His breathing caught, not noticing I’d withdrawn, trying to analyse what he meant. His fingers smeared my cl*t with wetness, rubbing erotically, giving me no choice but to pay attention.

“Come for me, esclave.” His order was breathless; his leg wrapped around mine, tensed.

He thrust harder, tainted with some of the violence I was used to from Q. Pinching my clit, he forced me to come. My body clenched and quivered, welcoming Q’s orgasm as he filled me with his seed. His soft moan sent my heart fluttering, and I smiled.

* * * * *

We must have drifted again. I woke to a knock.

Q flinched, unwrapping himself from around me. Our skin popped slightly as suction tried to keep us together. Q grumbled, holding his head. “Merde, how much did I drink last night?”

I laughed softly. “Enough to ramble about birds and girls and…” My voice drifted. Sadness replaced my post conjugal glow. “I’m number fifty-eight.”

Air chilled as Q froze. “What?” Eyes flared with panic. “I said that?” He scooted upright, wincing.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his trim, toned body. His heavy c**k still glistened from being inside me. The sparrow tattoo filled me with sorrow for some inexplicable reason.

“Can you tell me now? What do the birds have to do with the fifty-seven slaves you’ve had before me?”

Q swiped a hand over his face, pacing away. Gathering his trousers, he refused to look at me. Pulling them on, he didn’t bother with underwear. I hadn’t seen his tattoo from behind, but the cloud looked ominous and evil. A nightmare of thorns and branches trying to devour innocent little birds.

My gaze fell, unable to look any longer. I gasped. Everywhere, my skin was purple with faint bruises and pink with abrasions from the flogger. I twisted, hissing between my teeth to look at my back. Lashes crossed in a lattice pattern, flaming with soreness. He hadn’t broken the skin, but damn, it hurt.

Slinging his buttonless shirt on, Q spun around. He passed me a fur blanket from the bed. “You’ll have to wear this to your room, seeing as I burned your clothes.”

I glared. “Are you deliberately ignoring my question?”

He shut down. Eyes hazy with a hangover, jaw clenched. I couldn't understand his aloofness. His coldness.

The knock came again, interrupting the building tension.

Q sighed, withdrawing even further. “I have to go.”

I stood proudly, not covering myself in the blanket. I wanted him to see what he did to me. How I wore the marks with passion. They showed everything I’d become. I was no longer virgin snow. I was claimed. Used. “You’re going to leave in the middle of a discussion?”

His eyes fell to my ruined body, heat and distress flickering over his face. “Don’t confuse what happened last night. It was f**king between a drunk master and his slave. You gave me what I wanted. But it’s morning, and other things demand my attention.”

He couldn’t have hurt me more if he tried. My eyes narrowed, stinging with tears. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want to believe, esclave. I’m leaving.”

My heart shut down. Esclave. Not Tess. He disowned me so simply.

Before I could ask what the hell was going on, he unlocked the door and disappeared.

* * * * *

I took the walk of shame down the circular stairs and into my bedroom. I showered and rubbed arnica into my bruises, before slipping on a beautiful grey dress I found hanging in the wardrobe.

I no longer had aversions to Q dressing me. After what he did last night, a simple wardrobe preference seemed trivial. I let him flay me open in every sense, but instead of feeling treasured and complete, I felt empty and regretful. He did things I never thought I could agree to, yet I never used the safe word. Because I felt safe with him.

But that was another lie. He ruined that safety when he left with no explanation. My jaw ached from clenching so hard. Q had no right to shut down and leave. He has every right. He’s your master.

He’s more than that—even if he denies it until he passes out.

I brushed my hair with fierce strokes. Maybe I deluded myself into believing he felt more than he did. He admitted to having fifty-seven women before…what did little ole me matter?

His drunk rambling echoed in my mind. Winter. Birds. Thawing.

I dropped the brush.

Holy f**k. Could it be true? Q bought women, not to abuse them, but to save them?

My mind couldn’t comprehend it. Not after the music of demons inside, not after everything he did to me. But my heart fluttered with hope.

Needing to learn the truth, I bolted from the room.

I found Suzette in the kitchen slicing carrots; she barely acknowledged me. Dark clouds rolled over the spring sunshine, casting shadows.

Mrs. Sucre gave me a half-hearted smile before disappearing into the pantry. My skin pricked with unwelcome. I was a traitor, an outcast.

I moved forward, pressing against the countertop, not entering the massive kitchen. I wasn’t brave enough to encroach on Suzette’s domain while she glared machetes at me.

Unbearable silence thickened; the house had a weird vibe. Tense, static, as if a storm brewed within.

Whiplashes twinged as I hunched. I had no right to feel ignored. What happened with the police was my fault.

“Suzette… what happened last night? Why didn’t the police arrest Q?” I started with an easy question. I needed to break the ice before confirming my suspicions. It made sense though—Suzette told me all along Q rescued her, but I’d been too pig-headed to listen.

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowed. “What do you think happened? The police came and accused Q of kidnapping you.”

“But they left. They must’ve found Q innocent, if they didn’t press charges.”

Suzette scoffed. “So much you don’t know, esclave. Things you’ve lost the right to learn.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t realize how much I valued Suzette’s friendship. “I didn’t call the police. I called my boyfriend and told him about Q, but… that’s all.”

She stopped chopping. “And you think that makes it okay?” She closed her eyes, visibly forcing away her black mood. When she reopened, her hazel eyes sparkled, but no longer furious. “I know you were terrified when you first arrived. I know you suffered in Mexico. I know you missed your boyfriend—I can’t hate you for being a fighter, for running, for being brave. I just wish you’d given us more time before judging and making a bad decision.” She picked up the knife and resumed slicing.