around my wrists as the button of his jeans bit my belly. His clothed chest teased my ni**les, making them harden to a painful nub. “You have no idea how much I want to f**k you.”

Oh, God. His voice activated every part. I panted breathlessly, “Why don’t you then? Or do you enjoying torturing first?”

He reared back, jaw working. “Do you think this is torture? I could do so much worse, esclave. He rubbed his groin against mine, pressing my ass hard against the bedpost with his cock. “I want to do so much worse.” His accent thickened, muttering, “Je tiens à te faire hurler.” I want to make you scream. He didn’t say it in a kinky, playful way; he said it with passion so nightmarish, I couldn’t see anything but whips and pain and blood.

That did it.

My lust switched to fear and I moaned again, but this time, it was a plea. “Please… you don’t have to make me scream. You can take me. I’m yours.”

He laughed darkly. “You don’t get it do you, esclave? Your permission turns me off. I need to take from you to feel something. If you think I’m not like those men who raped you, you’re wrong. There’s something broken in me, and I need your pain to come.” He twisted a nipple with angry fingers. I yelped.

Pain coursed to pleasure, warming, making me wet. If Q was hardwired, needing pain to enjoy sex, so was I. I might’ve gone through my entire life, never knowing the key to my pleasure was pain.