Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(40)

I scrambled to my knees, reaching for it. No, he couldn’t take it. It linked to my past, linked to Brax, to who I was deep inside—the tame, sweet girl who wanted nothing more than to belong.

Tears caught in my throat. “I told you what you want. I’m yours. Please, give it back. I’m yours!”

His powerful body tightened, buttoning his blazer with precise movements. The silver tantalized in his fingers before he shoved it into a suit pocket. “You say the words but you don’t believe it. I told you. I don’t like liars.”

He turned and opened the door, fingers turning white around the doorknob. “Stay up here. Your punishment for not obeying is starvation. Good night.”

Swiping his face, he left.





Wren



That night, I dreamed.

I dreamed of red and passion and violence. Of being taken, owned, possessed—of Q filling me with hardness, f*cking me over the pool table.

I woke to my fingers sliding in my wetness. Toes curled and back arched as the orgasm Q denied me rippled with an intensity echoing in my teeth.

My heart raced as I came back to earth, uncramping my feet. A damp spot formed below my ass and cheeks pinked with how wet I was. But lying in the dark, stomach empty, heart ruined, I found peace.

My body no longer throbbed, and for the first time in weeks, I slept soundly.



*



Time slowed.

Seconds crawled into unwilling minutes, turning into tomorrow and next week. Q didn’t come find me, and I never saw him return home from work.

But I knew when he arrived, as the house filled with passionate music. Lyrics thrummed, stroking with warning. He lived in the same house as me—any moment he could come, but never did.

Most of the time, music throbbed with French laments, but then one night, an English song rained from the speakers.




Every second my temper frays, every moment my beast desires

you think you can win, but you’re not consumed by sin

delicate and sweet are no match for hell and ruin

I don’t want you to see the depth of my blackness

for there-in lie demons and nightmares

don’t look in my eyes, the truth is not for you

you should run, you should flee, you should hide away forever




I couldn’t describe the loneliness aching in my bones. The song reached like a plea, freezing me with confusion.

Ever since that night and the painful song, I couldn’t shake the feeling Q tried to tell me something in the music he played. But I couldn’t believe it, because if I did—what did that mean? I couldn’t feel sorry for my captor. I had to remain aloof, distant. Be that icicle—sharp and deadly.

Life settled into a rhythm: an unwanted rhythm, but an ebb and flow nevertheless. I drifted along, wondering why Q granted peace and left me alone. Did he grow bored of his new possession already? Or did work demand his time and graced me with a limited amount of freedom?

Whatever the reason, Sunday burned my memory as the day Q twisted my emotions so much, I found a place inside where I could run. In a way, he taught me how to save myself, even as he broke me further.

Five days passed, each one scratched on a calendar of waiting. My life existed to dust and clean, while Suzette helped smooth my rusty French. I stared longingly at the front door, wanting freedom, but the green-eyed guard was never far away. Watching, always watching.

The only bright spot was Suzette. She welcomed me with open arms into the Mercer household, and became the rock in the turbulent seas I swam.

She never pried, always chatted about nothing and everything, giving me a sense of normalcy. Every now and again, I caught her watching, a frown on her face and curiosity in her gaze. She plotted something, but I didn’t know what.

Even Mrs. Sucre tolerated my presence in the kitchen, as I became a permanent feature—helping prepare evening meals and hovering in the welcome embrace of the busy hub.

Suzette supplied rags and brooms and gave me chores. They helped keep boredom at bay; I needed it. Boredom brought thoughts of escape and endangerment. But no amount of scrubbing stopped my heart twinging every time I remembered Q had Brax’s bracelet.

A cold sweat would drench my back at the thought of him smashing it to smithereens to teach me a lesson—ruining something of mine to get back at me for ruining something of his.

He hadn’t replaced the clothes I slashed. For a week, I scuffed around in the same jeans and cream jumper, but I didn’t care. Suzette mourned the items more than I did. To me, they signified a gaudy uniform: an outfit for a toy.

While cleaning the windows in the lounge on Friday, I contemplated hurling myself through the glass. Not to die, but to get outside. The fluttering of birds and gentle thawing of winter taunted. I hadn’t been outside in weeks.

The thought of smashing the glass and bleeding to death stopped the urge, but it didn’t deflate the need to run. Surely, this mansion had a gym—a treadmill. Running stationary would be better than no running at all. Q kept fit so he must have equipment somewhere.

My anklet buzzed, shocking me. I sat on one of the fluffy couches and hoisted my jeans. Why did it buzz? The GPS tracker drove me nuts—a constant nuisance when I tried to sleep or dress. I had hoped it wasn’t waterproof, and spent an hour trying to drown it in the shower. Turned out, it was waterproof.