Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(29)

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.

He released me, trailing soft fingertips through my hair. I swayed, broken so easily, confused completely.

“Until tonight, esclave.”





Swallow



Being a slave was… dare I say… boring.

After Q left, Suzette hovered, never letting me out of sight. She came across as sweet and obedient, but I saw the truth. She was Q’s: a head housekeeper who helped keep his slave in line. What had she said to him in the dining room? She antagonized, while giving him permission. Q may pay her salary, but she held a power over him I didn’t understand.

I didn’t think he would’ve pressed against me or licked my tears if she hadn’t encouraged him to give in to the battle inside.

Sometimes, I really hated having sensitive instincts—I sensed too much—painted too vivid futures that I didn’t want to come true.

What freaked me out the most was Q listened to her—pushed by his maid to do something he couldn’t restrain. My eyes narrowed, trying to figure out their relationship.

Surprisingly, with Q gone, my hunger came back, and I devoured the cold poached eggs. Suzette never left, and once I finished, she guided me toward the library, nonchalantly closing the door.

She left and my ears pricked as the lock clicked.

She may have left with a sweet smile, and my cell might’ve upgraded to include expensive literature and crystal decanters, but it was still a cage.

My thoughts filled with Q. Where did he disappear to? Probably to run an empire full of illegal activities and debauchery. Only work that danced with unlawful things could grant this sort of wealth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a major drug dealer.

I threw myself into a wingback and stiffened. His scent enveloped me, sending heartbeats racing with notes of sandalwood, juniper, and citrus.

My throat closed, connecting the smell of him to unhappiness. I wanted to look out the window, plot my escape, but the library had dark cedar shutters blocking the sun, protecting delicate books within. The air shimmered with dust motes and slivers of light turned the room into a calming grotto.

Despite the relaxing vibe, I couldn’t sit still. Q’s threat before leaving—until tonight, esclave—careened in my skull. I wouldn’t wait patiently for whatever he planned to do. I needed to stay active. Find a weapon. Find freedom.

I tested the door, but the lock held firm. I tried the shutters, but try as I might, they wouldn’t open. The only way out was the fireplace, and climbing a chimney flue did not inspire me.

Going mad with the need to run, I turned to the books, skimming through signed, first editions of priceless literature, hoping words could take me away. But nothing worked. Slamming a novel closed, I stared at the licking fire, wondering. If I burned all his books, would that teach Q a lesson?

I stood, dangling a red leather book above eager flames. Do it. My fingers refused to let go, and I slouched in my chair. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t commit sacrilege on age-old literature, no matter how I hated him.

If I was here for a while, they might be my only entertainment.

Hours ticked past on a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming my life away every fifteen minutes and gonging my doom every hour.

How long before Q came back? How long before I could return to my tiny room and hide in sleep-oblivion?

My stomach grumbled as the winter sun set over rolling French countryside. I’d been curled up on the window seat for hours, peering through cedar slats. Mocked by the small slice of the world. Tiny sparrows darted, preening their feathers in the fountain. They were free—I was not.

I’d never longed for the sun so much. Its rays hadn’t touched my skin in over a week. I never thought I’d crave the outdoors, especially the cold, but I did. It was an itch I couldn’t scratch.

My heart squeezed as two black sedans drove sedately down the long gravel drive and stopped in front of the house. A chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door.

Q stepped out, smiling reservedly at the man. He straightened his black trench and sucked in a deep breath, as if fortifying himself to enter his own home. The jacket stretched across his chest, showing the powerful breadth of shoulders. He tilted his head toward the library, searching for me no doubt, and fingers loosened the tie around his neck.

A look of depravity and unhappiness etched his features. I huddled on the window seat, hidden by the shutters and gloom, and conjured stories for him.

Who was this man? This conundrum, this enigma. A man so young, but so rich. A man who accepted women, who lived on his own with a galley of staff. A man who had more secrets than I ever did with Brax.

Was he hurting? Did he have a wife? I drafted a fairy-tale of his faults and flaws granting redemption. Perhaps he was kind under the gruff exterior. Perhaps I could appeal to a sensitive part locked far below and encourage him to release me willingly?