I breathed hard. “No. I called my boyfriend. I was going to call the police, but you turned up.”
He tensed. “So, you didn’t call them directly?” Light gleamed in his gaze. Guilt pressed ever harder. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t turn on Q. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t betray them.
I whispered, “I left a message on my boyfriend’s machine with Q’s name.” I looked into his eyes with difficulty. “I would’ve called the cops, Franco. Don’t doubt my desperation to run.” But even in my desperation, I was conflicted. I huddled into a little ball, tucking my head into my arms.
Franco stood, pulling my elbow so I had no choice but to rise. “You can fix this.” He tugged me down the corridor. “It isn’t your fault, esclave. You did what you had to do. And now… I believe you wouldn’t do it again, and I forgive you.”
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.
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.
Chapter 20
*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.