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**ked 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.
I didn’t know what time it was, but the staff had retired. I was too edgy to sleep. My body restless, needing something only Q could give.
A flash of vivid green eyes startled me as I floated down a corridor I’d never been in before. Franco scowled, but didn’t move to obstruct. Ever since the horrid night where Q turned murderer, Franco gave me more freedom. His eyes followed wherever I went, but he didn’t stop me. Maybe Q told him to let me wander, or maybe he sensed I wouldn’t run again. I was thankful my cage had expanded.
I continued past Franco, moving deeper into the west wing. I often saw Q disappear down here—it was time to find out why.
Opening double doors at the end of the corridor, I followed a long, Persian carpeted room, staring at massive canvases of photography. Not of wildlife or humans, but cityscapes and high-rise buildings. The harshness of concrete and metal seemed out of place, until I saw dates under each photo, a timeline of purchase and location.
These weren’t photos of pleasure, but documentation of ownership. Holy hell, does Q own all of these?
I spun in place. Countless snaps of impressive architecture, sprawling hotels, apartment complexes… so many types of property dotted the walls. He owned a small country if it were true.
Needing to know more, I kept going. Everything about the house spoke old money and charm, yet I couldn’t see Q in the artefacts, statues, or even the exotic plants flowering around the rooms.
Q remained closed off. I hoped by exploring, I’d find answers, but I only found confusion.
The French song chased with every step, soulful moans and hopeful sonnets. I hummed along to the chorus.
Tu ne vois pas mon sort, quand tout ce que je veux faire est de me battre,
Tu me peint dans une lumière que je ne pourrai jamais être,
Je suis enchaîné avec l'obscurité, consommé par la rage et le feu,
Je suis proche de la rupture, l'envie est tremblant, le viol,
Je suis le diable, et il n'y à pas d'espoir.
Can’t you see my plight, when all I want to do is fight,
you paint me in a light I can never be,
I come shackled with shadow, consumed with rage and fire,
I’m close to breaking, the urge is quaking, raping,
I’m the devil, and there’s no hope.
The song dwindled to silence, leaving my heart racing. On instinct, I opened a huge door and entered paradise. A conservatory, the size of a four bedroom home, welcomed with vaulted glass and sky-scraping palm trees. Sounds of a gurgling river and waterfall lilted behind luscious foliage. Stars twinkled above through the endless glass roof—no moon tonight.
My head cocked, listening. What is that?
Tweets and chitters, chirps and whistles. I battled leaves until I came face to face with a two-story-sized aviary.
Jewelled birds flittered and sang, happy in their cage. A lot of them roosted for the night, heads tucked under wings, little chests flurrying.
I looked closer. Instead of parrots and budgerigars I expected, clouds of sparrows, quails, wrens, and blackbirds, littered the aviary. Common, every day, winged creatures, but just as intricate and perfect.
I have to know what the birds mean.
My mind shot back to the mural and the sparrows on Q’s chest. The most amazing tattoo I’d ever seen.
Countless hours would’ve gone into the piece, unlike mine that only took ten minutes. Rubbing my barcode, I wondered if it could be changed. I didn’t want to be reminded of what happened… it was in the past, and slavery with Q didn’t compare.
A wave of guilt blistered as I ran a thumb over the black lines. I couldn’t think about the other women, where they ended up, who they now belonged to; it hurt too much.
A sparrow twirled a note, landing on a branch close by. Its black, intelligent eyes assessed me, its little head cocked.
What are you thinking little bird? Do you know your master? Can you tell me who he is?
It bobbed on the perch, then flew away, leaving in a gust of feathers.
The speakers crackled as a new song began. A deep, erotic beat, vibrating through the air. The bass so heavy, leaves shivered with the sound.
My body ached, needing a release. My sense of hearing belonged to Q. Did he know the song would frustrate the hell out of me—needing him, wanting him?
I refused to bring myself to an orgasm, but if he didn’t come soon, I’d hunt his ass down and make him break his stupid promise. I would win the competition, without revealing my name.
Watching the birds, my fingers trailed downward to where Q nicked me with the scissors. The cut was long gone, but I wanted another. I wanted rough and untamed. I wanted bruises and cuts, amplifying the thrill of pleasure.
I want him to spank me again.
“Esclave. Que fait tu ici?” What are you doing in here? Q’s voice vibrated in the conservatory.
Everything immediately tightened, liquefied, responded. I couldn’t see through thick foliage, and spun in a slow circle, searching.
“How did you know where I was?” I peered into the dark green haze, trying to see past the leaves.
He chuckled; it was low, gruff. “This entire house has cameras. Nothing happens without my knowledge.”
I should’ve known. Control freak Mr. Mercer kept tabs on his empire. Did my room have cameras? I wanted to demand if he saw my plaguing nightmares, if he counted the hours I stayed up for him, only he never showed.
Q appeared, emerging from behind a palm-tree. He wore a white linen suit, no wrinkles marring his perfection. The grey shirt looked like a cold winter’s day, highlighting pale eyes. He held a black leather folder in his hand, pressing it against a thigh.
My ass stung as a fantasy of being hit with the file charged like wildfire.
I sighed, smiling slightly. Everything was exactly as it should be. My place in the world was by Q’s side. I accepted it. It’d been too long. My body warmed, melting, remembering his demands, the way he slapped me as he came. He said he wanted to make me scream. After two weeks of loneliness, I would let him—gladly.
Q came closer, shoulders tense, eyes strained.
I frowned at the stress lines on his forehead and mouth. His gaze met mine, but instead of the usual soft jade, they were faded, like watered down lime, throbbing with pain. I paused. I knew that look—I suffered myself.
Q had a migraine.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” He sighed, dragging a hand over his short hair, face strained and tired.
My heart sped up. He looked human. Wrecked. The cruel, confusing master was hidden beneath an overworked, hurting man. Tenderness rose; I wanted to care for him, take away his stress. There wouldn’t be angry dominance tonight, but I didn’t care. Seeing Q this way gave me another piece of the puzzle. It showed the depth of my own feelings. All the normal emotions where Q was concerned were gone: fear, awareness, heat… all hidden under the need to soothe.
Leaving the noisy birds in the aviary, I stepped closer and pressed a kiss ever so softly on the corner of his mouth. “You’re not well.”
His nostrils flared and he jerked back. “My well-being is none of your concern.”
I scowled, crossing my arms. “Your well-being is my concern. And I’ll tell you why. If you get sick, what happens to me? Where do I go? Who do I end up with?”
Q shifted, eyes going to the cage of birds. Shadows wrapped around him, and I tried to read his secrets. Why can’t he let me see all sides of him? What the hell was he hiding?
“I’m fine. Nothing will happen to me or you.” Anger blazed in his eyes.
I offered comfort, and he didn’t want it. I overstepped the boundary from scared slave to equal, and it pissed me off he didn’t let me.
I wheeled around, charging for the door. Bloody bastard. If he wanted to lie and wallow in pain, fine by me. Didn’t mean I had to stick around and worry. If he wanted me to stay in my little box of possession and didn’t want a woman who could help—awesome. I would.
“Wait!” He winced, dropping the folder. I glanced at the exit. I should leave. I no longer wanted to encroach on Q’s space, seeing as he didn’t want me.
Q moaned slightly, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m not used to slaves wandering around, rooting through my stuff.” He smiled slightly. “You’re inquisitive, I’ll give you that.”
I was insulted and happy at the same time. My feet turned, and I went to stand in front of him. Trying to seem cold and unaffected by his pain, I stooped to pick up the file, passing it to him.
He accepted it with a small nod.
“Did you take some painkillers? Should I find some for you?” I wondered where Suzette kept aspirin. Not that it would help—or at least it didn’t for me. The only thing to break a migraine was a head massage with menthol and a nap to dispel the pain.
Q shook his head, motioning for me to walk in front. I obeyed, striding through the over grown conservatory until we stopped in a small seating area next to a large pond, with a gentle waterfall.