Q cleared his throat, scanning the crowd. His pale eyes latched onto mine. His lips curled into an affectionate smile before disappearing into aloof businessman.
My heart beat heavily with love. He looked distinguished and delectable in a graphite suit and sea-green shirt. He’d forgone a tie in favour of revealing a small piece of tanned skin—the exact place I kissed last night while he slid inside me.
The click of camera lenses sounded like a lightning storm behind me, illumination flashing like tiny fireflies. The hive of reporter’s voices itched across my skin. I still hadn’t warmed to being in the public eye—but they came with the package now.
Everyone wanted a piece of Q…and me. And he’d finally agreed to let them in.
I’d taken my place completely beside him—becoming the face of Feathers of Hope officially three months ago. The invitations to events, fundraisers, and interviews never ceased. I feared we’d drown in an avalanche of attention.
This ceremony was a small gathering—only twenty or so members of parliament, and people who’d had direct contact with Q in his endeavours—such as the doctors who’d been with him from the start, therapists, and police chiefs.
The next part was for the world.
That part scared me. Our private existence was about to be gossip and tabloids. We would lose all anonymity. Q would be thrust into more fame than he already had from Moineau Holdings, and the unauthorized stories written about him coming to find me.
The cameras flashed harder as Q held out his hand, beckoning to me.
“What is he doing?” I murmured, slinking further into my chair. Today was about him, not me. I would never get used to being in the spotlight. I’d gone from a small town Australian girl to a married billionairess, who stood beside her husband by day and submitted to her monstrous master by night.
My brand had been on magazines around the world—the woman who scarred herself for love. I was proud to show Q’s mark—it was the other intimate ones I didn’t want them to see. The bite marks on my inner thighs. The wax burns on my breasts. Even though life swept us swiftly with its current, Q still found time to tie me in Shibari and broaden my horizons on what my body could feel.
Franco laughed. “You didn’t expect him to open up his life to complete strangers without having back-up did you?” He grabbed my elbow, forcing me to stand. “Go on. Be his back-up. He doesn’t need me this time.”
Franco’s injuries had healed well. His thumb was in the process of undergoing regular surgery to equip his brain receptors to accept the trial robotic. He’d be one of the first in the world to have one—top of the line—a thousand times better than a real digit.
I fought his hold. “Wait. He doesn’t want me. I can’t wave a gun at anyone and tell them to back off. You go do it.”
Franco chuckled. “Words are needed here, Tess. Not bullets. Now go.” He shoved me, stumbling into the aisle.
Damn egotistical ass. I’d have him fired.
Suzette giggled. “I don’t think the prime minster would appreciate bullets.” Her eyes flickered to Q, whose face had darkened with growing annoyance. “You better get up there before he loses it.”
Holy hell. I wasn’t ready for this.
Tucking a curl behind my ear, I second guessed my outfit—worrying I’d come across as a young idiotic woman who had no right to be on Q’s arm. My hair was a messy tangle of curls—Q hadn’t exactly left them sleek and blow-dried fresh after getting carried away in the limo.
We’d been married for six months and our need for each other grew more insane rather than depleting. Who knew how many household items could be used in play? Who knew how much love my heart could contain when he adored me so sweetly? Who knew how many different tears I could shed when he let himself free?
Happy tears.
Fearful tears.
Lustful tears.
Vengeful tears.
Franco moved his legs out of the way, so I wouldn’t trip. He patted my butt. “Get up there, Mrs. Mercer. Your husband needs you.” Shoving me again, I had no choice but to lurch toward the stage. I glowered over my shoulder.
Suzette slapped Franco’s arm. I couldn’t hear what she said but Franco smirked, grabbed her hand, bit her palm, and placed it on his thigh.
I smiled. I knew it.
Q’s voice cut through my nerves. “Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. The minute my wife decides to join me up here, I’ll begin.” My attention flashed to the stage, goosebumps spreading with a mixture of fear and need. I loved when he called me his wife. Especially in that tone.
He wouldn’t hold back when we got home.
I better hide the collar. He’d scared me last time he used it—letting himself get a bit carried away. But he’d made it up to me by loving me sweetly and importing a pair of beautiful parrots—slowly filling his aviary once again.
Hundreds of lenses zeroed in on me as I smoothed down my grey dress. A frill of lace decorated my chest, running diagonally down my torso to flare out at the hem. The matching jacket lay over the back of my chair. Winter had well and truly thawed—the heat in the room was stifling.
Striding forward, I climbed the three steps onto the small stage—thanking heaven I didn’t trip. The moment I was in grabbing distance, Q snaked his arm around my waist, holding me tight. “Took your fucking time, esclave,” he murmured in my ear. “You’ll pay for that later.”
My heart kicked harder, thrumming from his proximity, heat, and gorgeous scent of citrus and sandalwood. He tugged me behind the podium with him.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, trying to keep my lips from giving away my nerves to the press.
“I’m using you, obviously.”
I frowned. “Using me?”
He shook his head. “You still don’t get it do you, Tess? I wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t have found happiness. All of this is yours, not mine. I’m not going to take the limelight when it’s falsely given.”
A reporter grew impatient. “Mrs. Mercer—how does it feel to be married to a man who has personally saved over one hundred girls from trafficking?”
I lost the power to breathe, stunned stupid by the question. The microphones, the cameras—they all loomed closer, hemming me in.
Oh, God. I’d be on TV. Friends from school would know everything. Family who I hadn’t called would know what happened to the daughter they ignored. My life would be known by everyone.
Q tightened his hold, giving me strength.
But it doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Q was my life and no one else existed in our realm of togetherness.
I nodded, sucking up courage. “I’m privileged to share his life. He’s beyond incredible.” I cringed from my overly bright voice. I sound like a freaking five-year-old.
The reporter tilted his head. “Give me a real answer. You married the guy—why?”
My forehead furrowed. “Why?” What sort of ridiculous question was that?
Q stiffened, his muscles locking into place.
Hoping Q wouldn’t say anything reckless on a live broadcast, I said, “The truth? It’s simple. Marrying him was like coming home.”
A small murmur of satisfaction bled around the room. Cameras clicked faster, hands shot up with notepads and recording devices.
Questions rained.
“Tell us what happened.”
“What does fifty-eight mean to you?”
“Have you met any of the women your husband has saved?”
“Do you believe the cheating allegations that he uses the women he rescues?”
“Tell us about your wedding—is it true you released a thousand birds?”
Q held up his hand, silencing everyone with one savage downward sweep. “Enough! We’ve agreed to one interview, and those questions will be answered at the appropriate time.” Looking as if he wanted to shoot everyone in the room, he said, “I wish to thank everyone who donated to Feathers of Hope, for their continued support of Moineau Holdings, an
d for everyone who has been a true friend right from the beginning.” Holding up the scroll, he growled, “But this has been given incorrectly. I’m not deserving of this accolade. I’m nothing but a man with a past looking for a way to deserve everything I’ve been given.”
His eyes fell on mine, burning with desire; I flushed. Cameras clicked and I had no doubt the image would be splattered on newspapers around the world. Q had become a hot commodity, and he’d married me—an ex-slave…a kidnapped woman.
I’d caught my own prince. My own dark wonderful prince.
Q tore up the scroll.
I blinked. “Q—what are you—?”
The room rippled with concern. The prime minster stepped forward, his forehead furrowed. “Um, Mr. Mercer, I don’t think…”
Q cut him off. “Please give me a moment. It’s not what it looks like.” He continued to rip up the thick parchment. I hadn’t even read what he’d been graced with and now never would—he’d turned it into confetti.
Shit, what is he doing?
My heart raced, not wanting to interfere, but terrified he was making things worse.
Keeping the shards in his hand, he stalked off the stage, heading to the first row where doctors, therapists, and police—all who’d been with Q from the beginning—stood.
With a hard smile, he gave them a piece of the scroll.
Once everyone had a scrap, Q returned to the stage. Dragging a hand through his hair, he simply said, “Now the award has been rightfully given. To the men and women who fought on a daily basis—before any recognition or benefit. They fought against evil—just as all the supporters and workers of Feathers of Hope do. Thank you. And now, I’m leaving. We have another engagement.”
Cameras flashed as Q grabbed my hand, yanking me off the stage.
We didn’t go back to our seats, instead, Q slammed through the double doors, leading me into the huge entrance of the town hall.
“Q—we should wait—” I didn’t like going anywhere without security. Ever since committing murder to avenge my master, I’d been ruthless inside. I pretended to maintain my innocence, but beneath it, I was vicious. I wouldn’t have any qualms of killing or hurting if our life’s were threatened. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t let others get their hands dirty, however.
Where’s Franco?
Cameramen and reporters swelled behind us like an unstoppable wave. They clicked and queried, staying at a respectful distance.
“Franco’s behind us. I just want to get to the interview and get it over with.” Q’s jaw ticked, guiding me fast toward the exit. He didn’t say a word as he smashed open the doors, striding into the street.
A roar.
A cresting of voices, cheers, gratefulness.
My eyes widened, unable to comprehend. Q’s fingers tightened around mine. He cursed, eyes looking frantically for freedom. “Goddammit.”
Women.
So many women—some with friends, others with families, but all linked by the same look of reverence in their eyes for Q.
Q.
My husband was beloved.
Franco appeared, flanking Q while Frederick and Angelique appeared by my side. “Wow,” Angelique murmured. “How is this possible?” Her long black hair was coiled into a bun; her white dress setting off her dusky skin.
A policeman in full mob gear climbed the steps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer. We didn’t anticipate this.”
“What the hell happened here?” Q demanded.
The prime minster tapped Q’s shoulder. “The state invited some of the women you’ve had a hand in saving. I’m afraid we underestimated the response we would receive.” His wrinkled face and salt and pepper hair looked regal if not a little pompous. “It looks like you’re in for a long afternoon.”
Oh, my God. My heart went from thudding to whizzing. “Are these…”
Q’s face was stoic, but his pale eyes burned. “You did this without consulting me?”
So many women! So many risks. My instincts fanned out, seeking a threat. Q’s sacrifice to let Lynx hurt him had worked. No other death notes were delivered, no attempts on his life initiated.
But all it takes is one.
The prime minster looked at his shoes, abashed. “We wanted to show you just how honoured France is to have such an exemplary citizen. I’m sorry if it was the wrong thing to do.”
Q pursed his lips, scanning the crowd of women. His fingers twitched in mine, and I knew he recognised them—running through the catalogued condition they’d been in when they arrived—the environment in which he’d brought them from.
My stomach twisted with awe. Awe for how many lives he’d touched. I wished I could see his thoughts—follow his memories and understand.
“Q—this…it’s amazing. They came to thank you personally.” I clutched his arm, willing love through my fingertips. My chest cracked open with adoration for the man I called mine.
He looked at me, his face hard and unreadable. “This is extremely dangerous. Not just for me but for you. Don’t you think traffickers will be watching this? Waiting to see if they can pick off women who have already been prey?”
Panic shot through my system. I searched the crowd, relaxing a little, noticing the familiar bodyguards dotted in the swarm. We were protected. We had a team behind us now. A network of people we didn’t have before. No more attacks would be made.
I must stay confident.
“You have to say something…they need closure. Something, Q.”
Q’s face whitened. “What on earth can I say? Yes, I saved them, but I had no contact. I left them to Suzette to fix—I wasn’t there in their healing.”
I shook my head. “To them you’re the hero. The one who came for them when no one else did. You have to listen. You have to do something.”
The prime minster nodded. “Just a small speech, sir. Nothing big, then we can ask them to leave you in peace.”
Q dragged a hand over his face. His shoulders tightened, hiding his nerves. Letting his hand fall, his annoyance was veiled behind the stern, forcible nature I knew so well.
My core clenched. I wanted to tell him he may be my husband, and I was beside him every hour of every day, but he still made me wet—just by being him.
“Fine. Give me a damn microphone.”
A policeman appeared with a wireless one almost instantly. Q snatched it off him, never letting go of my hand. “If I’m doing this—so are you, Tess.”
He marched forward, giving me no choice but to follow in his footsteps. We stood at the top of the stairs, staring into the souls of victims who’d been saved. Clearing his throat, he said, “Bonjour.”
The crowd hushed, all eyes—blue, green, brown, grey—all landed on Q. Fixated by the man who gave them back their lives.
“I want to thank you for coming to see me today. The gesture is both gratifying and humbling. But I assure you, it wasn’t necessary. You gave me all the thanks I needed when you returned to your loved ones. The only payment I required was making you strong again.”
Murmurs rose from the crowd. A blonde woman darted between spectators, slowly making her way to the steps of town hall.
My heart whizzed, prickling with awareness. My eyes narrowed at the darting form.
Q continued, “Despite the evilness of the world, good has prevailed, and I hope each of you has been able to move on and not let them win.”
The blonde girl fought the crush of bodies. Her hand went to her pocket. Time slowed, moving in heartbeats, dying in increments.
“Franco!” I yelled, pointing at the girl. Petrified she had a gun—some weapon to kill Q.
Q yanked me behind his body, protecting me. Franco leapt down the stairs, imprisoning the girl’s arm. It all happened in a blink—swift, efficient, trapping the would be threat.
But then her blue eyes locked onto mine.
“Please, no more. You’ve done enough! You’re like them. You’re a monster!”
I stumbled backward; my palm went slick with glacial s
weat. Q’s hand slipped from around my arm. I reeled away.
No. It can’t be.
My hands clutched my hair as a cloud of torrid memories sucked me under.
“Hurt her, puta.”
“I’m going to rape this one—then you’ll know what it will feel like when I start on you.”
My ears roared. My heart died.
Blonde Angel.
It can’t be!
But it was. I’d stared into her eyes while hitting her. I’d listened to her screams while Leather Jacket tortured her. I would recognise her anywhere. She was a tattoo upon my soul.
She raised her arm, pointing at me. Painting me like the witch who deserved to be burned. The blissfully happy six months evaporated under the weight of what I’d done. How could I forget? How could I pretend I’d paid the toll when I’d killed a woman? When I’d brutally tortured another?
“Tess—Tess?” Q’s voice cut through my horror, dragging me back to the sunny warm day in France. Innocent. Safe. But it wasn’t innocent or safe.
My past had found me.
And now I must pay.
“Her,” I croaked. “It’s her.”
Blonde Angel fought Franco, trying to climb the steps. Her eyes never left mine, locked together in purgatory. She wore such innocuous clothing—a pair of loose fitting jeans and huge yellow jumper. Her hair was up in a ponytail—she looked so young. So young!
My eyes fell to her walking stick, splintering my heart more surely than any bat I’d swung or any terror I’d rained.
“Please—I just want to talk,” she called.
Her voice sent me straight back to Rio—to my dreams. There she’d been reincarnated to die night after night. Here she was real—a figment of my nightmares come to haunt me for my crimes.
Q wrapped an arm around me. I didn’t register his warmth or comfort. I didn’t register anything but bugs and beetles and pain.
“Please—let me pass. I promise I mean no harm,” Blonde Angel pleaded.
Franco looked to me. His chiselled face was dark. “Tess—what do you want me to do?”
Blonde Angel fanned her hands. “I only need a minute.”