Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(26)

I cried out as he grabbed me. “I summon. You come. That’s the only law you need to understand. I am your owner. You haven’t forgotten that so soon, have you?”

He marched me through the lounge and into the dining room. Tossing me into a high backed chair at a table set for twenty people, he breathed hard and leaned over me. “You are mine. You are mine. Repeat that until it gets into your head. You cannot disobey. Unless...” A glint of interest smouldered in his eyes. “Unless you want to be punished?”

My heart kicked into high gear, thrumming with hummingbird wings. I shook my head hard. My tongue turned useless, incapable of speech. I’d never been so overpowered by someone’s sheer will, but Q flattened me with his intense demeanour. How could I hope to disobey when he only had to threaten with mere words and I turned horribly docile?

“You’ve forgotten how to fight, so soon?” His accent thickened and fingers captured my chin, pressing painfully. A rumble sounded in his chest, and, fast as lightning, he kissed me.

The force of the attack crashed my head against the back of the chair, radiating pain in my temples. His lips forced mine open, and a tongue darted into my mouth, stealing my will, my fight. He stole everything with one touch.

Growling, his tongue plundered mine ruthlessly, out of control. Fingers trailed from my chin to throat, circling possessively; an unspoken threat that he could kill me and no one would know or care. I was his—to do with how he pleased.

I moaned and scratched his face with ragged nails.

He jerked back, breathing like an angry bull. His lips glistened from ravaging my mouth, leaving the taste of rich coffee and something darker—a promise of more.

He glared, swiping his cheek with a shirt cuff. It came away with a drip of crimson. His body tensed at the sight of blood.

My heart swelled with pride. He may be able to molest me, but he wouldn’t stay whole while he did.

Grabbing a napkin from the table, he patted his cheek. “You will obey. Don’t make me use you like any other buyer would do.”

“Isn’t that what you mean to do anyway? Rape and ruin me?”

Throwing the napkin down, he stalked back to his chair at the head of the table. The discarded newspaper crackled as he placed hands in front of him. Every move was precise, calculated, as if he knew every nuance illustrated domination.

Four place settings separated us, giving a sense of space. I breathed easier, wishing the taste of darkness and sin would leave. Why did he have to kiss me? A kiss meant intimacy and romance, but that kiss—it claimed me more than any kiss from Brax. It made me hate Q all the more.

Ignoring my question, he demanded, “What is your name?”

I crossed my arms, glaring. Never.

“Fine,” he barked. “I’ll call you Dove, until you answer. Like the grey-blue of your eyes.”

My heart tinkled into tiny, irreplaceable pieces. Dove? Anger ran up my neck and flamed as memories of Brax swarmed. The soft toy he bought me when I was in hospital. The many times he called me his little Dove.

“No!” I screamed, violence etching my tone.

He didn’t even blink at my outburst. Deliberately, he ran a finger along his bottom lip, glaring coldly. His face shadowed with authority, and to my utter shame, my nipples hardened. My body recalled the way he kissed—responding to every part I dare not acknowledge, parts I wished didn’t exist. It made me feel as if I led him on—invited all of this to happen with my twisted desires.

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.