Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(57)

I collapsed to my knees, crying out as welts on my legs burned, and tiles slapped against kneecaps. I bowed at his feet, not able to do anything else. He hated me. He would throw me out, then where would I go? Who would want me after this?

“I’m sorry!” I shouted, sucking in large, gulping breaths as something fractured. I heaved as sadness, self-pity, and lostness asphyxiated. “You hurt me, you torment me—” Sobs stopped my words; I wrapped arms around myself. “But I need you!” I couldn’t do this. I can’t!

Q didn’t offer comfort; he didn’t give me what I needed—he stood there with his aura of power and ruthlessness, watching me dissolve. Where had the man gone who carried me upstairs? That was the man I needed. Not this bastard. This owner.

Q crouched, trying to unlatch my arms from round my ribcage, but I fought him and huddled in the corner. Blonde hair tangled around me, offering protection from his livid gaze.

“Je suis un salaud,” he muttered, pulling me into his lap. His suit oozed with liquid as he leaned against the wall, rocking me. I wanted to agree, he was a bastard, but the ache in his voice hurt me deep. He truly believed it, on a much deeper level.

So many things ran through my body at being held. I wanted to snuggle, let him whisper and soothe; another part wanted to run because his compassion was false and hurt all the more. But I couldn’t do either. I was weak, and tears held me hostage.

Q rubbed my back, long legs splayed on the shower floor. Through glassy tears, I noticed he still wore shoes. Didn’t he care about anything he owned? Were we all disposable?

I cried harder.

Q grabbed me tighter, murmuring, “You’re mine, esclave. Mine to care for. Mine to fix. I’ll allow you to cry while I wash you, but the moment you’re clean, you’re to stop. Do you understand?”

I blinked through tears, shuddering so badly I couldn’t answer.

“Everything about tonight will be forgotten, and you’ll only have to remember what I do to you. Is that clear?” He shook me. “Answer me, esclave.”

I nodded. There was relief in being ordered to forget and I would obey. After all, Q owned my sense of hearing, I couldn’t refuse. “I understand.”

Nodding sharply, he reached above, to a glass shelf, where an array of crystal bottles rested. Picking one, he dumped a handful of flowery scented shampoo and placed his palms on my head.

The moment his hands massaged, I cracked again. Wracking sobs exploded from my chest and I doubled over with pain. Not from the rape, or Q’s anger, but because of his touch. No one touched me so tenderly. Never had my parents cuddled or offered comfort in their arms. I grew up never knowing how to hug or kiss or love. Brax came along, and with his sweetness, helped heal me. Even with his tender heartedness, he never just held me—never saw the real me or washed or tended.

It had taken being kidnapped, and sold to a man who didn’t want me, to show how much my existence lacked. Q shattered my walls with his uncouth ways. How could I ever go back to a life where my senses lived in limbo? Where no one cared enough to kill for me?

Q stopped washing my hair, gathering me tighter to him. I crushed against his wet, suited chest, inhaling his unique scent.

He let me cry and didn’t reprimand or control. He offered comfort in silence. Lips pressed my forehead, whispering, “Je suis ici,” over and over. I’m here. I’m here.

In his kindness, he broke me into the perfect slave. I didn’t need his anger to become devoted. I needed his softer moments—gentle love was my undoing, not demands or threats. I was pitiful with how I needed compassion, companionship.

Tears turned from depression to release. After twenty years of struggle, I finally belonged.

Water cascaded around us, but Q never stopped rocking, never stopped caring.

Everything I knew about him was wrong. Who was this man who let me break in his arms? Who was this man who cared so much?

Eventually, I cried myself dry, and Q continued washing my hair. I stayed curled in his lap as firm fingers massaged neck, shoulders, and back, working kinks from my body. His hands showed a level of bliss I never experienced. On the floor of the shower, I was his pet. His. Through and through.

After washing my hair, he dropped his hands to soap my breasts. His touch remained platonic rather than lust-filled and demanding. Once my breasts were washed, he lathered my arms, throat, and belly.

He lulled me into complacency, blanketing me in newfound happiness. I froze when his breath caught, hands circling my lower belly. The steam from the shower laced with tension, and I knew his thoughts morphed from caring to need.

Pressing his forehead against my cheek, wet hair mingled with mine. “Let me make you forget. Let me give you a new memory, esclave.”

His purr hitched my breathing, and happiness sharpened to need. My body wanted him to replace the agony of Brute. Q wouldn’t hurt me. Not like those men.

I nodded infinitesimally.

Q’s breathing turned harsh, lowering his hand. Agonisingly slowly, he touched my leg, avoiding the lash marks, stroking reverently. Inch by inch, he made his way up my inner thigh, until exploring fingers found my heat.

I jolted as he circled my entrance. More tears erupted, but he kissed them away, adding pressure to his hold, keeping me still. “écarté pour moi.” Open for me.

His voice commanded and I obeyed, relaxing tense muscles, knees fell open slightly. Q took full advantage.