With another sharp tug, the dress hung ruined and the tightness around my ass softened as filigree strands went from tight to gaping.

He licked my ear, flashing a hunting knife. I groaned and thrashed. The blade was rust spotted and tarnished, but glinted wicked sharp. “Stop wriggling, little fish. I’m not going to cut you.” He flipped the blade so sharp metal rested in a calloused palm and a sweat stained, wooden handle faced upward.

Oh, shit.

Instincts screamed. He’s going to rape you with the handle of a knife!

I moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help. Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let go of my gift.”

The words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.

“Just having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder, no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust h*ps backward, trying to kick him off balance, but he remained unmovable.

Tension knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough, but nothing came.

Silence reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”

I didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.

I struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.

“I wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat, slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed. My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every scrape of awful hardness.

Eyes glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood. Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.

The Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.

I didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It hurt. It hurt! Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep inside.

A shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.

The Russian bellowed, falling off the pedestal, taking the ra**st knife with him. He clutched a thigh where a river of red bloomed against the whiteness of his jumpsuit.

“Fuck!” he shouted.

Q raged, face etched with livid anger. “Get the f**k out of my house.” His arm outstretched, holding a small silver gun.

My head swam. Q had a gun. He shot him.

The rest of the guests jumped from their seats, rushing to the exit. Everyone apart from 1920’s Man; he stayed behind Q, body tense, hands curled.

Q yelled, “Franco! Escort our guests. They’re leaving.”

The green-eyed guard magically appeared and hustled everyone out, before coming back and hoisting the cursing Russian to his feet. Once they’d left, 1920’s Man laid a hand on Q’s shoulder.

Q immediately jumped and spun, waving the gun. “Putain. Stop! I know what I’m doing, Frederick. Leave.”

The guy frowned, clearly not believing him, but after a moment, nodded and strode out the door.

Silence settled, broken only by Q and mine’s heavy breathing. I swung by my arms, tears glassing my vision. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up and my shoulders screamed. But none of it came close the aching soreness inside. I felt ripped in two, reliving the first hard thrust, the mind-shattering agony, over and over.

How could Q allow this to happen? I was his, goddammit, and he didn’t protect me. He let another man hurt me.

I splintered, wanting to crawl back into the silent void that saved me last time, but my mind wouldn’t fly away. My mind was broken.

I must have passed out. I came to with my cheek bobbing against a warm shoulder and body cocooned in strong arms. The scent of citrus and sandalwood hugged me, sending a mixture of longing and panic kicking in my blood.

“Je suis tellement désolé,” a tortured voice whispered. I’m so sorry. Kisses flurried on my hairline, never stopping. I floated through the house in his arms. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make it right.”

His voice confused me. It dripped with aged pain and sorrow, remorse so great, it weighed down with pressure.

Why did he hurt? He allowed the man to do what he wanted. It was his fault it happened and I refused to listen to his pain. My own pain kept me plenty occupied. His apologies weren’t worth shit.

I tried to gather enough energy to hit him, scream, tell him he’d successfully hurt me worse than anyone in my entire life, and that was saying something seeing as I grew up a leper in my own family.

But my mind finally decided it’d had enough and went blank.

Chapter 14

*Hummingbird*

I woke to a gnawing ache in my womb and a smear of blood between my legs. I washed gently in the shower, forcing all memories and horror into a cage inside my mind. I would never think about that night again. Even in nightmares, the night was banned, erased as if it never happened. Some might say running wasn’t a good idea; I say it helped me stay healthy and focused, rather than suffocate in self-pity and things detrimental to my sanity.

I buried my head in the sand, but in return gained freedom and immunity against things hurting my soul. My body hurt, but no more than other injuries I sported. What lacerated me most was Q. He let me down.

In the sick hierarchy of owner and slave, my protection and well-being should be paramount, yet he turned a blind eye.

Out of everything he’d done, last night might’ve broken me beyond repair, but it only strengthened. The time had come to leave. I deserved better. I deserved to live my life without sick bastards raping me with objects, or Q’s twisted mind games. Nothing would stop me from busting the hell out and going back to humanity.

* * * * *

Four days passed after the horrible dinner, and Suzette refused to make eye contact. Q did his disappearing act again, turning music so loud, lyrics corroded my fierce decision to leave. French laments full of regret and self-loathing throbbed through the speakers: