Fear? My terror ratcheted up a notch. Why did he fear me? My mind ran wild with nightmares of what Q would do—hurt me, make me wish I were dead.

Q rolled his neck, slinging an arm over the man’s shoulders. They walked away from the other men, Q talking urgently in his ear. I couldn’t hear a word, but Q kept flicking hard-edged glances at me, while 1920’s man nodded as if Q had a valid argument. Finally, fear disappeared from his eyes, regarding me with keen interest.

Q jerked his head once in acknowledgement as the man patted him on the back; he returned to deal with the other guests.

1920’s Guy watched Q go, before stepping closer.

My breaths came faster as he stopped below, looking up with sapphire eyes. With a steady hand, he touched my thigh, adding pressure so I wobbled in the cuffs. “So, you’re the one to finally break him.”

He walked around, running fingers along my ass and other thigh as he did a full circle. When he stood in front again, he reached for a nipple and tugged.

I twitched, lashing out with a foot. I swung precariously as the man laughed. He grabbed my waist, helping me balance on my toes again. I frowned. What the hell was going on?

1920’s Man cocked his head, nodding. “I can see why.” With the cryptic comment, he strode back to the group.

Ten minutes passed as egotistical words filled the tomb. Every syllable shimmered over my flesh, especially Q’s deep tone. I dreaded the future.

How could I stop my body reacting to his voice and smell? Two senses he owned… leaving me with four: sight, touch, taste, instinct. One thing I swore, he’d never own my instincts—never own something so powerful.

Suzette, along with two other maids in frilly black and white uniforms, entered the room and placed platters of scrumptious looking food on the side board. Most of it was finger food—crackers with salmon and crème fraîche, stuffed olives, prawns wrapped in prosciutto, and a fondant fountain with a waterfall of silky chocolate.

My stomach panged, looking at the sweet delicacies to dip in the chocolate: pineapple, strawberries, marshmallows, the list went on. I hadn’t had anything sugary since I arrived at Q’s tortuous mansion. Suzette wouldn’t let me.

The staff ate bland, and frankly, rather depressing food, considering we were in the heart of a country that prided itself on cheeses, breads, and wine.

The men stopped talking and helped themselves to the buffet. Once they’d filled plates, they sat in one of the crimson booths by my feet.

Q eased into the booth, unbuttoning his silver blazer to sit comfortably. Full lips opened to plop a stuffed olive into his mouth. He chewed—the motion of his jaw and the muscles in his neck caused my stomach to clench.

I looked away, inspecting the men. One had a big nose and shaggy black hair. His suit didn’t fit well and a dark stain marked a lapel. Compared to Q, he looked as if he came from the streets for a free dinner and a show. How did Q know him? Even with his dark erotic desires, he was leagues above these men.

The other man never took his eyes off me. His gaze was a dagger, puncturing, making me ooze with fear. He was big. A foot taller than Q—about the size of a professional basketball player and just as wide. His buzzed cut blondish hair, showed pink scalp, and a nasty scar behind his right ear.

He didn’t wear a suit. Instead, he favoured a white tacky jumpsuit, with the number nineteen on the shoulders and back. Everything about him didn’t make sense. He didn’t fit in Q’s world. In fact, the only one who did was 1920’s Man. Something linked him and Q: friendship.

While the men ate, my hands turned icy cold as blood stopped pumping so high up my arms. Wrists chaffed in the leather, and my barcode tattoo itched like crazy. I tried to tilt my head, to stand on the very tips of my toes to give my shoulders a break, but I couldn’t get purchase. I moaned with overwhelming discomfort.

Q didn’t look at me once. He kept his attention on Mr. Big Nose and munched his way through the small plate of food.

That left me strangely alone with the man in the white jumpsuit. He devoured the plate of hor d’oeuvres and asked Q in English, “You like our gift. Yes?” He cocked his head, dragging horrible eyeballs up and down my golden wrapped body.

My ears pricked. His accent was Russian, not French. My mind kicked into gear trying to work it all out.

Q stopped eating, and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. His motions so smooth and controlled compared to Russian Lumberjack. Q’s eyes smouldered with barely restrained tolerance. “Oui. Very satisfactory.” He threw a fleeting glance at me, before adding, “Where did you buy her from?”

The Russian puffed his chest, glowing with pride. Why did he care if Q found me satisfactory? He bought me as a bribe to make Q do something. But what?

“I won’t share my contact’s name. But I requested a white girl. I know you have preferences.”

My eyes shot to Q, but his posture hadn’t changed. He took a sip from a chilled glass of wine. “Fine. Consider our dealing complete.”

The Russian scowled. “How will I know you’ll keep your promise?”

Q shifted ever so slightly; my skin prickled with the change of hospitality. Q seemed to suck shadows from the room, cloaking himself in authority. “You doubt my work ethic?”

The Russian clenched his jaw, looking from Q to me. “When will we see contracts?”

Q played with a cufflink, taking his time. “Three months. That’s how long these things take. But you have my word. And that is law.”

Russian Lumberjack snorted, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t look happy with the arrangement, but I doubted there was anything he could do. Q was clearly the one in control. Just like my situation—the whole sex slavery thing.

I wanted to roll my eyes. I didn’t want to go crazy, and that’s how I felt dangling there.

After a pause, the Russian stood, making his way to the chocolate fondant. Q watched with narrowed eyes, before turning to speak with Big Nose and Grey Moustache. 1920’s Man’s inquisitive sapphire eye’s bounced between Q and me. Thoughts raced in his gaze, but his face remained blank.

Heart galloped as I looked at Russian Lumberjack. His posture scared me. He flashed a look at Q while he waited for chocolate to spill into a jug. Eyes shadowed with jealousy and a greedy hunger for power.

I turned to Q. Should I warn him the Russian wasn’t his friend, but his enemy? What are you thinking, Tess? It isn’t your business. Who cares?