Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(76)

I looked up, sniffing. I sent his master off to a life of imprisonment and he forgave me?

He smiled kindly, green eyes vibrant compared to Q’s smouldering pale jade. “Speak to the police. Tell them it was a mistake. You can repair the damage you caused.”

The idea blazed with white-hot hope; I threw myself at him, grabbing him into a hug. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Franco chuckled, pushing me away uncomfortably. “You’re dealing with a lot, but now you—”

I didn’t let Franco finish. I was the key to saving Q’s life, his business. I wasted so much time already.

I flew.

Paintings blurred as I sprinted through the house. I wouldn’t steal Q’s livelihood. My place was by his side. I accepted it. I had to make him forgive me and find a way to stay. I messed up, he messed up. Together, we could fix it.

I darted into the lounge. Empty.

Panting, I pirouetted and dashed across the foyer to the library. The glass was no longer clear but frosted, hiding people within. I didn’t care; I burst through the doors.

Q looked up, eyes clouded with pain. Two plain clothes detectives sat opposite on the button leather couch.

I stood, like an idiot, trying to reconcile the image in my head of a horde of police and Q in handcuffs, to the sedate scene.

Small puffs of cigar smoke languished in the air, while the smell of brandy and liquor tantalized. I couldn’t make sense of the two older men, both with moustaches—one thin and trimmed, another bushy and grey—sitting relaxed and content, puffing away as if they were there for an after dinner chat, rather than a kidnapping charge.

Q swirled his crystal goblet, amber liquid sloshing up the sides. He watched with hooded eyes. I waited for a wave of hate, a look crippling with betrayal, but nothing came. He was remote, aloof—the perfect, unreadable master.

The moustached men raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. But no sense of urgency filled them; they didn’t stop nursing their brandies and cigars.

What the hell is going on? I barged in to save the day, expecting Q to be beaten and restrained, and they looked as if I were the interloper.

I opened my mouth and promptly shut it again. I wanted to ask what was going on, but what could I possibly say?

Shit, I should’ve thought up a cover story. I was so focused on saving the day, like a dragon-fighting princess saving my tortured knight, I hadn’t considered how.

The officer with a thin moustache and heavy wrinkles turned to Q, mumbling in French, “That’s the girl?”

Q clenched his jaw, looking at me with a piercing gaze. He nodded ever so slightly. “That’s Tess Snow, if you’re looking for her.”

My womb clenched hearing my name on his lips. I trembled to hear it again. I stepped forward.

Q stood in one fluid move, wincing as the migraine etched his eyes. He really shouldn’t be drinking in his condition. “Leave, Ms. Snow. You are not welcome.”

The order poured salt on already painful wounds. Not welcome.

My eyes flickered to the cop with the bushy moustache. He looked like a cuddly father, and a doting husband. How would he react to Q telling a woman he kept captive to leave?

The man sipped his liquor, watching, as if Q and I were a daytime soap opera.

This wasn’t going how I expected. “I wanted to clarify a few things, for the record. In case you had the wrong idea,” I muttered, ignoring the way Q glared.

The policemen looked at each other, then shrugged. Bushy Moustache scooted forward, leather creaking under his weight. Placing his glass down, and the cigar in a crystal ashtray, he said, “What would you like to clarify, Ms. Snow?”

I fought the urge to look at Q. Holding my head high, I said, “If you can inform me of why you’re here, I can let you know the truth.” No way did I want to blabber things they might not be aware of.

Busy Moustache nodded with a wry smile. “Fair enough.” Pulling a notepad from his breast pocket, he flicked it open. “We are here because the Australian Federal Police contacted us about a missing woman fitting your description. They were advised by a Braxton Cliffingstone of your kidnapping in Mexico.”

The officer with the thin moustache spoke. “He gave detailed evidence of how he was beaten and when he came to, you were gone. He also provided us with a phone message from you, implicating Mr. Mercer in your disappearance. As you can imagine, up to that point, Mr. Cliffingstone was incredibly upset, thinking you were dead.”

Bushy Moustache jumped in. “He’ll be relieved to hear you’re alive and well.”

Q’s fingers tightened around his glass. He never took his eyes off me, flinching at Brax’s name.

The police ceased to exist as the library grew smaller, entrapping just Q and I in our own private world. His power reached for me, face harsh and stern, eyes raging with emotion. He watched, not with treason or hate, but loneliness and understanding.

My hands curled, fighting the urge to hurl myself at his feet. Even suffering a headache, Q vibrated with authority and feeling. I glimpsed just how much I meant to him.

His body called to mine and like the obedient slave I was, I went. Q jerked as I touched his fingers, wrapped around the goblet. His nostrils flared, looking over my shoulder at the two policemen who were no doubt watching.

But I didn’t care. They had to see what existed between Q and me. They may not understand it—shit, I didn’t understand it—but it thrummed in the space.