“These will do.” I cuddled them, anxious to change the Mexican sweater-dress for new clothes.
She shook her head, giggling. “If you’re trying to hide your figure so Q doesn’t want you, it will never work. You don’t know him like I do. He’s… different around you.”
My heart swooped and stomach rolled. I hated her tone—the almost maternal love in her voice. What did she mean, different? Perhaps he wasn’t normally a horny bastard—just my luck to bring out that side of him.
Before I could ask, she brushed past and hovered by the door. “Come down when you’re done. I’ll give you some privacy.” With a kind smile, she shut the door, leaving me with my thoughts.
Not wanting to be alone to wallow, I quickly grabbed a white lacy bra, and matching knickers, and headed to the bathroom. Funny how, over a week ago, I dressed in expensive purple lingerie in the hope to catch Brax’s eye. Now, I wanted a sack to hide in.
The shower helped settle my nerves somewhat. I should’ve taken one last night after Q manhandled me, but the thought of being nak*d in the house, with him lurking somewhere… well, I couldn’t do it. I’d rather reek—maybe he’d be repelled.
But showering in the daytime made me comfortable. Q seemed to leave during the day, and for that, I was thankful. I had alone time—away from his prying fingers and eager mouth.
Once dressed, I headed downstairs and found Suzette in the lounge. The weak winter sun shone patches of brightness on the white carpet like golden pools. Everything about the house looked as if it belonged in a waxworks or museum. Too perfect. Too neat. Where was the haphazardness of life: the pair of shoes by the door, a dirty glass on the coffee table? It was sterile.
I ached for home with Brax. The roughness, the texture, but most of all the happiness. I’d never find happiness here. Perhaps Suzette was right. Maybe playing a part would be easier until I could be free again.
Shutting my feelings off, I asked, “I’m here. What did you need me for?” I hoped she wouldn’t lock me in the library. Q hadn’t ordered me to breakfast, but who knew what rules he left her to follow.
Suzette stopped cleaning the windows with a bright pink rag and smiled. “Nothing. I didn’t want you upstairs all alone, that was all.” She stuffed the rag into her pinafore pocket, coming closer. “I do know what you’re going through. You can talk to me. I won’t betray your confidence.” The look in her eyes wavered with pity and understanding.
Her kindness, and offer of friendship, wrung my heart dry. Tears sprouted, unbidden. How desperate was I for a friend? To have someone to talk to would be beyond wonderful.
You can’t. She belongs to Q.
Suspicion replaced hope and I glared. “What did Q order you to do? Befriend me so I’ll tell you my name? Tell you things I’ll never tell him? Strip me of my only defence?”
Her mouth gaped, face twisted. “No, not at all. I’m only trying to be nice.”
Her reaction caused doubt and I slouched. I was a bitch. When I didn’t reply, an uncomfortable silence fell.
A woman called from the kitchen, “Suzette, arrêter de parler à l'esclave et vener aider à faire le dîner de maître Mercer. C'est dimanche; je ne vais pas faire le canard à l'orange par moi même.”
I strained, deciphering the long string of French. Something like: stop talking to the slave and make dinner for Master Mercer—my torturer. He didn’t deserve food.
I raised an eyebrow as Suzette smiled. I’d give anything to know what she thought—it might help figure out what the hell my future held.
“Do you want to come help us cook? Maître Mercer has duck à l'orange on Sundays. It takes a while to prepare.”
My mouth hung open. She honestly thought I wanted to prepare dinner for the bastard who fingered me last night? Did she know what happened in the gaming room? My cheeks flushed. Q hadn’t exactly been discreet, dragging me down the stairs.
I laughed with a bitter edge. “Do you want my honest answer? Or the one I should give?”
Suzette dropped her eyes, stepping closer. Her gaze bounced fugitively toward the kitchen. “Come help. Be a part of the household, while he isn’t here. He can’t stop you from having fun, companionship.” Her hand fluttered on mine; I tensed. “If you find connection with others, you’ll be able to withstand a lot more.”
Stand more? Of what? Erotic torture and mind-warping games? I laughed again, brittle and tear-sharp. “You think I’ll be able to have fun? That’s an impossibility. Let me go. Let me return to my boyfriend, then I’ll have fun.” My body shook as anger exploded. I wished it were Q I screamed at, but his minion would have to do. “Brax might be dead because of the men who kidnapped me. All because your sick boss likes to own women. All of this is a mistake.” I thumped my chest, buckling with heartache. “Brax might be dead. Do you understand? And it’s all my fault!”
She nodded, biting her lip, distressed by the outburst. “I’m so sorry to hear about your boyfriend, but you have to forget him. He’s in your past, and Maître Mercer isn’t a bad man. Give him a cha—”
I slapped hands over my ears, like a child refusing to hear the awful truth. “You’re heartless to think I could ever forget about Brax.” I fought tears with temper. “And stop lying for Q. Stop trying to mould me into whatever he expects slaves to be. Just stop it!”
She touched my arm, tugging lightly so I released my ears. She whispered, “Don’t stop living while you endure. And don’t let the pain of your past stop you from being happy in this new life.” Taking a deep breath, her passion tinged with anger as she added, “Don’t do what I did, and pretend it will all go away. I let my owners break me. Not because I couldn’t fight anymore, but because it was the easier way to live; you never truly break. The key is not to lie to yourself, even while you fake it.”
Breathing hard, I dropped my arms. Her hazel irises were clear and full of wisdom. She’d learned the hard way and wanted to help me cheat on the lessons coming.
I still didn’t know why she spoke so highly of Q, but I thawed a little. However, the memory of sitting in Brax’s lap, on our last night together, fragmented me. Brax’s voice resonated in my thoughts, “The truth hurts less than fibs and fakers.”
I had to abandon the truth and wrap myself in lies to survive. I had to change completely.
Suzette showed a different reality, and even though she rattled the bars of my jail and confirmed there was no way out, she comforted, too. She was living evidence I could endure and survive.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “Surprisingly, that does help a little.”
Linking her arm with mine, she tugged toward the kitchen. “I’m glad. Next time, don’t fight him, okay?”
My hackles rose, effectively stomping on my warming feelings toward her. “What does it matter to you?”
She refused to meet my eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Come along, dinner won’t cook itself.”
* * * * *
Hours later, flour dusted my nose, and the citrus tang of orange enveloped the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Sucre, who was round as a donut and just as doughy, pulled a well-roasted duck from the oven as the front door slammed.
The afternoon spent in the kitchen had been the best since I boarded the plane to Mexico. Suzette wormed her way into friendship, and we started a tentative bond which I hoped would keep me sane as long as I remained captive.
But all those relaxed feelings flew away as Q strode into the kitchen.
I froze, holding a pan of roasted rosemary potatoes. Q’s presence filled the kitchen, consuming oxygen, awareness…space. He looked like a resplendent peacock in a royal blue suit and crimson shirt. His pelt of hair shone under the kitchen lights, while his pale jade eyes smouldered.
My entire body reacted: n**ples hardened, mouth parted. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t ignore his call.
Him. He was back. Here. In the house.
Oh, God. Primal instincts clawed, itching to bolt, while at the same time, I softened with need. Emotions tore me in two and I trembled, almost dropping the potatoes.
Suzette appeared, lightly brushing her fingers against my hip. Her touch was petal soft, sharing some unspoken sisterhood. Calm acceptance tamed my jitteriness, but Q never broke eye contact. He stared with an almost physical connection, causing my heart to race and guilt to swell for no reason.
She smiled happily as Q and I continued our silent war, then she jumped as he stormed closer. His abrupt change from standing to movement unsettled Suzette and me.
We shifted back a step, not that it helped with the powerhouse of Q coming straight for us.
“C'est quoi ce bordel, que fait-elle ici?” Q snapped, glaring at Suzette, shoulders rippling with temper.
Suzette bowed her head. “Je suis désolé, maître.”
Dismissing Suzette without a second thought, his eyes looked me up and down in one arrogant sweep. “What are you doing in here? You’re a slave, not the hired help. Get out.” He leaned closer, brushing my cheek with a hard hand. Electricity zapped from his touch and my core clenched on its own violation.
Not again. Please, stop betraying me! How could I hate him when my body melted every time he touched me?
Q yanked his hand away. He narrowed his eyes as if the spark between us was my fault. “Have a shower; you’re covered in flour. Merde.”
Before I could argue the word slave implied I should cook and clean, Suzette pushed me toward the exit, whispering, “Don’t argue. I can see the desire to stand up to him in your eyes. But remember what I said.”
The moment we were in the lounge, she rushed, “Have a shower, and dress in one of those beautiful gowns. He’ll love seeing you in things he bought.” Her eyes grew dreamy, as if match-making us made total sense. “Give him what he wants.”
Pulling away, I felt betrayed all over again. I hissed, “Give him what he wants? How about I tie myself up and present myself as the main course? That’s what he wants, isn’t it?”
Suzette pinched the bridge of her nose, throwing me an exasperated look. “His fantasies will be shared, I’m sure. It’s your job to let him show you without fear or guilt.”
My lungs squeezed together. “What? You think he suffers fear and guilt? Try the girl who’s been kidnapped! Holy shit.” The curse fell like a nasty bomb; Suzette frowned in disapproval.
“Just go and dress.” She shoved me toward the stairs and I ran.
I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but had no intention of obeying. She’d stepped over the line, implying her boss suffered more than I did. Fuck that. I’d show him how much I didn’t want to be there. I thought I could do it—pretend and pantomime. I thought I could become something slave-like and meek.
I was wrong.
Hot, terrible anger boiled as I bolted up the steps two at a time. I’d show him. I didn’t think of the consequences, focused only on what would make me feel better.
Slamming the door, I headed straight to the wardrobe, and wrenched open the doors. Racks of designer dresses and Victoria’s Secret lingerie beckoned with style. Fingers itched to attack the clothes, to take my wrath out on innocent fabric. I may not be able to hurt Q physically, but I could hurt his wallet.