Tears of Tess

The man stood an arm’s length away. Tears thickened my throat.

I dropped my gaze, unable to look anymore. Tiredness descended, and all I wanted to do was sleep—to escape this nightmare.

“You won’t be able to run,” he said, watching closely.

I sucked in a breath. “Who says I’m going to run?”

His lips, smooth and well defined against his five o’clock shadow, twitched. “I smell it on you—the scent of prey. You’re looking for a bolthole, somewhere no one can find you.” He leaned in, sending a cloud of expensive cologne around me. “You’re different, I’ll give you that. They didn’t break you, but don’t think you can fight me. You won’t win.”

My heart seized. His tone bordered on angry. He was angry at me? I was the victim here. My chest swelled with indignation. “What do you expect? I was smuggled here. You bought me. I didn’t come freely. Of course, I want to run.”

His body flinched and mouth pursed. “I’ll allow that one indiscretion. Push me again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.” His unusual pale green eyes dropped, intimately following my contours. He stepped forward, so close his body heat tingled. “There are things you need to understand.”

I wanted to step back, to keep distance between us, but it would look weak. Instead, I stepped forward, practically pushing my chest against his. “The only thing I need to understand is you’re a monster who bought me. You stole my life. My loved ones.” My voice cracked, but I plundered on, “You took everything. That’s all I need to understand.”

His hand reached to touch my cheek. I sucked in a breath as he ran the pad of a thumb along my jaw, then his eyes flashed with amazement as if shocked he’d touched me. Dropping his hand, he wrapped long fingers around my elbow. “Come with me.”

My skin flared beneath his touch, heart raced. I twisted, trying to remove him. “Let me go.”

Eyes seared into mine. “You are not in a position to order, slave.”

Was it his French accent, or the word slave, making my stomach roll and toil? Nerve endings sparked with rage. Bastard. “I. Am. Not. A. Slave.”

He slapped me, not hard, but the punishment put me in my place.

I bit my lip, staunching the flow of unwelcome tears as he carted me into the library. With a heavy sigh, he shoved me into a wingback and sat opposite.

I winced, but held my tongue. I didn’t want him knowing I hurt, even if he could grant me painkillers. Not that he would. He was a cold-hearted bastard who wanted broken and weak.

Leaning forward, he clasped his hands between his open legs, so close, dominating the space. Eyes searched my face again, almost imploring to know my secrets.

Discomfort made me wriggle, and I refused to make eye contact, preferring to stare at the licking fire.

We didn’t move and I wasn’t about to break the heavy silence. I wanted to go home.

Taking a breath, he said, “You are mine. Through circumstances I will not discuss with you, you have come into my possession, and therefore must obey me in all things.”

Like hell.

“You are not permitted to use the internet, phone, or any technology of any kind. You may not speak to the staff. You may not leave the house.”

He stood, toned muscles glided to the large wooden desk. Pulling a piece of paper free and a small black pouch, he settled back down. “My business partners didn’t say where they got you from, what languages you speak, what skills you have. You are no one—a fresh start. We will get along if you remember that.” He leaned forward again, encroaching on my space. “You are no one’s but mine. Do you understand?” Eyes flashed with excitement as he spoke, as if he loved the idea. Of course, he loved the idea. How many other women did he ruin?

Options ran through my head. I could spit in his face. Try and knee him in the balls. Run and scream. All of those choices ended with consequences and pain.

I stayed mute and still.

The man dropped to his knees, pushing the chair behind in one swoop. My heart raced as he inched forward, his breath hot on my bare thighs. So soon? I hadn’t been there for ten minutes and he planned to rape me already? Shit, I couldn’t do this. I’d only ever been with Brax. Brax was my first. The one who stole my innocence and my heart.

Breathe. Pretend you’re somewhere else.

I gripped the arm rests as he tugged my leg onto his thigh and rolled down my socks. His fingers scorched flesh all the way down, turning my bruises and sprained ankle into pinpoints of heat. My face scrunched and I gasped as the sock slid off my foot, leaving me bare.

He frowned, glaring at my ankle. Swollen and hot, it looked worse than it felt, but he stared as if my bone stuck out. “Did they do this to you?” His voice was soft, heartfelt as his gaze travelled back up my leg, spotting the bruises, the abrasions, remnants of my captivity and Leather Jacket’s hospitality.

My pulse came faster at his concern, then anger followed hot and true. “What do you care? You’ll probably do worse.”

His eyes snapped to mine and fingers twitched on my calf. “I care, because I don’t like damaged girls. And I won’t do worse.” He lowered his voice, fingers tightening. “Unless you deserve it.” His face blazed with protectiveness, followed by heart stopping need. He seemed to battle his interest, whatever sick attraction he had for me.

My heart raced, blood churned. I swallowed hard and waited for wandering hands, horrible fingers, but nothing happened.

The man leaned back, removing his touch. In quick, assertive moves, he pulled a long item from the black pouch and pressed a button at the back. A bright red light flared before muting to nothing.

Shuffling closer until an expensively clad shoulder brushed my knee, he unrolled my other sock and wrapped the item around my uninjured ankle. The cold bite of plastic made me flinch, but it didn’t stop him from tightening it. The snap of the twist tie set my heart beating, undoable but for a blade or scissors.

He stood and sat on the edge of the wingback once finished.

I spoke before I thought. “What is that?”

Sitting back, he wiped hands on his trouser legs. “It’s a tracking device.” Motioning to my bare legs, he added, “If you’re uncomfortable, you may put your socks back on.”

Ignoring the fact he’d tagged me again, like the Mexicans, I said, “They aren’t my socks. It’s what the kidnappers dressed me in.” I didn’t know what I expected by telling him, but the blank look of disinterest was not it.