Q was right. He knew nothing. Because you haven’t told him.
I sighed. What could I tell him? He’d seen me snap and come undone when I beat him bloody. He knew whatever I lived with was too big, too hard to put into words. Only time could heal me. Only the tick-tock of life blotting out what I’d done stood a chance of making me whole again. There was no rushing the process, and that was why I didn’t want to talk to a psychiatrist or anyone who would judge me.
I carried my sins deep—after all, I was a murderer. For someone who’d been unwanted all her existence, the act of taking a cherished life filled me with something transcendent of guilt.
It filled me with shame and inner hatred.
It filled me with filth.
Q sighed hard, stirring the air in the bedroom. Each thought and conclusion jerked his muscles, transmitting his anger through body-Morse code.
My stomach shrivelled with yet more guilt. Guilt for hurting him yet again. “I’m sorry, Q,” I whispered. My lips sealed over the small bandage over the ‘T’ branded above his heart. The mark I’d seared into his skin.
I still couldn’t understand how he’d forgiven me. He’d tried everything over the past month, all in the name of fixing me: being tender. Firm. Angry. Gentle. I pretended each day it was easier. I smiled and nodded and let him believe he was fixing me with every passing moment.
I’d become a better actress than I ever dreamed of, but it made no difference when he could strip me of my lies with one look. Some moments I even believed my pantomime. I swallowed my fibs and felt pure happiness at being better.
But then I remembered.
I wasn’t better. I’d just learned how to bury it so the horror became a part of me. The flashbacks, the recollections—they were a constant companion, and I fought so hard to keep my reactions free from my face.
I couldn’t tell him the truth. It wasn’t fair after everything he sacrificed. I lied when I told him I was strong enough. I spun tales every time I assured him I no longer thought of my tower or felt the urge to barricade myself behind its rotund walls.
I whispered, “I’ll get better. I’m sorry you have to put up with the sleepless nights. I’ll understand if you want me to move downstairs for a while.”
Q squeezed me angrily. “Get that ridiculous thought out of your head. You’re not moving from my f**king side. Tu m'entends?” Do you hear me?
Of course, I heard him. He was my master. Obeying him gave me a sanctuary I never knew I needed. It took away the pressure of thinking for myself when my mind was too jumbled with remorse.
I nodded.
Q swallowed his temper, softening his voice. “Do you want a bath?” His voice may be whisper-soft, but his body didn’t relax. The vice of his arms cut off the blood supply to my fingertips, but I didn’t care. He needed to hold me tightly. He needed to convince himself I was still there and no matter how bad the nightmares got, I would never leave him the way I had before.
I gave him a promise.
Pulling back, I shook my head. Yet another thing tarnished in my life. I used to love baths. Hot water never failed to wash away my worries and turn me into a puddle of contentedness. That was before Leather Jacket almost drowned me, then drugged me while I’d dozed in Q’s tub in Paris.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of submersing myself anymore. I didn’t think I’d ever want a bath again. Not that I’d ever tell Q that. He didn’t need to know the stupid things I feared. I would cease to be the strong woman he needed. And I refused to have him see me as one of his rehabilitated slaves who needed help, rather than an equal who deserved him.
The moment Q stopped seeing me as strong was the day our relationship was over.
Sucking in a breath, I pushed him away, smiling bravely. Locking away my fear and torment, I turned my worries onto the man who would kill for me. The man who had killed for me. The man who’d proposed. The man I was going to marry.
“No, I’m okay. Thank you, though.”
Q frowned. The silver of the moon had given way to pink and purple bruises of dawn. The fading scars looked darker across his face in the gloom. He wore my mark in more ways than one.
I did that. I scarred his beautiful face. I hurt him so much he almost died; all because I couldn’t differentiate between real life and nightmares. I knew Q had undergone a massive transformation when he allowed me to whip him. The fresh scars on his face and body highlighted just how much he surrendered.
How much does he expect in return?
I would gladly pay anything to show him my eternity of gratitude, but I couldn’t deny I was different.
Q clenched his jaw; his five o’clock shadow was thick. The stress of the past few months decorated both our faces, and I feared we’d never go back to who we were.
“I told you not to lie to me. You can’t fool a seasoned bastard like me. Do you think I can’t smell your tales?” His voice rasped, bringing comfort and reprimand.
Dropping my eyes, I focused on the room rather than him. The huge bed cocooned us in a sea of black sheets, and if I looked up to the ceiling, the silver chains from where he’d secured and f**ked me glinted in the new dawn.
The fireplace of hunted deer and the mirrored chest at the foot of the bed granted a strange blend of trepidation and homeliness. Both emotions plaited together, forever linked where Q was concerned.
My eyes fell on the chest holding Q’s myriad of toys. Toys he’d locked away. Will I ever crave pain the same as before?
The memory of forcing him to orgasm overwhelmed me. The carpet burn on my knees, the ache in my jaw as I sucked his cock, the salty taste of him as he exploded down my throat. I missed the passion. I missed the inhibitions between us. I miss liking pain.
“I’m not lying. I truly am better. I don’t need a bath.”
“Then what do you need?” He reached for my hand, planting it over his left pectoral. The heat of his skin set fire to my fingertips; I couldn’t stop staring at the sparrows and barbwire on his chest.
“I need you,” I whispered, wishing for the burn, the overwhelming sexual hunger. However, it was scarily absent. Either my libido hadn’t woken up or that too was broken.
You know what’s broken. You just don’t want to acknowledge it.
I slapped the voice away, raising my eyes.
Q sat stonily, looking part-sculpture, part-monster. “Yet another lie. Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi?” What am I going to do with you? Leaning forward, his pale eyes searched mine, tearing through my defences, uncovering things I never wanted him to see.