Je Suis a Toi (Monsters in the Dark Book 4) (17 page)

I’D LIKE TO say Q changed his mind the second we stepped into the shower together. I’d love to say he snapped and shoved me against the tiles like the monster he was.

But he didn’t.

He washed me with all the reverence and care in the world.

He kissed me with barely any tongue.

And when he slid inside me, he wasn’t fully hard, and I wasn’t fully wet.

We weren’t hardwired for simple pleasures.

We fought because we needed that extra level of sensation.

And he’d just taken it away.

* * * * *

That afternoon, when he came home from work, I waited to see how long his self-imposed vanilla would last. I did my best to entice him after we crawled into bed, but he only hugged me until I unwillingly went to sleep.

For a week, that was the norm.

Q would take me every morning when we were both still sleep-hazy and not entirely coherent. He’d fill me after touching me with tormenting, teasing, and in no way satisfying strokes. He’d make me ready but not molten. And he’d come deep inside me, but it strained him. I could tell the struggle it was for him to orgasm without making me gasp and beg.

He needed my pain to get off. And without it, we both struggled to connect.

After we’d finished, I saw a pinprick of blood on the covers from where he’d dug his fingers into his palms so hard he’d broken the skin, seeking that sliver of wrongness to finish.

I didn’t let him see the tears in my eyes at how much that hurt or how destroyed I was that he hadn’t turned to me like he always had, finding salvation in my agony and screams.

Instead of being open and loving, we became closed off and uncertain.

And every day was worse than the last.

* * * * *

A week turned to a fortnight.

A fortnight turned to a month.

For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t look forward to sex with my delectable husband. It became an obligation. Boring. And it was a chore to open my legs while in missionary style and allow a few shallow thrusts before my seriously twisted but imprisoned monster came inside me.

If this was what it took to get pregnant…then I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it.

My thoughts turned nasty toward whatever child we would conceive. Yes, I wanted a family with Q. I wanted to share him with his children. But I also didn’t want to lose him in order to gain them.

I was selfish where my
maître
was concerned. And if I couldn’t have him, then I didn’t want anything else.

Thoughts that Q might be sterile crossed my mind. After all, we had a very active sex life. Yes, I’d been on contraception injections for a long time, but that would’ve been out of my system by now…surely?

This was wrong.

Despicable.

This
hurt.

I missed him. I missed
us.

I’d been an understanding wife. After those first few weeks of doing what I could to get him to break with no luck, I gave up. I didn’t want to be the cause of more strife for him but I also didn’t hide the agony of my sacrifice.

Q knew I was unhappy.

Shit, he was unhappy. Dreadfully so.

We were playing a treacherous game. Vanilla was supposed to be bland and non-lethal. But to us…it had the power to dismantle our marriage and shatter all that we loved.

On the fifth week, when three days had gone by and Q hadn’t touched me, I ignored his requests not to involve doctors. I couldn’t stand much more of this, and I wanted to know either way. I couldn’t test Q without him knowing, but I could test myself.

I couldn’t trust Franco to drive me to the clinic, so I enlisted the help of Suzette. She’d seen me growing bored and the change in Q as weeks crept onward. She’d been my shoulder to moan and fret on, understanding my frustration with Q’s pigheadedness.

No wonder he was able to find me the second time I was kidnapped. His sheer mindedness when he made a decision was unarguable.

Q did this to protect me. However, without me as his outlet he started taking his violence out on his employees. Barking orders, firing a few for minor misconduct, and unable to keep his mask on in society. His life was no longer happy, and he refused to let me reach him.

It was time for drastic measures.

Pretending we were going to Paris to shop, Suzette and I arranged a day to take the high-speed train to the appointment I’d made in secret.

I’d researched online for the best fertility clinic and sneakily made a booking three days ago.

Suzette and I didn’t talk much on the train, and for a second, I pretended life was simple and I was an architectural student again, heading into the city with a girlfriend for lunch, rather than the truth that I was a complicated woman terribly missing her harsh master.

After hailing a cab, we arrived at the address. Silently, we entered the building where I filled in a few forms and sat in a plush recliner beside Suzette until I was called into the doctor’s office.

Giving me an encouraging smile, Suzette waited patiently in the sleek waiting room.

My hands shook as I entered the doctor’s suite and closed the door.

“Hello, Mrs. Mercer.”

I’d become so used to French accents, I did a double take finding this woman was English. I didn’t often feel like a stranger in this city, but hearing another foreigner made me a little wistful.

Facing the medical practitioner, I put my future happiness in her hands.

Dr. Fellows smiled as my heels clicked on her white tiled floor. The air of the room was entirely clinical with no personality whatsoever.

I nodded. “Hello.”

She wasn’t old but she wasn’t young, either. I guessed late forties. Blonde hair tucked neatly into a bun while the lashings of mascara and pink lipstick made her pretty but professional.

Had she had children of her own? Had she ever gone through this stress of a stubborn husband and floundering sex-life?

Pointing at a chair beside her desk, she said, “So, from our very brief conversation online, I hear you’re trying to get pregnant but struggling?”

Sinking onto the seat, I nodded again. “Yes, my husband and I have been trying, but we’re not succeeding. The chore of having sex just to get pregnant is wearing on me and I want to know either way.” I didn’t tell her why I wanted my monster back. Why I was alone without him and desperate for what we used to have. Five weeks was too long not to connect in the way we needed.

Dr. Fellows scanned her computer, pulling up information on who knew what. “Okay, well we’ll start with a full examination and then we’ll have a chat. How about that?”

My hackles rose.

I was happy for her to prod my body but not my mind. Until Q, I was an outcast and uncommon. No one could understand the way I was hardwired. That wouldn’t have changed now I was older. When I was younger, I had no courage to be open about who I truly was. Now, I was wiser, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass what other people thought about me. But blatantly telling this stranger that I missed my husband hitting me and drawing blood? That would mostly cause me to be shipped off to a nunnery and locked up for my safety.

I’d been locked up far too often in my past by assholes who’d tried to break me. I wouldn’t let it happen again. Then again, this woman was nothing compared to what I’d endured.

A flicker of abusive men and awful drug-sickness filled my mind.

My throat closed.

Oh my God, maybe I’m the reason why I can’t get pregnant?

Perhaps the rape I’d endured and the drugs I’d been fed had ruined me? Maybe the kicks to my stomach and damage of my physical form had decimated any hope of being able to carry a healthy baby for Q.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought about it before. Why hadn’t I considered it?

Because you’re so worried about Q thinking it’s his fault that he’s got you convinced.

Being away from him for the first time in months allowed me to think clearer. What if this
was
all my fault?

“Are you okay? What are you thinking about?” Dr. Fellows patted my hand. “You went white just now.”

Pulling my hand from hers, I smiled weakly. “I’m okay. Just a thought, that’s all.”

“About your past and what might be obstructing your chances at getting pregnant?”

I looked at my entwined fingers in my lap. The designer jeans and silver oversized jumper with Hermes scarf labeled me as well off and content, but my fingernails were bitten from the malicious uncertainty of the past few weeks. “A little.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“What makes you think you’ve done something to affect your chances?”

I swallowed a caustic laugh. “I have a few things that could.”

Dr. Fellows narrowed her eyes. “You’re not obligated to tell me, but everything you do will help me make an accurate diagnosis. Don’t be afraid of it leaving this room. I’m bound by client confidentiality, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t believe in gossip.” She smiled. “You can trust me, Mrs. Mercer.”

Mrs. Mercer.

I was no longer Tess.

I could be honest with this woman, and she wouldn’t judge me.

Forcing courage into my voice, I looked up. “A few years ago, I was kidnapped, sold into slavery, and bought.”
By the man I married and the best beast I know
. “In a separate incident, I was raped and kidnapped, only to be fed drugs as a way of control and beaten daily.”

The doctor sucked in a harsh breath. “And you underwent medical help for these incidences?”

“Yes.” Q’s personal physician. I’d had good care but perhaps not the gynecological care I needed. “However, I’m not sure if all bases were covered.”

The doctor stood up, brisk efficiency surrounded her rather than judgment. “In that case, no time like the present. Let’s get you on the table and begin.” As she patted the gurney and plastic coverings waiting for me to strip and bare everything to this woman, she added, “I promise you we’ll find the answers. We’ll put your mind at rest, and I’ll help you deal with whatever we find once we get the results. Okay?”

All my life, I hadn’t latched onto people. I’d been disciplined by parents and a sibling who didn’t want me. I’d learned to rely on myself and not others. Q had made me lean on him, and I’d found a sisterhood in Suzette, but I suddenly wanted to grab this stranger in a huge hug and thank her.

Fighting the urge, I nodded. “Okay.”

Feeling stronger and more confident, I didn’t hesitate. Shrugging out of my clothes, I submitted to the consultation.

The first part of the examination went fine. Dr. Fellows drew blood. Inspected my vitals and kept all opinions from her face as she noticed the brand on my neck and the tattoos on my wrist and finger.

Thank God, I didn’t come here a few weeks ago when the bruises and cuts from Q’s drunken night still marked me. She might’ve reported me to the women’s shelter and had the police investigate.

I snuffed a small smile.

I’d already set the cops onto Q and look how that turned out. Or at least, Brax had. Q had the police in his pocket because he was a goddamn saint with what he did.

Why couldn’t he see that?

He was so much better than what he believed.

As the exam grew more invasive, I trembled, fighting residual memories that I thought I’d worked through so many years ago. Having Q between my legs was welcome. Having his teeth in my flesh and his hand print on my ass was no better joy. But having a woman spread me open for the vaginal examination brought fleeting images of Mexico, Leather Jacket, and the rape before Q killed the man and rescued me.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Fellows murmured as I shook and clutched the plastic sheet as she finished the Pap smear.

Biting my lip, I kept my eyes locked on the ceiling. “Uh-huh.”

Sealing the cotton swab and pulling off rubber gloves, she said, “You can get dressed now. All done.” Pushing back on her wheeled chair, she shot to her desk and placed my swab in an outgoing tray and typed something on her computer.