Tears of Tess (22 page)

My
eyes shot to Q, but his posture hadn’t changed. He took a sip from a chilled
glass of wine. “Fine. Consider our dealing complete.”

The
Russian scowled. “How will I know you’ll keep your promise?”

Q
shifted ever so slightly; my skin prickled with the change of hospitality. Q
seemed to suck shadows from the room, cloaking himself in authority. “You doubt
my work ethic?”

The
Russian clenched his jaw, looking from Q to me. “When will we see contracts?”

Q
played with a cufflink, taking his time. “Three months. That’s how long these
things take. But you have my word. And that is law.”

Russian
Lumberjack snorted, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t look happy with the
arrangement, but I doubted there was anything he could do. Q was clearly the
one in control. Just like my situation—the whole sex slavery thing.

I
wanted to roll my eyes. I didn’t want to go crazy, and that’s how I felt
dangling there.

After
a pause, the Russian stood, making his way to the chocolate fondant. Q watched
with narrowed eyes, before turning to speak with Big Nose and Grey Moustache.
1920’s Man’s inquisitive sapphire eye’s bounced between Q and me. Thoughts
raced in his gaze, but his face remained blank.

Heart
galloped as I looked at Russian Lumberjack. His posture scared me. He flashed a
look at Q while he waited for chocolate to spill into a jug. Eyes shadowed with
jealousy and a greedy hunger for power.

I
turned to Q. Should I warn him the Russian wasn’t his friend, but his enemy?
What
are you thinking, Tess? It isn’t your business. Who cares?

As
much as I didn’t want to admit it—I did care. Not for Q’s safety, but for my
own. If Q submitted to men like the Russian, my gilded cage would fast become a
dank dungeon.

My
body swung in the bindings, and I clenched my abs to stay facing Russian
Lumberjack. He moved too slowly, as if thinking about something other than
getting food.

My
skin erupted into goosebumps as instincts kicked in. The same instincts that
screamed not to go in the café in Mexico. I didn’t like this.
What’s not to
like? You’re mostly naked, hanging from a ceiling for five men to perv at while
they eat
.

I
hated the whole scenario, but something about the man in the white jumpsuit did
not sit well in my gut.

The
Russian moved suddenly, carting a plate full of marshmallows and a little
pouring jug overflowing with melted chocolate. He made to go back to the table,
but at the last second changed his mind, bee-lining for me.

I
twisted in the cuffs, trying to back away, but it was no use. My eyes shot to
Q, imploring him to pay attention and stop this, but his head was bowed deep in
conversation with Grey Moustache.

The
Russian stopped at the bottom of the pedestal, gawking at me. Up close, his
skin was pockmarked from acne and shone with grease. His buzzed hair looked
coarse, and smelled of too much hair product. He shifted, smiling with a few
gold capped teeth.
“
Privet, krasivaya
devushka.”
He caressed my knee
through the filigree material. “It means, hello, pretty girl.” His voice
rumbled, sending fear into overdrive. Where he touched, my skin crawled, and if
skin could throw up, it would.

Again I looked at Q, disbelieving he’d let the man touch me.
He didn’t seem to notice or care. His body twisted away, hands clasped tightly
on the table as he nodded at something Big Nose said. 

He shut me out with a bear of a man who gazed with unbridled
horniness. It wasn’t a sensual kind of lust like Q; it was a savage need to
rut. To cause pain. I had no doubt he’d enjoy my screams.

With a sadistic smile, the Russian reached for the jug of
melted chocolate, and with a calculated gleam, dribbled some on my thigh. The
chocolate teetered on the edge of too hot; I hissed between my teeth.

Q shifted, but didn’t turn to look. I wanted to scream, but I
didn’t know if I’d be in deeper trouble. Maybe by not looking, Q gave the
Russian permission to do what he wanted.

Russian Lumberjack grinned and placed the plate of
marshmallows on the floor, but kept the small jug of chocolate.

Oh, fuck.

“Don’t. Leave me the hell alone,” I demanded, voice shaky.

Q’s pale green eyes landed on me and skin prickled with
relief. He wouldn’t let this man taunt me.

My mouth parted as something white-hot passed between Q and I,
then he turned away.

My heart stopped, betrayal coated my tongue. He cut me out
with one twist of his powerful body.

Tears rushed as the Russian chuckled, reaching with fat
fingers to grasp my thigh. Holding me in place, his big wet tongue licked chocolate
off my skin, dragging saliva over flesh and dress.

I shuddered in repulsion, trying to wriggle from his grip,
but he pinched harder. “No struggling, pretty girl.” With the jug high, he
poured another dollop, on my foot. With a gross grin, he dropped and sucked it
off. I tried to kick, but I needed toes on the ground to stay stable. I didn’t
want to spin out of control like I did with 1920’s Man. At least he’d been kind
and secured me. This man would probably make me spin, disorientating, making me
sick. 

The Russian stood, drizzling chocolate on my stomach. It
trickled down my front, hardening quickly, but not fast enough. It oozed onto
my lower belly, dangerously low, way too close to my core.

“Not low enough, huh, pet.” He grunted, capturing me in meaty
arms, pulling me to his mouth. I squirmed as he licked the chocolate, leaving a
cold, slimy trail from his tongue. He shifted, ducking his head; one lash of
his tongue caught my clit. My entire body wanted to disintegrate from shame and
the grossness of being tongued by a gargoyle. 

“You’re a fucking bastard. You won’t get away with this.”
Images of slicing his neck and throwing him into a roaring crematorium helped
endure his touch. All the wetness Q conjured disappeared, leaving me dry,
unwilling, completely sick to my stomach.

My eyes widened in realization. My body reacted to Q despite
what he did—
because
of what he did. But I shut down when another touched
me. If Q had been the one to lick, I would’ve shuddered in erotic torture,
hating it, but secretly loving it. But the Russian behemoth repulsed me. The
very thought of him anywhere near my body brought me out in dry heaves.

The revelation my body reacted for Q, despite everything,
brought equal measures of torment and peace. My body wanted Q’s, but at the
same time it wanted nobody else. Had he trained me so well, without my
knowledge? Or had I given him my sense of touch so willingly?
Please don’t
let him own that, too.

I hated the Russian with a fire that would never burn out,
whereas my hatred for Q seethed and simmered, hot enough to melt my body. I may
want to kill Q for ruining my life, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill myself
so he would never have me.

The Russian’s fat fingers pried my thighs apart and his heavy
breath wafted me in garlic. He pushed, and I lost my footing, swinging wide. He
stepped onto the podium, catching my swinging body when I slammed against him.
He deliberately faced me away from Q, putting himself between us.

Facing the other wall, my eyes widened at the most
fantastical mural painted in browns, blacks, and shadow. A cloud of sparrows
decorated the wall. I could almost feel wind from fluttering wings as they flew
from the grips of a black storm cloud. Freedom beckoned in the patch of blue
sky by the ceiling. The painting made my heart weep, needing the same freedom.
I couldn’t count how many little birds, but each one was unique, coming to life
with perfection.

Russian’s hand grabbed my breast, twisting painfully. His
mouth clamped down on my ear.

I opened my mouth to scream, to demand Q to claim me, but an
obscenely large hand clamped over my mouth. Blocking nose and mouth, just like
Leather Jacket had done.

My lungs seized, and I fought. He chuckled as my feeble
attempts made a repulsive hard cock wedge between my ass cheeks. My eyes flew
to the sparrows. I wished I could sprout wings and fly. I tried to lose myself
in the painting, willing my mind to leave. 
 

Fumbling
between us, he withdrew something, bringing it to my stomach. Something icy
cold bit flesh. I gasped, heart bucking.

“Hush,
little whore. This is between us. You cost me a lot of money, you know. I think
it’s only fair I sample you.” A fat hand fumbled on my lower belly, and the
loathsome sound of dress ripping filled me with black dread. My eyes rolled,
trying to see below. What was the icy thing slicing through the material?

With
another sharp tug, the dress hung ruined and the tightness around my ass
softened as filigree strands went from tight to gaping.

He
licked my ear, flashing a hunting knife. I groaned and thrashed. The blade was
rust spotted and tarnished, but glinted wicked sharp. “Stop wriggling, little
fish. I’m not going to cut you.” He flipped the blade so sharp metal rested in
a calloused palm and a sweat stained, wooden handle faced upward.

Oh,
shit.

Instincts
screamed.
He’s going to rape you with the handle of a knife!

I
moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help.
Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let
go of my gift.”

The
words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad
happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.

“Just
having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder,
no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust hips backward, trying to kick him off balance,
but he remained unmovable.

Tension
knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough,
but nothing came.

Silence
reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon
I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”

I
didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on
my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned
the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.

I
struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.

“I
wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat,
slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed.
My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters
and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every
scrape of awful hardness.

Eyes
glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood.
Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.

The
Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.

I
didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It
hurt. It
hurt!
Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep
inside.  

A
shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms
wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my
shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.

The
Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the rapist knife with him.
He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his
jumpsuit.

“Fuck!”
he shouted.

Q
raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the fuck out of my house.” His arm
outstretched, holding a small silver gun.

My
head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.

The
rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart
from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.

Q
yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”

The
green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming
back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man
laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.

Q
immediately jumped and spun, waving the gun. “
Putain.
Stop! I know what
I’m doing, Frederick. Leave.”

The
guy frowned, clearly not believing him, but after a moment, nodded and strode
out the door.

Silence
settled, broken only by Q and mine’s heavy breathing. I swung by my arms, tears
glassing my vision. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up and my shoulders
screamed. But none of it came close the aching soreness inside. I felt ripped
in two, reliving the first hard thrust, the mind-shattering agony, over and
over.

How
could Q allow this to happen? I was his, goddammit, and he didn’t protect me.
He let another man hurt me.

I
splintered, wanting to crawl back into the silent void that saved me last time,
but my mind wouldn’t fly away. My mind was broken.

I
must have passed out. I came to with my cheek bobbing against a warm shoulder
and body cocooned in strong arms. The scent of citrus and sandalwood hugged me,
sending a mixture of longing and panic kicking in my blood.