Stark and bare, the bedroom did nothing to invite or warm. The single bed, wardrobe, and shelves looked barren and unwelcoming, but the linen smelled clean and the air was fresh.
It was a cell, for all intents and purposes, but thankfulness swelled at having my own room with a hygienic bed. After a week in the Mexican trafficker jail, this was five stars.
My heart plummeted at the thought of Brax. He would hate the thought of me living here. Even our tiny, one bedroom apartment was comfy and designer style. Many a weekend, Brax knocked together a DIY project, the last being a sleigh bed from an old gum tree. This little room rested inside a mansion—owned by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use me, however he wanted.
Oxygen turned to soup and I gave up trying to be fierce. Tears glassed my vision and spilled. My life would never be the same.
The maid tutted in concern, pushing me toward the bed. “There, there. Don’t cry. You have your own bathroom, and we can get some personal things to decorate.” Her warm arm descended timidly around my shoulders and I rocked.
Now I was here, in the destination of my fate, I lost strength. I wanted to stay angry and strong, but pity and loss swelled.
The simple contact of a caring woman unbuckled me.
I sobbed.
Into my hands, into a pillow, into sleep.
* * * * *
The next morning, I was left to my own devices. I showered, and dressed in my sack of a sweater. Not knowing, or caring, if clothes had been bought for me. The rebellion at such a simple thing kept my fire smouldering deep inside.
I left my socks off and padded bare foot down the staircase. I could only assume I’d been put in the staff quarters. The ruckus at five a.m., with people having showers and preparing for the day, kept me up.
Not that I slept. I was foggy headed with tears and awoke with a splitting headache, but crying purged me, leaving me eerily empty and ready to face my new future.
One thing niggled, though. I didn’t have experience in the way of slavery and ownership, but found it surprising Q let me wander freely with no supervision. Probably some sort of chauvinistic mind game and power trip.
I couldn’t shed my apprehension as I entered the lounge and followed the sounds of cutlery clinking. Scents of freshly brewed coffee coaxed me forward, despite trepidation. My mouth watered for caffeine.
Rounding the corner, I halted as the kitchen came into view. Pale green tiles ran floor to ceiling, acting like a coloured mirror. They’re the same colour as Q’s eyes.
I had to admit my strange new owner had taste. White cabinetry with silver handles glinted like fresh snow, thanks to the sun streaming from the massive skylight. Three stainless steel ovens, a huge cooktop, and a fridge big enough to fit a whole cow completed the huge expanse. Another room, with a temperate gauge and wooden shelving, housed countless bottles of wine. No doubt from a vineyard close-by if we were, indeed, in France.
The girl who’d been so kind to me last night, smiled behind a counter. “Bonjour. Are you hungry?”
I didn’t think I could eat with all the strangeness, but nodded anyway. I had to keep my strength, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been fed. No wait, I did remember—the night Leather Jacket tried to rape me. Fucking bastard.
My lips curled, thinking how quickly I’d gone from a girl who never cursed, to a gutter mouth. In a way, it gave me strength, being crude and crass.
My stomach growled, taking control out of my hands.
The maid giggled. “Guess that answers the question. But before we can feed you, the master requested you join him. He’s in the dining room.” She cocked her head at the other end of the lounge. A pair of sliding glass doors blocked a decadent, old English style dining room.
Q sat at the head of the table. A newspaper spread wide, blocking his face.
Seeing him sent barbwire tangling around my stomach. The house lulled me into some sense of acceptance, but I’d never get used to being owned—of being someone’s slave.
Not that he bought me, only accepted as a bribe. Curiosity rose, wanting to know what I was accepted for, but I shoved it away. I didn’t care as I wouldn’t be staying long. I’d find a way to run—soon.
I shook my head, looking back at the maid. “I’m not seeing him.”
The maid stilled, hands full of pastries. “You have no choice. He summons. You go. That’s the law.”
“Law?” My eyebrow twitched. I instantly hated the word. The law was something officers upheld. A word implying safety, not rules dictated by a mad man.
“Law.” The masculine baritone came from behind. His presence sent chills up and down my spine. I didn’t jump. I prided myself on that, but I’d have to get used to how silently he moved. I did not want to be snuck up on, surprised, and taken advantage of.
Keeping my head high and back straight, I turned to face the master.
“I obey no such law.”
Q growled, rubbing a hand over his stubbly cheek. His dark brown hair was glossy, short, almost like a pelt rather than hair. His wintery green gaze froze me to the core. Dressed in a graphite suit with silver shirt and black tie, he looked distinguished, intelligent.
I cried out as he grabbed me. “I summon. You come. That’s the only law you need to understand. I am your owner. You haven’t forgotten that so soon, have you?”
He marched me through the lounge and into the dining room. Tossing me into a high backed chair at a table set for twenty people, he breathed hard and leaned over me. “You are mine. You are mine. Repeat that until it gets into your head. You cannot disobey. Unless...” A glint of interest smouldered in his eyes. “Unless you want to be punished?”
My heart kicked into high gear, thrumming with hummingbird wings. I shook my head hard. My tongue turned useless, incapable of speech. I’d never been so overpowered by someone’s sheer will, but Q flattened me with his intense demeanour. How could I hope to disobey when he only had to threaten with mere words and I turned horribly docile?
“You’ve forgotten how to fight, so soon?” His accent thickened and fingers captured my chin, pressing painfully. A rumble sounded in his chest, and, fast as lightning, he kissed me.
The force of the attack crashed my head against the back of the chair, radiating pain in my temples. His lips forced mine open, and a tongue darted into my mouth, stealing my will, my fight. He stole everything with one touch.
Growling, his tongue plundered mine ruthlessly, out of control. Fingers trailed from my chin to throat, circling possessively; an unspoken threat that he could kill me and no one would know or care. I was his—to do with how he pleased.