Chapter 22

Tess

~Save me, enslave me, you will never cave me. Taunt me, flaunt me, kill whatever haunts me…~

I headed toward the village where I’d first run from Q. It would take me a while to get there, but I didn’t care.

Walking helped tame the cold emptiness inside. It gave me something to look at, something to think about other than memories locked tight against me.

I stopped to look at a pretty fantail darting in the late summer breeze when my legs disappeared from beneath me, and the air in my lungs escaped in a rush.

I cried out as I landed over a strong, broad shoulder.

My eyes connected with the toned, sculptured ass of Q as he carried me back toward the house.

I bumped and jostled and even though my ribs hurt, the protective shell my mind resided in didn’t let me wince.

Q hadn’t made a sound, even though the road was littered with twigs and crackly leaves. Somehow he’d tracked me down, pounced silently, and now held me captive.

I waited for the flutter of heartbeats—the knowledge and warmth that even though I hurt him so much last night, he couldn’t bear to let me go.

Nothing.

Only a dark stain appeared, clouding my thoughts, reminding me I had women’s blood beneath my fingernails and if I felt one emotion, I’d have to feel everything.

“Put me down,” I said.

Q didn’t say a word, striding purposely toward the house.

I pinched his butt, but he didn’t flinch. “Let me go, Q.”

“Never. You’re not fucking walking out of my life like this. Not yet.” His voice sounded off—fierce, angry, almost afraid.

“What are you doing?” I didn’t like the energy he emitted—the uncomfortable, edgy vibe.

He growled low in his chest, muttering a curse in French. He raised his voice. “You’re going to do something for me before you go.”

I frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re back at the house. And you won’t refuse, Tess. Because if you do, I’ll fucking kill you to put us both out of our misery.”

How much I wanted the thrill of terror at his words, the thickening of lust. I bounced on his shoulder, coaxing such feelings to manifest, but the best I could do was a pang of fear.

Fear because I had no idea what Q had in store, and I hated newness. Newness always equaled terribleness. Newness meant beating up women and becoming dependent on drugs.

We didn’t say another word as Q carted me back like a kill he’d just shot.

I didn’t whimper when my lungs ached from being squished, or complain when lightheadedness made me queasy from hanging upside down.

I didn’t make a peep as we entered the house or bat an eyelash when Franco stopped short, staring at me in Q’s grip.

Q took the steps two at a time, never out of breath from hauling my weight. He didn’t slow as we headed down the corridor.

He smelled of alcohol and strain, even a trace of blood as he kicked open a door and carried me through.

The moment he slammed the door shut with his foot, he put me down. His lip was bruised and split, a shadow bloomed under his left eye, and he looked sleep deprived and tortured.

What the hell happened to him?

He gave me a hard look with unreadable eyes, prowling to the bed.

I looked around. I’d never been in this room before. Painted in golds and reds, it had an exotic feel, a bit ostentatious, but it worked all the same.

Q headed to the four-poster bed and tore off the thick duvet and sheeting, leaving a bare mattress.

He headed to the bathroom before returning with four towels which he placed all over the bed, covering the fabric.

I stood unmoving, watching him tear around the room. Once he’d tugged and straightened the towel for the fifth time he came to stand in front of me, breathing hard.

He stood straighter, gathering energy from the room yet all the while seeming to shrink in on himself. His eyes locked with mine, and I gasped at the torment deep in their pale depths.

“Remember. If you refuse, I’ll kill you.”