I didn’t know how long I rocked, but a puddle of tears dampened the marble below.

You did this. You ran because you knew it isn’t right. Q isn’t right. I tried to convince myself to stand, to embrace my freedom, and leave this house where so many bad things happened, but I couldn’t gather the energy.

Stumbling to my feet, I shivered. The birds were silent and the hushed world of plants made it seem like I was the only one alive. No one wanted me. My abandonment issues crested, swamping with wretchedness.

In a daze, I walked from the conservatory, through the photograph room, and down the long corridor. Every step felt as if I walked to the hangman’s noose. I never wanted to see Suzette again—face her rage and tears. She loved Q and I sentenced him to jail. She would never call me Ami again.

I didn’t want Q to go to jail. He was many things, but he didn’t deserve what I did. He could’ve broken me, raped me like Brute, but he never did. He fought his desires to ensure I remained whole and strong. He sacrificed everything for a lowly slave.

My stomach cramped and I folded in half. What have I done? I evicted myself from a home I wanted, to a world who didn’t want me. Back to a man who could never give what I needed. Back to a half existence.

Tears slid down my face. Running away had been a disaster. Anger flared toward Franco. This was all his fault. If he kept a better eye, I would never have been able to leave. He should’ve caught me, before I ruined so many lives.

My thoughts jumped to Brax. Guilt engulfed me. How had the last months been for him? He must hate me for breaking my promise—I said I would never leave, and I did. The first time not on my own accord, but the second time—that was all me. I willingly sliced him from my thoughts, my heart, and made room for my master.

Images of Brax, distraught and heartbroken, made my heart twist. My brain short-circuited refusing to think about him.

Q consumed once again, and I slid down the wall, drawing my knees up to wrap arms around them. What if the police took him into custody already? I would never see him again. Oh, God. Would I be made to testify? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

No doubt, he would hate me for all eternity, wishing he let Brute kill and bury me with the potatoes.

My heart died.

I wanted everything from him. I wanted the domination. The anger. But I also wanted love. I needed the connection he offered only half an hour ago. A brief glimpse into a softer side—a side I desperately wanted to know. I’m a stupid, stupid girl.

“Esclave. What are you doing on the floor?” Franco appeared in his shiny black suit, squatting in front of me.

I couldn’t meet his eyes. He would be implicated, too. Why hadn’t the police rounded everyone up? I didn’t hear sirens or shouts. Suzette said only a warrant had been served… maybe… maybe they wouldn’t do anything?

Franco patted my shoulder, vivid emerald eyes sad. “You regret running, don’t you?”

I sucked in a sob, wrapping arms tighter. Franco had been nothing but nice to me. Strict and a prick when I first arrived, but nice just the same. His tough façade hid a man who loved his employer for reasons I was only beginning to understand.

He sighed, brushing tear-damp curls off my cheek. “There, there. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.”

I shook my head. “It is the end of the world. My world. My master’s world. Your world. Everything is broken.”

“Is that what you were doing? When I found in you in the café? Calling the police?” he asked, no glimmer of anger, just curiosity.

I breathed hard. “No. I called my boyfriend. I was going to call the police, but you turned up.”

He tensed. “So, you didn’t call them directly?” Light gleamed in his gaze. Guilt pressed ever harder. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t turn on Q. He wanted to believe I wouldn’t betray them.

I whispered, “I left a message on my boyfriend’s machine with Q’s name.” I looked into his eyes with difficulty. “I would’ve called the cops, Franco. Don’t doubt my desperation to run.” But even in my desperation, I was conflicted. I huddled into a little ball, tucking my head into my arms.

Franco stood, pulling my elbow so I had no choice but to rise. “You can fix this.” He tugged me down the corridor. “It isn’t your fault, esclave. You did what you had to do. And now… I believe you wouldn’t do it again, and I forgive you.”

I looked up, sniffing. I sent his master off to a life of imprisonment and he forgave me?

He smiled kindly, green eyes vibrant compared to Q’s smouldering pale jade. “Speak to the police. Tell them it was a mistake. You can repair the damage you caused.”

The idea blazed with white-hot hope; I threw myself at him, grabbing him into a hug. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Franco chuckled, pushing me away uncomfortably. “You’re dealing with a lot, but now you—”

I didn’t let Franco finish. I was the key to saving Q’s life, his business. I wasted so much time already.

I flew.

Paintings blurred as I sprinted through the house. I wouldn’t steal Q’s livelihood. My place was by his side. I accepted it. I had to make him forgive me and find a way to stay. I messed up, he messed up. Together, we could fix it.

I darted into the lounge. Empty.

Panting, I pirouetted and dashed across the foyer to the library. The glass was no longer clear but frosted, hiding people within. I didn’t care; I burst through the doors.

Q looked up, eyes clouded with pain. Two plain clothes detectives sat opposite on the button leather couch.

I stood, like an idiot, trying to reconcile the image in my head of a horde of police and Q in handcuffs, to the sedate scene.

Small puffs of cigar smoke languished in the air, while the smell of brandy and liquor tantalized. I couldn’t make sense of the two older men, both with moustaches—one thin and trimmed, another bushy and grey—sitting relaxed and content, puffing away as if they were there for an after dinner chat, rather than a kidnapping charge.

Q swirled his crystal goblet, amber liquid sloshing up the sides. He watched with hooded eyes. I waited for a wave of hate, a look crippling with betrayal, but nothing came. He was remote, aloof—the perfect, unreadable master.

The moustached men raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. But no sense of urgency filled them; they didn’t stop nursing their brandies and cigars.