Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(77)

Q’s fingers rose from the glass, capturing mine in one sharp move. Skin sparked and fireworked; I gasped, looking deep into pale eyes.

He straightened and brushed past, going to stand by the fireplace.

My heart raced, hating his withdrawal. Despair replaced my desire and I nodded once. He already let me go.

I hated the police for ruining my tentative new existence. I hated Brax for finally coming to find me. I hated myself for being too weak.

Balling my hands, I spoke loud and true. “I’m Tess Snow, and I was kidnapped in Mexico. But this man,” I pointed at Q, “Q Mercer, and his household, rescued me and kept me safe. I stayed here on my own accord. The message on Mr. Cliffingstone’s voice mail was a mistake. He misheard.”

I fell into another realm of awful for lying about Brax, but I was only focused on Q, focused on repairing the unrepairable.

Bushy Moustache stood, nodding. “Thank you for clarifying, Ms. Snow. But now we really must speak to Quincy alone.”

Quincy.

Quincy.

My eyes shot to Q. I knew his name.

So enamoured fighting our silent battle of wills, it took outside parties to spill the truth.

I looked at him with such longing, his lips parted. Something arched and sparked and ruptured between us. I couldn’t breathe. I accepted everything he said in the conservatory about debasing and owning me.

Q wanted to debase and own me. Quincy wanted to share parts of his life with me. It was Quincy who spoke about his business, Q who ordered me to suck him.

I wanted both. Oh, God, how I wanted both.

Images of Q behind bars, with no one to feed his aviary of birds, slammed into me. I almost collapsed to my knees to beg forgiveness.

Every emotion was raw; tears spilled. “Please don’t arrest Q—Quincy. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Then, I fled.





Tern



I tossed and turned in bed, terrified of what morning would bring.

After running like a coward, I tried to eavesdrop, but voices didn’t travel up the staircase.

The unknown haunted me and I couldn’t remove the image from my mind of Q in a cell.

I glanced at the clock; my heart stuttered like a faulty object. 2:14 a.m.

No one had come for me. No noise signalled that Q had been forcefully removed from his home. Was he bribing them to turn the other way? I hoped beyond hope this might all blow over, and life would continue. If it didn’t, I would latch onto the bedpost and refuse to go. I didn’t want to return to Brax or parents who didn’t care.

I didn’t know how a warrant worked—didn’t it give the right to explore the house? How come no one explored?

It didn’t make sense. I was still in the man’s house, who Brax accused of keeping me prisoner. Somehow, Q kept the law from stealing me or arresting him. He’s more powerful than I thought.

It was yet another unknown.

At two-thirty, I gave up the pretence of trying to sleep. Pulling the sketchpad Q gave me from my bedside table, I turned on the lamp.

With a painful squeeze in my chest, I cracked open fresh pages and took out a charcoal. My fingers twirled the pencil like an old friend, but I sat staring at the paper, lost.

So many things fought for space inside. I wanted to run, or fight, or scream. I wanted to apologise to Q, then yell at him for making me feel so many things.

Sketching was my outlet, and I wanted to pour everything onto the page.

Slowly, my hand feathered quick strokes, followed by heavier touches here and there. As I worked, I recalled the release drawing gave. It soothed and eased, helping calm my overworked mind. Following lines and contours of buildings from memory, I disappeared into the realm of property and architecture, finding blissful silence from worry and lust.

I frowned as I made a mistake, but kept going. I preferred sketching from a photograph or directly in front of a building, the sun on my face and the world buzzing around.

Sitting in bed, waiting to hear my fate, I sketched Q’s mansion. I drew his home on the sketchpad he gifted. His gesture gripped my heart; I throbbed for him. Please, don’t let him be in custody. My uncertain future tried to steal the oasis of calm and I sighed. Where had Suzette gone? I hadn’t seen her since the conservatory. I flinched to think she would’ve slapped me if Q hadn’t stopped her.

Night turned into early morning, yet I didn’t turn off the light. I huddled, sketching as if the world would crumble if I didn’t. Q’s pastel mansion came to life. I added sconces and plasterwork beneath sweeping windows, capturing ruddy cheeked cherubs and intricate architraves.

Normally, my passion lay in crisp lines of concrete and steel, not a historic manor, but the drawing would be one of my best. I wished I could draw humans. Capture Q’s face on the page, his sternness, his posture. But nothing, not even a perfect photograph, would capture Q’s essential being. Q was vibrant. Q was unique.

Q radiated… as Quincy he turned human. I didn’t want human. I wanted my master. A lover who dominated.

Exhaustion warred with sadness, and I sank deeper into pillows.

I fell asleep with the pad on my lap, and charcoal-smeared hands cupping a cheek.



*



“Esclave. I mean… Tess.”

My heart catapulted, blood pumping.

Brute. Driver.

Hands. Cock. Pain.

Nightmares shattered, leaving me with breath-stealing fear. A hand landed on my shoulder, hot and heavy. I snapped.