Tears of Tess (12 page)

I
winced, but held my tongue. I didn’t want him knowing I hurt, even if he could
grant me painkillers. Not that he would. He was a cold-hearted bastard who
wanted broken and weak.

Leaning
forward, he clasped his hands between his open legs, so close, dominating the
space. Eyes searched my face again, almost imploring to know my secrets.

Discomfort
made me wriggle, and I refused to make eye contact, preferring to stare at the
licking fire.

We
didn’t move and I wasn’t about to break the heavy silence. I wanted to go home.

Taking
a breath, he said, “You are mine. Through circumstances I will not discuss with
you, you have come into my possession, and therefore must obey me in all
things.”

Like
hell
.

“You
are not permitted to use the internet, phone, or any technology of any kind.
You may not speak to the staff. You may not leave the house.”

He
stood, toned muscles glided to the large wooden desk. Pulling a piece of paper free
and a small black pouch, he settled back down. “My business partners didn’t say
where they got you from, what languages you speak, what skills you have. You
are no one—a fresh start. We will get along if you remember that.” He leaned
forward again, encroaching on my space. “You are no one’s but mine. Do you
understand?” Eyes flashed with excitement as he spoke, as if he loved the idea.
Of course, he loved the idea. How many other women did he ruin?

Options
ran through my head. I could spit in his face. Try and knee him in the balls.
Run and scream. All of those choices ended with consequences and pain.

I
stayed mute and still.

The
man dropped to his knees, pushing the chair behind in one swoop. My heart raced
as he inched forward, his breath hot on my bare thighs. So soon? I hadn’t been there
for ten minutes and he planned to rape me already? Shit, I couldn’t do this.
I’d only ever been with Brax. Brax was my first. The one who stole my innocence
and my heart.

Breathe.
Pretend you’re somewhere else.

I
gripped the arm rests as he tugged my leg onto his thigh and rolled down my
socks. His fingers scorched flesh all the way down, turning my bruises and
sprained ankle into pinpoints of heat. My face scrunched and I gasped as the
sock slid off my foot, leaving me bare.

He
frowned, glaring at my ankle. Swollen and hot, it looked worse than it felt,
but he stared as if my bone stuck out. “Did they do this to you?” His voice was
soft, heartfelt as his gaze travelled back up my leg, spotting the bruises, the
abrasions, remnants of my captivity and Leather Jacket’s hospitality. 

My
pulse came faster at his concern, then anger followed hot and true. “What do
you care? You’ll probably do worse.”

His
eyes snapped to mine and fingers twitched on my calf. “I care, because I don’t
like damaged girls. And I won’t do worse.” He lowered his voice, fingers
tightening. “Unless you deserve it.” His face blazed with protectiveness,
followed by heart stopping need. He seemed to battle his interest, whatever
sick attraction he had for me.

My
heart raced, blood churned. I swallowed hard and waited for wandering hands,
horrible fingers, but nothing happened.

The
man leaned back, removing his touch. In quick, assertive moves, he pulled a long
item from the black pouch and pressed a button at the back. A bright red light
flared before muting to nothing.

Shuffling
closer until an expensively clad shoulder brushed my knee, he unrolled my other
sock and wrapped the item around my uninjured ankle. The cold bite of plastic
made me flinch, but it didn’t stop him from tightening it. The snap of the
twist tie set my heart beating, undoable but for a blade or scissors.

He
stood and sat on the edge of the wingback once finished.

I
spoke before I thought. “What is that?”

Sitting
back, he wiped hands on his trouser legs. “It’s a tracking device.” Motioning
to my bare legs, he added, “If you’re uncomfortable, you may put your socks
back on.”

Ignoring
the fact he’d tagged me again, like the Mexicans, I said, “They aren’t my
socks. It’s what the kidnappers dressed me in.” I didn’t know what I expected
by telling him, but the blank look of disinterest was not it.

Swiping
a middle fingertip along an eyebrow, he checked the time on his diamond
encrusted Rolex. “That device informs me where you are at all times. See,
slave, no escape.”

I
had an insane urge to laugh. It was complete overkill. I had a barcode tattooed
into my flesh, a beacon in my neck, and a GPS on my foot. I glared, hating him
as much as I hated the men in Mexico. What happened to the other women?  Did the
little Asian girl who was as fierce as me end up in the same circumstances?

The
man picked up the paper from the floor and passed it to me. “This is all I have
on you. I want to know more.”

I
took it and my throat closed.

Subject:
Blonde Girl on Scooter

Barcode
reference: 302493528752445

Age:
Twenty to thirty

Temperament:
Angry and violent

Sexual
status: Not virgin

Sexual
heath: No diseases

Ownership
guidelines: Recommend strict punishment to break temper. Trim body, fit enough
for extreme activities.

History:
No living relatives

Oh,
God. Brax. Did that mean he didn’t survive? No, I’d feel it if he were gone for
good. Wouldn’t I? Something would break inside; become a void if he was gone
forever.

I
looked up, wide-eyed, hoping for some sort of compassion, something to latch
onto while I swirled in misery, but the man stayed straight and taut, eyes
closed off.

“What
is your name?” he asked, French accent floating over me. I’d always thought the
French accent was sexy, suave. Now, all I wanted to do was throw up and rip my
ears off.

Anger
dispelled my fear about Brax, and I snarled, “If I’m no one, why do you want to
know my name?” 

A
flash of erotic yearning flickered across his face. “You’re right. It’s not
necessary. However, it’s a lonely existence if no one calls you by your name.”
The way he said it bristled with dark intensity.
Don’t try to get my
sympathy vote. You don’t know true loneliness.

“Why
did you buy me?”

He
leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I didn’t. You were a gift. An unwanted
gift.” His lips twitched. “A bribe, if you will.”

My
stomach coiled like a viper. I’d been given to someone who didn’t even want me.
At least if someone had bought me, spent a lot of money, they might treat me a
little better. Like a prized racehorse or an expensive breed of cat. But this…
I was an unwanted present. Like a pair of hand knitted jumpers at Christmas.

“What
will you do with me?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“That
is none of your concern.”

“You
don’t think my future is any of my concern?”

“No.
Because your future is mine.”

I
breathed hard at the unfairness.

He
stood, looking down at me. In a flash of movement, he pressed me into the
chair, hands over mine on the armrests. I stopped breathing. I stopped
everything. I was immobile.

His
gaze captured mine, holding me prisoner in their pale green depths. Something
dark and urgent flashed, then disappeared. Eyes dropped to my lips and his
mouth parted.

The
heavy, heated air from the fire seared us. Every crackle of flames made me
twitch.

Do
not move. Do not move.

Finally,
the man pulled back. It looked like it took a lot of effort and he readjusted
himself discreetly. “Don’t you want to know who you belong to?”

The
jump from overbearing to questioning took a while to catch up. Slowly, I shook
my head. Why would I want to know his name when I had no intention of using it?
“No.”

Nostrils
flared, and he strode away. His suit whispered with every footstep and he
paused in the doorway.

“You
have to call me something, and I don’t want master or owner. You’re ordered to
call me Q.”

“Q?”

He
didn’t answer. Striding away, he said over a shoulder, “My staff will show you
to your room. Remember. Don’t try to escape. There isn’t any.”

*Blackbird*

T
he
moment Q left the library, a silhouette appeared. I jumped a mile, holding my
chest.

Images
of a dark minion throwing me in a cellar to live with rats, filled me with
fear. I tried to stay calm, remembering Q hadn’t liked my injuries. I doubted
he’d make me sleep in a dank dungeon where I could get sick. After all, if I
died of pneumonia where was the fun in that? 

The
girl, probably mid-twenties, with chestnut hair plaited in a tidy knot, smiled.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her accent was soft and feminine; hazel eyes
glowed in dusky skin. Why the hell was she working for a man like Q?

Did
she know who I was?
What
I was?

“Please,
follow me.” She motioned out the door and into the foyer. “Do you have
possessions with you?” she asked as we walked awkwardly side by side.

My
eyes popped wide, and I snorted darkly. “No, I don’t have any possessions.”

I
was
one.

The
thought snatched me around the throat. I had to stop thinking that. I wasn’t
anything but Tess. I’d survive.

“Oh,
well, that’s fine. I’m sure
Maître
Mercer can arrange a new wardrobe.”

“Mercer?”
I trotted beside her up the flight of stairs. The thick blue carpet was like a
cloud between my toes. Hang on, Q told me not to speak to the staff. I paused,
weighing if talking to this girl was worth whatever punishment he’d grant. I
curled my hands.

Screw
it, for the first time in a week, someone wanted to talk rather than order or
demand.

“The
owner of this household. He’s—well, he’s the master.”

I
didn’t like the sound of that. I wanted words like fair and a nice employer.
Not for the maid to flush and shut up.

In
silence, we walked down the longest corridor I’d seen in my life and ascended
another twirling staircase before stopping outside a white lacquered door.

“This
is yours. I’ve arranged for new bedding, and prepared it for your arrival.”

How
long did they know I was coming? Days? Weeks? Fluffing sheets and ironing
towels for an unwanted bribe. Who gave a stolen woman as a present, and for
what? My mind ran with thoughts of drug dealing, or illegal weaponry, something
completely far out to warrant a trafficked girl as collateral.
Underhanded
bastard Q.

I
steeled against using his name. Q. What a ridiculous title.

I
opened the door and slammed to a halt. I wanted to laugh. Sure, I was
surrounded by elegant wealth, but I was a lowly slave and didn’t deserve space,
or light, or niceties.  

Stark
and bare, the bedroom did nothing to invite or warm. The single bed, wardrobe,
and shelves looked barren and unwelcoming, but the linen smelled clean and the
air was fresh.

It
was a cell, for all intents and purposes, but thankfulness swelled at having my
own room with a hygienic bed. After a week in the Mexican trafficker jail, this
was five stars.

My
heart plummeted at the thought of Brax. He would hate the thought of me living
here. Even our tiny, one bedroom apartment was comfy and designer style. Many a
weekend, Brax knocked together a DIY project, the last being a sleigh bed from
an old gum tree. This little room rested inside a mansion—owned by someone who
wouldn’t hesitate to use me, however he wanted.

Oxygen
turned to soup and I gave up trying to be fierce. Tears glassed my vision and
spilled. My life would never be the same.