Tears of Tess

With a painful squeeze in my chest, I cracked open fresh pages and took out a charcoal. My fingers twirled the pencil like an old friend, but I sat staring at the paper, lost.

So many things fought for space inside. I wanted to run, or fight, or scream. I wanted to apologise to Q, then yell at him for making me feel so many things.

Sketching was my outlet, and I wanted to pour everything onto the page.

Slowly, my hand feathered quick strokes, followed by heavier touches here and there. As I worked, I recalled the release drawing gave. It soothed and eased, helping calm my overworked mind. Following lines and contours of buildings from memory, I disappeared into the realm of property and architecture, finding blissful silence from worry and lust.

I frowned as I made a mistake, but kept going. I preferred sketching from a photograph or directly in front of a building, the sun on my face and the world buzzing around.

Sitting in bed, waiting to hear my fate, I sketched Q’s mansion. I drew his home on the sketchpad he gifted. His gesture gripped my heart; I throbbed for him. Please, don’t let him be in custody. My uncertain future tried to steal the oasis of calm and I sighed. Where had Suzette gone? I hadn’t seen her since the conservatory. I flinched to think she would’ve slapped me if Q hadn’t stopped her.

Night turned into early morning, yet I didn’t turn off the light. I huddled, sketching as if the world would crumble if I didn’t. Q’s pastel mansion came to life. I added sconces and plasterwork beneath sweeping windows, capturing ruddy cheeked cherubs and intricate architraves.

Normally, my passion lay in crisp lines of concrete and steel, not a historic manor, but the drawing would be one of my best. I wished I could draw humans. Capture Q’s face on the page, his sternness, his posture. But nothing, not even a perfect photograph, would capture Q’s essential being. Q was vibrant. Q was unique.

Q radiated… as Quincy he turned human. I didn’t want human. I wanted my master. A lover who dominated.

Exhaustion warred with sadness, and I sank deeper into pillows.

I fell asleep with the pad on my lap, and charcoal-smeared hands cupping a cheek.

* * * * *

“Esclave. I mean… Tess.”

My heart catapulted, blood pumping.

Brute. Driver.

Hands. Cock. Pain.

Nightmares shattered, leaving me with breath-stealing fear. A hand landed on my shoulder, hot and heavy. I snapped.

Screaming, I struck, connecting with something solid. Pain blazed in my wrist and I shot upright, yelping. “What the f**k?”

A man’s umph filled the night-silence. The smell of citrus hit, with the reek of bourbon and brandy.

Q stumbled back. “Merde. You didn’t have t—to f**king hish m—me,” Q slurred, rubbing his chest, climbing drunkenly off the bed.

Oh, my God. Q.

My body warmed, even as my mind told me to be careful.

He grunted, swaying toward the mattress again, almost tumbling on top.

Hell, my master was inebriated. I knew he shouldn’t drink with his migraine. His shoulders rolled, rather than straight and proud, eyes glazed and watery. Don’t tell me he’s been drinking with the police all this time?

I sat up, pushing covers off and climbing out of bed.

Q blinked, shaking his head. He tripped, grabbing hold of a bedpost. I approached him warily, with hands up in surrender and heart rabbiting. “Q… get into bed, before you fall over.”

He giggled. Literally giggled like a little girl. “Trying to t—take advantage in m—my intoxicated state, esclave?” French accent thickened, slurred. I had trouble understanding.

I stepped closer, my palate catching the smell of booze. He scooted back and swayed like a human tower of Piza. For God’s sake, how much did he drink?

I darted forward and caught him, propping him up with a shoulder. The alcoholic whiff tingled my senses. I swear I grew high off the fumes. Or was it his hot, hard, sinful body pressed against mine? Or the deep musky scent of aftershave and sandalwood?

My stomach twisted as Q leaned heavily, turning his head to sniff my hair. He sighed. “Smell so good. So f**king good. Like rain… no, no like frost. Sharp and fresh and icy and cold and…and painful.” He closed his eyes, voice trailing into a whisper. “You love c—causing pain.”

My heart stopped. I hurt him? It was the other way around. Completely. I never suffered so much since he owned me.

Eyes flashed to mine, swirling with liquor and lingering headache. “That’s what you are. Painful.” He thumped his chest. “Painful to me.” Closing his eyes again, he frowned and swallowed.

Unable to address the swirling mess of feelings inside, I pushed him toward the bed. “Sit before you fall.” Breathing hard, I helped lower him till he lay down.

He moaned, clutching my forearm when I moved away. His grip was a death trap, and I had no choice but to sit by his side, letting him wrap strong, heated fingers around my barcoded wrist.

Inching closer, I hesitantly ran fingers through his short hair, relishing once again in being able to touch him. I thought I wouldn’t see him again—be alone with him again. The fact he wouldn’t remember visiting me in the morning didn’t matter. He was here. For now. In this window of time, before the sun rose—he was all mine.

He quieted, purring under my gentle touch. Sadness fell as I realized he was about to pass out. So much for having him to myself. He came to hog my bed and left me out in the cold.

His breathing settled, low and even; I pulled away. He was asleep. The moment I moved, fingers tightened on my wrist. “Snow. Snow. You’re named after winter… my favourite season.”

I froze. He spoke with no holds barred. Voice clearer, but still loose with booze. “Why do you like winter?” I whispered, so afraid he would comatose before answering.

“The season where everything dies, but is reborn better than ever.” His eyes flared, and wedged himself upright on elbows, wincing. “That’s what I do, you know. I’m winter.”

I had no clue what he meant, but stayed as quiet as possible. Please, keep talking.

A strange light filled his pale eyes. “Fifty-seven,” he mumbled.

Heartbeats raced. Somehow, I knew Q was about to open up. He dropped his guard, allowing me to glimpse inside. I launched into interrogation mode. Trying hard not to look too interested, I linked fingers with his, stroking ever so gently. “Fifty-seven what, master?”