Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(78)

Screaming, I struck, connecting with something solid. Pain blazed in my wrist and I shot upright, yelping. “What the f*ck?”

A man’s umph filled the night-silence. The smell of citrus hit, with the reek of bourbon and brandy.

Q stumbled back. “Merde. You didn’t have t—to f*cking hish m—me,” Q slurred, rubbing his chest, climbing drunkenly off the bed.

Oh, my God. Q.

My body warmed, even as my mind told me to be careful.

He grunted, swaying toward the mattress again, almost tumbling on top.

Hell, my master was inebriated. I knew he shouldn’t drink with his migraine. His shoulders rolled, rather than straight and proud, eyes glazed and watery. Don’t tell me he’s been drinking with the police all this time?

I sat up, pushing covers off and climbing out of bed.

Q blinked, shaking his head. He tripped, grabbing hold of a bedpost. I approached him warily, with hands up in surrender and heart rabbiting. “Q… get into bed, before you fall over.”

He giggled. Literally giggled like a little girl. “Trying to t—take advantage in m—my intoxicated state, esclave?” French accent thickened, slurred. I had trouble understanding.

I stepped closer, my palate catching the smell of booze. He scooted back and swayed like a human tower of Piza. For God’s sake, how much did he drink?

I darted forward and caught him, propping him up with a shoulder. The alcoholic whiff tingled my senses. I swear I grew high off the fumes. Or was it his hot, hard, sinful body pressed against mine? Or the deep musky scent of aftershave and sandalwood?

My stomach twisted as Q leaned heavily, turning his head to sniff my hair. He sighed. “Smell so good. So f*cking good. Like rain… no, no like frost. Sharp and fresh and icy and cold and…and painful.” He closed his eyes, voice trailing into a whisper. “You love c—causing pain.”

My heart stopped. I hurt him? It was the other way around. Completely. I never suffered so much since he owned me.

Eyes flashed to mine, swirling with liquor and lingering headache. “That’s what you are. Painful.” He thumped his chest. “Painful to me.” Closing his eyes again, he frowned and swallowed.

Unable to address the swirling mess of feelings inside, I pushed him toward the bed. “Sit before you fall.” Breathing hard, I helped lower him till he lay down.

He moaned, clutching my forearm when I moved away. His grip was a death trap, and I had no choice but to sit by his side, letting him wrap strong, heated fingers around my barcoded wrist.

Inching closer, I hesitantly ran fingers through his short hair, relishing once again in being able to touch him. I thought I wouldn’t see him again—be alone with him again. The fact he wouldn’t remember visiting me in the morning didn’t matter. He was here. For now. In this window of time, before the sun rose—he was all mine.

He quieted, purring under my gentle touch. Sadness fell as I realized he was about to pass out. So much for having him to myself. He came to hog my bed and left me out in the cold.

His breathing settled, low and even; I pulled away. He was asleep. The moment I moved, fingers tightened on my wrist. “Snow. Snow. You’re named after winter… my favourite season.”

I froze. He spoke with no holds barred. Voice clearer, but still loose with booze. “Why do you like winter?” I whispered, so afraid he would comatose before answering.

“The season where everything dies, but is reborn better than ever.” His eyes flared, and wedged himself upright on elbows, wincing. “That’s what I do, you know. I’m winter.”

I had no clue what he meant, but stayed as quiet as possible. Please, keep talking.

A strange light filled his pale eyes. “Fifty-seven,” he mumbled.

Heartbeats raced. Somehow, I knew Q was about to open up. He dropped his guard, allowing me to glimpse inside. I launched into interrogation mode. Trying hard not to look too interested, I linked fingers with his, stroking ever so gently. “Fifty-seven what, master?”

His eyes closed and he moaned, swaying toward my touch. Then his lips twitched and he jerked away. “Not master. Fucking hate that word.” Jaw clenched, and he waged a war inside. Smouldering jade eyes entrapped and I couldn’t move.

Drunken glaze stole him again; he sighed with the weight of the world. “Not true. Love that word when I’m your master. I love hurting you, f*cking you, playing mind games with you. It makes me just like him.”

Q curled a fist, and I yelped as he punched himself hard in the chest. “I’m sick. Nothing but evil lives inside.” He grabbed me, dragging me close, almost pressing his nose against mine. “You came along, and made me accept the darkness.”

I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t like the rage and strange glint in his eyes. I felt lost and breakable. Swallowing, I changed the subject. “Why fifty-seven? What does the number represent?”

Q chuckled darkly. “Girls, of course. Fifty-seven little birds I froze in my winter frost and helped thaw.”

Girls? He owned and lived with fifty-seven girls before me? Sick jealously rolled, and I froze. What the f*ck does that mean? My brain hurt. Q’s drunken metaphors didn’t make sense. No one could have fifty-seven women. It was monstrous.

I wanted to slap him. “You’ve owned fifty-seven girls?”

He nodded, as if it made perfect sense. “Fifty-seven.” A finger connected between my breasts, marking, branding. “You’re fifty eight.” His eyes dropped to my chest and he cupped my flesh fiercely. “Number fifty-eight, who ruined my life.”