Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m coming…

“Tu es à moi.” You’re mine. Q leaned back, using my weight as a counter leaver, driving upward. His c**k so hot and hard, stretching me to breaking point.

My heart sprouted wings, and flew. The build-up of the release rose and rose, never peaking. Fear laced with need. Too intense. I didn’t think I’d survive it.

The gag blocked air, and the lack of oxygen made my head swim. All I could think about was Q and his nails and his c**k and his ragged breathing.

Q leaned back further, head falling as he f**ked impossibly harder. His hipbones bruised my inner thighs as he gave me the rampage I needed.

“Fuck, Tess. Fuck yes. Take it. Putain, ta chatte s'adapte à ma bite si bien.”Fuck, your cunt fits my c**k so well.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hold it any longer. My entire body split in half, but the release still didn’t crest.

Please, please, God. I need… I can’t. I… I…

“Look at me,” Q growl-panted.

I obeyed and drowned in his smouldering green. Tension thrummed, consuming, and another element stole us. We were no longer master and slave. We were two rutting animals focused on one goal.

“Master, please…” I begged around the material in my mouth.

Q stiffened with power, thrusting as his eyes flared wide and lips parted. “I’ll give you what you need.” His body convulsed and a low angry groan ripped from his throat. A hot pulse of se**n filled and that was all I needed.

I combusted.

Every atom in my body detonated and fired. My pu**y fisted around Q’s relentless erection and I screamed. Q’s mouth latched onto my neck, biting. I transcended from my mere mortal body, riding wave after wave of eye-popping, brain-splintering euphoria.

Q grunted, thrusting in time to my release; teeth never let up on my collarbone and a slick trail of blood trickled from my throat where he bit. Some primal part of my brain went wild. I loved that he needed me so bad, he broke my skin. I loved how delicate his tongue was, lapping up my essence.

I shuddered as swell after swell continued, slowly getting less intense. My feet cramped and my entire body felt as if I’d been run over.

With trembling fingers, Q undid my gag, then my wrists. Catching my weight, he cradled me, folding us the floor. We fell in a tangle of limbs onto the thick white carpet, covering it with sweat, come, and drops of blood.

Q didn’t withdraw, and somehow managed to twist me so I faced away. Not saying a word, he tucked me closer, spooning me with his hard body.

His heart thudded against my back, matching the erratic pace of mine.

I snuggled closer, blissfully content. Q hurt me, but adored me, all at the same time. He gave me everything I needed. The intimacy between us couldn’t be described and I shivered as he unclamped my ni**les, rubbing them gently.

He sighed deeply and yawned. The alcohol in his system no doubt left him depleted.

You used me, but you kept me safe. I tried to transmit the thought. My body wasn’t capable of speech. Q mumbled something, pulling me closer.

The sun pinked the sky outside and Q twitched, already drifting into oblivion.

Tonight had changed my life. Q may make my soul weep and tear itself into pieces but he made it operatic with joy, too. My soul didn’t just sing, it rejoiced.

I finally found a place where my twistedness belonged.

In Q’s arms.

Chapter 21

*Pheasant*

Pain and achiness woke me.

Memories of last night swirled, thick and fast. My body clenched, remembering Q’s rampant f**king, his drunken ramblings about girls and winter. He gave clues; I just had to figure out the metaphors to understand.

And I wasn’t capable right now. My brain was sludge, body hissing with lashes and bruises. I felt used, abused, and entirely adored.

I shifted, trying to get comfortable. The thick carpet cushioned, but also tickled. Q moaned and held me tighter, a muscular arm banded around my stomach. Incredibly, he was still inside, flaccid but still big enough to be very aware of the intrusion.

I rocked my h*ps a little, trying to rouse him.

His breathing changed from deep to shallow. Slowly, he stiffened, filling me like a balloon, stretching until I ached with reminders of how hard he took me last night.

I bit my lip as his nose brushed aside tangled hair, kissing softly.

With a soft groan, he rocked.

My eyes closed as dexterous fingers captured my nipple, rolling tenderly. So different from the angry dominance from last night. Q wasn’t the one f**king me this morning. It was Quincy.

I moaned, pushing back, matching his rock. We languished and delighted, not chasing a body-splitting orgasm, but more a gentle glow.

His hand trailed from breast to core, playing with my cl*t as the rock turned serious, claiming.

I whimpered as Q wrapped his leg around mine, trapping me. With the extra purchase, he thrust, pressing upward, hitting the top of my womb.

“I never thought I’d enjoy vanilla,” he mumbled into my hair.

I froze. What did he mean? He’d never shared intimacy before? The gentleness of sex compared to angry rutting?

His breathing caught, not noticing I’d withdrawn, trying to analyse what he meant. His fingers smeared my cl*t with wetness, rubbing erotically, giving me no choice but to pay attention.

“Come for me, esclave.” His order was breathless; his leg wrapped around mine, tensed.

He thrust harder, tainted with some of the violence I was used to from Q. Pinching my clit, he forced me to come. My body clenched and quivered, welcoming Q’s orgasm as he filled me with his seed. His soft moan sent my heart fluttering, and I smiled.

* * * * *

We must have drifted again. I woke to a knock.

Q flinched, unwrapping himself from around me. Our skin popped slightly as suction tried to keep us together. Q grumbled, holding his head. “Merde, how much did I drink last night?”

I laughed softly. “Enough to ramble about birds and girls and…” My voice drifted. Sadness replaced my post conjugal glow. “I’m number fifty-eight.”

Air chilled as Q froze. “What?” Eyes flared with panic. “I said that?” He scooted upright, wincing.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his trim, toned body. His heavy c**k still glistened from being inside me. The sparrow tattoo filled me with sorrow for some inexplicable reason.

“Can you tell me now? What do the birds have to do with the fifty-seven slaves you’ve had before me?”

Q swiped a hand over his face, pacing away. Gathering his trousers, he refused to look at me. Pulling them on, he didn’t bother with underwear. I hadn’t seen his tattoo from behind, but the cloud looked ominous and evil. A nightmare of thorns and branches trying to devour innocent little birds.

My gaze fell, unable to look any longer. I gasped. Everywhere, my skin was purple with faint bruises and pink with abrasions from the flogger. I twisted, hissing between my teeth to look at my back. Lashes crossed in a lattice pattern, flaming with soreness. He hadn’t broken the skin, but damn, it hurt.

Slinging his buttonless shirt on, Q spun around. He passed me a fur blanket from the bed. “You’ll have to wear this to your room, seeing as I burned your clothes.”

I glared. “Are you deliberately ignoring my question?”

He shut down. Eyes hazy with a hangover, jaw clenched. I couldn't understand his aloofness. His coldness.

The knock came again, interrupting the building tension.

Q sighed, withdrawing even further. “I have to go.”

I stood proudly, not covering myself in the blanket. I wanted him to see what he did to me. How I wore the marks with passion. They showed everything I’d become. I was no longer virgin snow. I was claimed. Used. “You’re going to leave in the middle of a discussion?”

His eyes fell to my ruined body, heat and distress flickering over his face. “Don’t confuse what happened last night. It was f**king between a drunk master and his slave. You gave me what I wanted. But it’s morning, and other things demand my attention.”

He couldn’t have hurt me more if he tried. My eyes narrowed, stinging with tears. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want to believe, esclave. I’m leaving.”

My heart shut down. Esclave. Not Tess. He disowned me so simply.

Before I could ask what the hell was going on, he unlocked the door and disappeared.

* * * * *

I took the walk of shame down the circular stairs and into my bedroom. I showered and rubbed arnica into my bruises, before slipping on a beautiful grey dress I found hanging in the wardrobe.

I no longer had aversions to Q dressing me. After what he did last night, a simple wardrobe preference seemed trivial. I let him flay me open in every sense, but instead of feeling treasured and complete, I felt empty and regretful. He did things I never thought I could agree to, yet I never used the safe word. Because I felt safe with him.

But that was another lie. He ruined that safety when he left with no explanation. My jaw ached from clenching so hard. Q had no right to shut down and leave. He has every right. He’s your master.

He’s more than that—even if he denies it until he passes out.

I brushed my hair with fierce strokes. Maybe I deluded myself into believing he felt more than he did. He admitted to having fifty-seven women before…what did little ole me matter?

His drunk rambling echoed in my mind. Winter. Birds. Thawing.

I dropped the brush.

Holy f**k. Could it be true? Q bought women, not to abuse them, but to save them?

My mind couldn’t comprehend it. Not after the music of demons inside, not after everything he did to me. But my heart fluttered with hope.

Needing to learn the truth, I bolted from the room.

I found Suzette in the kitchen slicing carrots; she barely acknowledged me. Dark clouds rolled over the spring sunshine, casting shadows.

Mrs. Sucre gave me a half-hearted smile before disappearing into the pantry. My skin pricked with unwelcome. I was a traitor, an outcast.

I moved forward, pressing against the countertop, not entering the massive kitchen. I wasn’t brave enough to encroach on Suzette’s domain while she glared machetes at me.

Unbearable silence thickened; the house had a weird vibe. Tense, static, as if a storm brewed within.

Whiplashes twinged as I hunched. I had no right to feel ignored. What happened with the police was my fault.

“Suzette… what happened last night? Why didn’t the police arrest Q?” I started with an easy question. I needed to break the ice before confirming my suspicions. It made sense though—Suzette told me all along Q rescued her, but I’d been too pig-headed to listen.

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. “What do you think happened? The police came and accused Q of kidnapping you.”

“But they left. They must’ve found Q innocent, if they didn’t press charges.”

Suzette scoffed. “So much you don’t know, esclave. Things you’ve lost the right to learn.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t realize how much I valued Suzette’s friendship. “I didn’t call the police. I called my boyfriend and told him about Q, but… that’s all.”

She stopped chopping. “And you think that makes it okay?” She closed her eyes, visibly forcing away her black mood. When she reopened, her hazel eyes sparkled, but no longer furious. “I know you were terrified when you first arrived. I know you suffered in Mexico. I know you missed your boyfriend—I can’t hate you for being a fighter, for running, for being brave. I just wish you’d given us more time before judging and making a bad decision.” She picked up the knife and resumed slicing.

Chills darted down my back. She spoke in past tense…

Mrs. Sucre opened an oven, and heavenly scents of cinnamon and sugar wafted as she removed perfectly cooked sweet buns. She placed them in front of me, waving a tea-towel, causing little wisps of steam to curl.

I tried to ignore racing heartbeats. I hated this feeling. This eerie sense of loss. “Mrs. Sucre. Have you seen Master Mercer? I need to speak with him.”

Suzette stiffened but didn’t look up.

She shook her head. “No. He left half an hour or so ago. I doubt he’ll be home for a while.”

Sadness rushed; I gripped the countertop. He left without a goodbye. What did you expect? Just because you let him whip you last night, you thought things would be different?

It shouldn’t hurt so much… it was to be expected. It was a week-day and he had an empire to run. But he didn’t just leave this morning. He ran. Something wasn’t right. “Oh,” was all I managed.

Mrs. Sucre gave me a compassionate look, sharp brown eyes assessing. With a soft smile, she passed me a warm bun. “Best eat, child. Never know when you’ll eat again.”

I locked eyes with her, shivers darting down my back. “Why won’t I know?” Instincts roared to life and I ran around the countertop to grab her wrist. “What do you mean?”

Suzette watched with wide eyes, anger changing to sadness. She opened her mouth to speak, but a masculine baritone came from behind me.

“She means your stay with us has come to an end, esclave.”

No.

Letting Mrs. Sucre go, I spun to face Franco. He stood, crisp and sharp, black shades on his head, the same folder Q first showed me when I arrived from Mexico in his hands. The file the kidnappers created. The file referring to me only as Blonde Girl on Scooter.

My heart convulsed. Q knew what he was doing the entire time. I was unbelievably stupid not to see it. Asking for one night to do what he wished. One night, because that’s all he needed. Then he kicked me out. The user. The bastard.

Franco came closer; I scuttled back, bumping into the warm, soft body of Mrs. Sucre. By throwing me out, Q tore me from people who cared more than my parents. The maternal comfort of Mrs. Sucre, the strange sisterhood with Suzette. Even my weird connection to Franco.