Tears of Tess (17 page)

It
might be best for her to think I accepted the advice. I stood, bowing my head.
“You’re right. I’ll try.” How did other victims get through this? I needed a
safety mechanism, something to protect my soul like a suit of armour in battle.

I’d
found the protection in Mexico. I’d been ready to do anything to keep my mind
whole. I just needed to do that permanently.

She
smiled, dropping her arms to clap. “
Super
. Now, have a shower and dress
so we can begin the day.” Her eyes dropped to my dirty sweater.

I
hated the pleasure beaming in her eyes, all because I agreed to give Q a chance.
She bounced with happiness because I allowed the horrible new existence to rule
my life. Terror iced my spine. Why her vested interest? Mental note: never let
my guard down around her. Whatever I said would most likely get back to Q.

“I
don’t have anything else to wear.”

Suzette
clucked her tongue, striding toward the free standing wardrobe. “You obviously
haven’t looked at what Q bought for you.”

Q
bought me clothes?
Creepy bastard
. First, he forced me to admit I
belonged to him, then expected to dress me like a Barbie doll.

I
climbed off the bed and looked over Suzette’s shoulder. She was shorter, but
her personality made up for her pigmy stature. She pulled out a gorgeous slinky,
silver gown with diamantes across the bodice. “
Fantastique
,
this would look amazing on
you.”

I
snorted, forgetting for a moment where I lived and indulged in talking clothes
with another female. “There’s no way I would wear that.” I shuddered to think
of the elegant material whispering over skin, enticing men’s attention—Q’s
attention.

Reaching
over, I grabbed a pair of fitted jeans and knitted cream sweater. They were the
least blingy clothes available, but screamed designer and money.

“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 naked 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: nipples 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.