It was so off the realm of normalcy, they’d probably march me straight to the police for a shrink assessment.

Police.

All thoughts evaporated. I wasn’t free yet.

I chose the next building—a cute little one story, with a red chicken on the front called Le Coq. The rooster.

I paused, hating the thought that Q would hurt Suzette for letting me escape. I sighed, cursing that I felt loyal to stay, bound by obligation more than ropes and barcode tattoos. I held my breath, heart winging with terror.

Despite my fear for Suzette, I pushed open the café door. The little bell above jingled merrily, reminding I was on my way home. I couldn’t dwell on a breaking friendship with someone I barely knew.

Speed was my friend as I charged to the cashier.

The soft, pudgy woman behind the counter beamed, “Bonjour, que puis-je faire pour vous?” What can I do for you?

My mouth became desiccated and I blinked. This was it, no going back. “I’ve been kidnapped. I need a phone and the police.”

Chapter 15

*Heron*

Her eyes widened, flying around the establishment as if one of her customers could enlighten her. Surely, this crazy Aussie chick couldn’t be telling the truth.

My chest heaved as panic filled. What if she didn’t believe me?

I looked around, glancing over my shoulder at a spattering of patrons. They gawked as if I was a chimpanzee escaped from the zoo. The little café would’ve been homely with its red colour scheme and over saturation of rooster figurines and posters, but to me it felt hostile. As if any moment, the roosters would come alive and peck my eyes out for disrupting a leisurely lunch.

I’d poured my heart out to a stranger and all she could do was stare.

“Can I borrow your phone?” My voice wavered; tears threatened. Being so close to freedom made me jittery.

She nodded hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding. I spied the phone behind the counter and snagged it, leaning over a plate of bagels and muffins.

My hands shook, apprehension tickled my spine. Fingers hovered over the emergency call buttons, but I couldn’t dial. I needed to hear another voice first.

I pressed the number I knew by heart and tears burst forth as the call connected. It rang and rang for an eternity. Please, pick up. Please, be alive.

The woman scowled and disappeared into the back of the restaurant, reappearing and dragging an elderly chef. Both of them wore yellow uniforms with white pinafores, and the same ‘what the hell’ expression.

I bounced, waiting for the phone to connect. My time was running out.

Hi, you’ve reached Brax Cliffingstone. I’m unable to get to the phone, but you know the drill. Leave your details, and I’ll get back to you. Or, if it’s life and death, please contact my girlfriend, Tess, and she’ll help out. Her number: 044-873-4937. Cheers!

Beep.

Something snapped in my chest. I hadn’t heard my name in so long. Hearing it in Brax’s voice robbed my fight, and I shrunk into the tame little girl I’d been before Mexico, before Q, before I knew what I was capable of.

I crumbled, sobbing. Brax’s voice resonated around my heart, vibrating with longing. Why wasn’t he picking up? Was he dead, or just busy? So many questions and I wouldn’t get answers from a machine.

Sniffing back tears, I warbled, “Brax, it’s me. I’m—I’m alive. I was sold to a man named Q. I’m not hurt and I’m on my way home. If you get this message, I’ll be at the Australian Embassy, hopefully working out passports and things.”

I sucked in a deep breath. I wanted to tell him so much: how I changed, what I lived through, but I would never be able to tell him what Q did, as I’d never be able to hide the sick, messed up desire in my voice. He’d know Q turned me on, even as I lied that I preferred tameness. I burned that bridge when I showed Brax my vibrator, asking for more.

Urgency itched; I had to get off the phone, time tick-tocked away. I could break down and find myself again once I was home.

“Brax, if—if I don’t get home, promise me you’ll find a man named Q Mercer in a small region of France. He has a big house, staff. Tell the police. I love you.”

Tears streamed anew as I terminated the call, and instantly dialled another number. The chef, covered in smears of sauce and flour, yanked the phone out of my grip.

“Hey!” I glared.

He shook his head, anger blazing. “You spreading lies. I do not believe—” Eyes shot past me. The door slammed open, bell clanging with warning.

I spun in terror.

Oh, my God. Franco stood in the doorway, eyes bugging out of his head. He froze for a millisecond before launching into action. Hands flew to his jacket, fumbling in the inner pocket. What was he looking for? A gun?

I didn’t mean to find out.

I ran.

Pushing past the man and woman, I charged into the kitchen and thanked God for the exit. The door rocketed open as I slammed it with a shoulder.

The back street was salvation, and I sprinted with every bit of strength. My sore ankle yelped as I flew over uneven cobblestones, darting down another alley. I zigged and zagged, trying to get completely lost, hoping Franco would lose all sense of direction.

A grunt and shout obliterated the hope; I ran harder. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t. Q would punish me, and I didn’t know how much more my mind could take. I might never get another chance to escape.

Changing course, I charged for the main street, exploding from the alley into on-coming traffic. People scattered as I careened out of control, panting hard, eyes wild.

Car horns blared as I slammed to a halt in the middle of the road. My gaze darted, trying to find someone, something, to save me. I daren’t look behind to see if Franco was close—my entire body felt hunted. Any moment, a bullet would tear through my brain, putting me down like the rabid runaway I was.

Battling useless thoughts, I put all focus into finding a saviour.

A car screeched to a halt, missing me by millimetres. My heart catapulted into my throat as the bumper whispered against my knees. Shit, am I so willing to sacrifice death for survival?

“Putain de merde!” What the hell? The youngish man with browny-red hair opened the car door, waving an angry hand. “I could’ve killed you!”

I latched onto his eyes, entreating instincts to say if he could be trusted. Could he save me? I ran to the driver’s side, and gripped the door with white fingers. “Please. Take me to the police. I’ve been kidnapped.”