Tears of Tess (36 page)

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.

*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.

Q
radiated… as Quincy he turned human. I didn’t want human. I wanted my master. A
lover who dominated.  

Exhaustion
warred with sadness, and I sank deeper into pillows.

I
fell asleep with the pad on my lap, and charcoal-smeared hands cupping a cheek.

*
* * * *

“
Esclave
.
I mean… Tess.”

My
heart catapulted, blood pumping.

Brute.
Driver.

Hands.
Cock. Pain.

Nightmares
shattered, leaving me with breath-stealing fear. A hand landed on my shoulder,
hot and heavy. I snapped.

Screaming,
I struck, connecting with something solid.  Pain blazed in my wrist and I shot
upright, yelping. “What the fuck?”

A
man’s
umph
filled the night-silence. The smell of citrus hit, with the
reek of bourbon and brandy.

Q
stumbled back. “
Merde.
You didn’t have t—to fucking hish m—me,” Q slurred,
rubbing his chest, climbing drunkenly off the bed.

Oh,
my God. Q.