Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(69)

my tongue aches for your blood, my heart beats for pain

fear is my calling card and I mean to earn your terror.




Q played the song twice, as if pounding the message into me: whatever he’d done was tame compared to what he wanted, and the longer I didn’t tell him my name, the more he needed to hurt me.

Withholding my name was my only weapon against Q. It drove him mad, and I loved it. I loved the power of dragging emotion from him.

I lay in bed at night, panting, so ready for my door to burst open and a wrathful Q to claim me. But stubbornness was my friend, and I wouldn’t spill my last secret. Either I was crazy to provoke my master, or I’d gone mad with captivity. Either way didn’t matter, as I felt alive when I listened to the loud songs. Obsessed with how my body tingled and tensed, consumed with fluttering wings of anticipation—completely bewitched by Q.

So we played our game, waiting to see who’d break first. Nights passed with relentless need, days inched by with excruciating impatience.

For fourteen days, Q stayed true to his promise and never came.

Winter thawed, and spring splattered the countryside with tulips and daffodils.

I accepted I would never know where I lived. Suzette wouldn’t tell when I asked, and I doubted Q ever would.

No one would ever find Tess Snow again. She no longer existed. I am Ami Esclave.

By day, I worked on my French with Suzette, by night I waited for Q. I was wet all the time, and when he didn’t appear, dreams consumed me. Nightmares of Q throwing me away because he couldn’t stand me any longer. Reoccurring dreams of Driver and Brute, raping me, about to kill, but instead of Q saving me, Leather Jacket stole me back to Mexico. Where he hurt, broke, and ultimately sold me to another. Brax played centre in my dreams, but he never rescued me. He would either sleep through my torture, or simply look on in despair.

My heart twinged. My subconscious blamed Brax for everything that happened, but at the same time, it was my fault for not insisting we leave the café. I couldn’t expect Brax to fight and kill—it wasn’t in his nature. I missed his gentleness, but at the time, it annoyed me. I always wore the pants in the relationship, but remained whiny, needy, and meek because he didn’t give me power.

Q hit me, f*cked me, and turned me into a possession, yet somehow unlocked power inside me I didn’t even know was there.

Q took everything from me, but he didn’t so much as steal it, as I gave it willingly. By allowing him to rule, he gave me something tangible. He allowed me to be me. To be real.

I was no longer na?ve and timid. I grew from girl to woman. A woman who wanted a place beside the complex, problem-riddled man. A woman who wouldn’t stop until she knew the truth.

“Ami, can you make the cheese soufflé for dinner?” Suzette asked, bumping my hip with hers as she passed. We were in the kitchen, enveloped with scents of fresh bread and baking.

The sliding doors were open to a crisp breeze, welcoming sounds of birds and spring. France had converted me. I missed the bright Australian sun, but I loved France’s cool, understated chic.

Did Q miss something, or want for anything? He had everything—billions of acres, guards, staff, a house filled with stuff he never looked at, but I never saw him happy.

I smiled, nodding. “I can do that. Have nothing else to do.”

Suzette giggled. “You could always go and dress in something provocative to surprise Q when he gets home. I’ve been waiting to hear you again, little blasphemer. Why hasn’t he been to see you?”

Suzette had become overly interested in my love life; every day we had the same conversation. Just because I swore a few times when Q f*cked me meant she had a new nickname for me: little blasphemer. I hated that she heard us.

Mrs. Sucre swatted her with a dishtowel. “Suzette, stop being so nosy.” To me, she added, “She hasn’t stopped grinning since you let the master into your bed.”

I swivelled to stare. Mrs. Sucre’s large girth guarded the pot of lobster she stirred.

I blew hair from my eyes. “Let him into my bed? Like I had a choice.” Turning to Suzette, I said, “Q is the one not coming to me, Suzette. He won’t until I tell him my name.”

She snorted. “Q is still your master and you are still his slave. Tell him what he wants to know. You shouldn’t keep secrets.”

I blushed, looking at the soft dough I kneaded. “He may be able to boss me around, but I don’t have to share every little detail. Besides, I am no longer that person. I’m Ami.” I shot her a smile, dropping my voice. “You don’t know anything about his sparrow tattoo, do you?”

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to trace him like a map, kiss every feather, understand every reason.

Suzette bit her lip. “Um—”

Mrs. Sucre spun around, wiping hands on her apron. “Suzette, don’t you dare. It’s not your secret to tell.”

I glared, wishing I could torture them for answers. Not being with Q for so long made me rather desperate.

Suzette shrugged and disappeared into the huge walk in pantry.

I huffed and went back to kneading.



*



That night, after dinner, Q returned home late and turned on French music. The lyrics quavered around the mansion, echoing in my blood. The sorrowful tune left tangled threads everywhere, guiding me through the house.