Tears of Tess (48 page)

I
threw myself against him, kissing, climbing him. He crushed me, teeth bruising
lips as if he wanted to replace all my thoughts with only him. He didn’t need
to try. He did it effortlessly. When I could breathe again, I muttered, “That
goes for you, too. No other women. I’m the one you whip and fuck.” Flashing him
my tattoo, I said, “This little bird belongs in your cage. No one else.”

He
groaned, backing me against the desk again, rocking. I leaned back till my
shoulders pressed hard wood. I grabbed his tie and forced him to fold over,
warming me. His naked chest teased between the unbuttoned shirt and I ran
fingers up his back, hissing as he bucked into me. Not caring I was wanton and
brash and horny and all manner of hot, bothered things. It had been so long; I
needed him so bad.

Q
nodded. “Sounds like a fair trade.”

I
smacked him lightly. “And your last condition?” I panted as his lips trailed
down the side of my neck, disappearing between the valley of my breasts.

Q
bit my nipple through my dress and jagged lightning erupted through my belly. “I
want to commit murder.”

My
heart stopped beating.

“I’m
going to put the bastards down who hurt you. I’ll personally make sure

 their entire operation is burned
to the ground.”

I
jerked back, looking into furious eyes. I couldn’t breathe.
He wants the
same revenge I do.
I didn’t even have to ask. He saw deeper than he even
realized. However unconventional our relationship, it rang with rightness. Q
spoke to me on a much deeper level than man and woman.

I
fully believed I was made for him and he was made for me. Two halves of the
same fucked-upness. Two souls from the same twisted desires, unable to fully be
free until we found each other.

Throwing
my arms around him, I breathed deep his heady scent of citrus and something
darker, something pulling energy from my body. Transcending my soul from my
mortal shell, ready to be claimed and taken.  

“You’re
the one, Q Mercer. You were always the one.”

Q
blushed. The first time I’d ever seen shyness on a man so strong and bold. Pink
tinged his perfectly sculpted cheekbones, melting me into a puddle.
Will I
ever get used to how much he means to me? Do I ever want to?
I wanted to
live my life in seventh heaven. Constantly in awe. Constantly needing.

Q
gritted his teeth, pulling the letter opener through a fleshy palm. A small
line of blood welled. With his other palm, he grabbed my hand, locking eyes as
he sliced my skin the same way.

The
burn was nothing. I welcomed it. I knew what Q wanted to do. It made complete
and utter sense. Anyone else wouldn’t see how much I needed to mix our essence,
our life force. But he did.

This
was a contract between two monsters fighting in the dark. Our blood was basic
ink for such a deal—a deal of pain and endless pleasure.

We
clasped hands and sonnets and thunder and every element in the universe shot
through him to me. I shivered as Q growled, “I promise to protect you, ravage
you, hunt those who hurt you, and give you the life you deserve. My fortune is
yours. My secrets are yours. And I will give you the corpses of the men who hurt
you.”

My
body hummed with the pact we made.

“I
promise to fight you every hour of every day.”

His
lips curled in a cruel smile. “Welcome to my world,
esclave
. I fight my
desires every second.”

Unlatching
our grip, he smeared our combined blood on my tattoo. “You’re the first bird I
released who came back. The only bird.”

Tears
glassed my vision as I caressed his cheek. “I was always running to you. I just
didn’t know it. My freedom is in your captivity, Q. I fly when I’m with you.”

He
licked his lips, worshipping awe and rapture in his gaze.
“Je suis à toi.”
I am yours.

I
shook my head.
“Nous sommes les uns des autres.”
We are each other’s.

*Q
Mercer*

*Twenty
years ago*

S
ilence
was my friend. Always had been. Probably always will be.

Somehow,
the air carried me, killing any noise I made, turning me into a shadow. I moved
with stealth—a ghost—a phantom. Never a peep—never a sound.

My
parents lost me for two days once, and I never left the house. I disappeared
inside the huge, rambling mansion we called home, drifting from room to room.
Stealing food from the kitchen and camping inside giant, unused fireplaces.

Secrets
were hard to keep hidden from a silent, inquisitive eight-year-old. I saw the
truth of what went on, and it made me sick to my stomach.

My
mother knew, but did nothing, preferring Peach Snapps and Baileys to my father.
And my father preferred slaves to his wife.

I
was five when I first heard the screams. Guttural calls for help, full of
distress and heartache, followed by a horrible groan of pleasure and ecstasy.

That
was the first day I slipped into the forbidden room, and watched my father beat
and rape a girl. Her ass blazed red as he pumped into her from behind.

My
little heart raced. I knew I shouldn’t see this. I didn’t understand it.
Something bad was happening, but I was too naïve to know. But, on some level, I
knew exactly what it was.

My
father hurt a woman who didn’t want to be hurt. She hadn’t been naughty like I
was sometimes. All she did was cry and curl into a ball. Yet my father beat her
with fists and whips. Enjoying her cries, he turned into a purple faced baboon
with pleasure.

The
scene scarred my brain for life, irrevocably changing me. I went out of my way
to be kind and gentle to every living thing. The cook caught me, time and time
again, feeding birds, mice, and other woodland creatures.

My
mother fell more and more in love with fruity smelling alcohol, leaving me
motherless, with a rambling drunk.

All
while my father amassed a stable.

He
already had a stable full of cars: Bugatti, Audi, Ferrari, and Porsches. He
owned a barn full of thoroughbreds and world cup racers. But it wasn’t enough.
He wanted humans. Girls.
Possessions.

On
my eighth birthday, he brought home his twelfth filly. She kicked and screamed,
until he punched her so hard she passed out. A full wing of the house was
barricaded for his new acquisitions. No member of staff was permitted.

But
I knew secrets he didn’t. Hidden passageways in the walls—no lock could keep me
out.

I
watched from air ducting and wall cavities. My stomach twisted as I saw sick,
foul acts committed against fragile women.

Rather
than suffer boyhood excitement, a thrill of shame coated my life. I wallowed in
guilt. My own flesh and blood ruined lives of others. Stealing their freedom
and turning them into broken belongings.

I
never loved my father, but day by day, my hatred for him grew. I hated that he’d
created me. I wanted nothing to do with him. I wanted him gone.

On
my thirteenth birthday, I broke into the stable while my father wasn’t there.

The
girls all looked up with red-rimmed eyes and fright. I didn’t know why I went.
To offer sympathy? Comfort? It seemed so stupid, standing there. I offered to
bring them anything they wanted—to steal food from the kitchen, anything to
take that hopelessness from their eyes. But they wailed and hid; running from a
scrawny thirteen-year-old boy.

Their
fear stank, and I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. But I owed them
something, anything—it was my father who ruined them—it was my place to make it
right. “Please. I don’t mean to hurt you.” My balls hadn’t dropped; my voice
sounded as high as their whimpers for help.

Not
one of the girls came near me that day, but I saw their bruises, the shadows
under their eyes, the haunting emptiness in their souls. I couldn’t stay away.

The
next day I returned and uttered the one word I swore I never would. The word my
father used a lot. “
Esclave,
obey me.”

Immediately,
the girls stiffened, dropping to their knees. All twelve bowed, long hair, all
different colours, kissing the ground.

That
was the day I learned the word broken. They were broken. Completely. And I
couldn’t stand it. With one command, they were mine, and I hated their weakness
as much as I hated my father for creating such miserable creatures.

I
ordered, “Crawl to me.”

Sounds
of skin rubbing against carpet as the circle of naked slaves obeyed.

“Stop.”
 They did. Immediately. Total obedience.

Standing
in a circle of women, I made a vow. I would help them. No one should be broken
beyond repair. No other human had the right to steal their life.

I
would become their saviour, and rehabilitate them back to sanity.

*
* * * *

Three
years passed before I got hold of an untraceable gun. Boarding school in London
allowed me to mingle with rich, bored kids with mean connections. Criminals
hung around the wealthy like flies to rotten meat, and I took advantage.

I
earned a reputation for being closed off and angry. When really, I plotted
constantly how to bring my father to justice. My family’s reputation preceded
him and people feared me. Feared my power, my own legacy of a ruthless tycoon.

I
did nothing to disillusion them. Fear was a powerful weapon—I knew. I saw how
fear ruled my father’s women.

Two
weeks later, school holidays came around. I travelled home on the train, with
my leather bound suitcase and a heavy black gun in my waist band.

I
hated going home. There was nothing there for me. Only the undying need for
vengeance.

My
mother had died a year before from alcohol poisoning, leaving me vacant. She
was my mother, but never paid attention to her only son. I wasn’t bourbon or Shiraz,
therefore I wasn’t important.

Mrs.
Sucre welcomed me home, and I holed away in my room, cleaning my new
possession. Staring at shiny brass bullets, I welcomed anger and rage.

At
two in the morning, I went hunting. Night was my father’s playtime hours. I
knew where to find him.

I
sneaked with the silence, fingers tight around the new purchase.

The
whimpers of girls punched me in the chest.
Soon. Soon you’ll be free
. I
knew they’d thank me for what I was about to do. My own sanity would thank me. Soon,
I wouldn’t have to live with guilt that I allowed my father to continue hurting
so many innocent women.  

My
father never heard a thing.

I
sneaked right beside him while he fucked a girl, holding her pigtails like handholds;
his old man ass wobbling with every trust. My lips curled in distaste and I
snarled. The girl’s tears set fire to my stomach.

I
raised the gun, testing the weight. My hand was dry—not sweaty or nervous. My
heart even and sure.