Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(47)

The Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the rapist knife with him. He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his jumpsuit.

“Fuck!” he shouted.

Q raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the f*ck out of my house.” His arm outstretched, holding a small silver gun.

My head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.

The rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.

Q yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”

The green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.

Q immediately jumped and spun, waving the gun. “Putain. Stop! I know what I’m doing, Frederick. Leave.”

The guy frowned, clearly not believing him, but after a moment, nodded and strode out the door.

Silence settled, broken only by Q and mine’s heavy breathing. I swung by my arms, tears glassing my vision. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up and my shoulders screamed. But none of it came close the aching soreness inside. I felt ripped in two, reliving the first hard thrust, the mind-shattering agony, over and over.

How could Q allow this to happen? I was his, goddammit, and he didn’t protect me. He let another man hurt me.

I splintered, wanting to crawl back into the silent void that saved me last time, but my mind wouldn’t fly away. My mind was broken.

I must have passed out. I came to with my cheek bobbing against a warm shoulder and body cocooned in strong arms. The scent of citrus and sandalwood hugged me, sending a mixture of longing and panic kicking in my blood.

“Je suis tellement désolé,” a tortured voice whispered. I’m so sorry. Kisses flurried on my hairline, never stopping. I floated through the house in his arms. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make it right.”

His voice confused me. It dripped with aged pain and sorrow, remorse so great, it weighed down with pressure.

Why did he hurt? He allowed the man to do what he wanted. It was his fault it happened and I refused to listen to his pain. My own pain kept me plenty occupied. His apologies weren’t worth shit.

I tried to gather enough energy to hit him, scream, tell him he’d successfully hurt me worse than anyone in my entire life, and that was saying something seeing as I grew up a leper in my own family.

But my mind finally decided it’d had enough and went blank.





Hummingbird



I woke to a gnawing ache in my womb and a smear of blood between my legs. I washed gently in the shower, forcing all memories and horror into a cage inside my mind. I would never think about that night again. Even in nightmares, the night was banned, erased as if it never happened. Some might say running wasn’t a good idea; I say it helped me stay healthy and focused, rather than suffocate in self-pity and things detrimental to my sanity.

I buried my head in the sand, but in return gained freedom and immunity against things hurting my soul. My body hurt, but no more than other injuries I sported. What lacerated me most was Q. He let me down.

In the sick hierarchy of owner and slave, my protection and well-being should be paramount, yet he turned a blind eye.

Out of everything he’d done, last night might’ve broken me beyond repair, but it only strengthened. The time had come to leave. I deserved better. I deserved to live my life without sick bastards raping me with objects, or Q’s twisted mind games. Nothing would stop me from busting the hell out and going back to humanity.



*



Four days passed after the horrible dinner, and Suzette refused to make eye contact. Q did his disappearing act again, turning music so loud, lyrics corroded my fierce decision to leave. French laments full of regret and self-loathing throbbed through the speakers:




Mes besoins sont ma défaite. Je suis un monstre dans une peau humaine.

My needs are my downfall. I’m a monster in human skin.



I hated the songs. Soft songs made Q seem human, living with mistakes and anguish, just like the rest of us. I preferred the raging songs. Ones with a heavy beat, heating my blood, filling me with energy to escape.




Et je vais prendre ce que je veux et payer mon propre désir. Cauchemars de ma solitude. L'obscurité pour un ami.

And I'll take what I want and pay for my own desires. Nightmares for my loneliness. The darkness for a friend.




The longer I lived in Q’s house, the more my French improved. Rust gave way to smoothness and it happened without my knowledge. I no longer frowned and worked out every word—gist of sentences became clear, no longer fumbling in the language dark.

Although I missed Suzette and her friendship, I didn’t care about the isolation. I was left alone; it kept me focused.

Under the disguise of cleaning, I searched the library and lounge for weapons. A letter opener, scissors, something to help me dispose of the GPS tracker. I couldn’t run until I removed it. Q would find me too easily.

My escape plan wasn’t well thought out. I had no Mission Impossible idea of taking Q hostage and forcing him to release me. All I had were my legs, and a few apples I managed to steal from the kitchen. Living in an open home granted the illusion of freedom—to go where I pleased, move around at will—but in searching for weapons, I realised how false the freedom really was.