His eyes closed and he moaned, swaying toward my touch. Then his lips twitched and he jerked away. “Not master. Fucking hate that word.” Jaw clenched, and he waged a war inside. Smouldering jade eyes entrapped and I couldn’t move.

Drunken glaze stole him again; he sighed with the weight of the world. “Not true. Love that word when I’m your master. I love hurting you, f**king you, playing mind games with you. It makes me just like him.”

Q curled a fist, and I yelped as he punched himself hard in the chest. “I’m sick. Nothing but evil lives inside.” He grabbed me, dragging me close, almost pressing his nose against mine. “You came along, and made me accept the darkness.”

I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t like the rage and strange glint in his eyes. I felt lost and breakable. Swallowing, I changed the subject. “Why fifty-seven? What does the number represent?”

Q chuckled darkly. “Girls, of course. Fifty-seven little birds I froze in my winter frost and helped thaw.”

Girls? He owned and lived with fifty-seven girls before me? Sick jealously rolled, and I froze. What the f**k does that mean? My brain hurt. Q’s drunken metaphors didn’t make sense. No one could have fifty-seven women. It was monstrous.

I wanted to slap him. “You’ve owned fifty-seven girls?”

He nodded, as if it made perfect sense. “Fifty-seven.” A finger connected between my br**sts, marking, branding. “You’re fifty eight.” His eyes dropped to my chest and he cupped my flesh fiercely. “Number fifty-eight, who ruined my life.”

I whacked his hand away. “I ruined your life?” Fierce rage consumed, mixing with jealously, drowning in jittery angst. My heart refused to stop beating a billion flurries a minute. “You sleep with fifty-seven slaves and have the audacity to question how many men I’ve been with? You’re a f**king hypocrite.” I shot off the bed, tangling fingers in my hair, inflicting pain to stop the bone-crushing agony of the truth. “You have no idea how f**ked up you’ve made me.”

Q flung his long legs off the bed, standing. He promptly sat heavily, holding his head. “Stop screeching, esclave. Come here.” He kept his head bowed, but a hand outstretched, fully expecting me to obey. Not this time. I’d reached my limit.

I stalked back and slapped him. “I was right to call the police. You’re a bastard.”

Oxygen cracked with tension as Q looked through heavy lids. His teeth ground and the sloppy drunk morphed into angry drunk. In a flash, Q whipped upright, picked me up and threw me on the bed. I yelped as he collapsed on top, pinning me to the mattress.

He growled, “I’m a bastard? Isn’t that a requirement to being a master? To be cruel and unapproachable? ” He traced my ear with a tongue, lacing me in brandy. “I love treating you like dirt. It gets me f**king hard.” Q ground his raging hot c**k against my flimsy night shorts. “Can you feel that, esclave? See what you do to me by fighting? By defying me? I’m a walking hard on needing to punish you, f**k you, remind you that your place is beneath me to take my come and welcome my palm.”

He thrust again, a feral shadow on his face. “Every moment with you in my home is delicious f**king torture. Every time I see you, I want to make your skin flush with pain, your breath ragged from pleasure. I want to do everything that I shouldn’t want to do. Do you get it? You cause immeasurable pain as you bring alive the sickness in me.”

My mind whirled with every word; I tried to push him off. My arms were weak and trembly, body wet and needy. The blackness in his tone warmed, thrilled, repulsed, terrified. Not one sense, but everything, sprang to hyperawareness. I wanted to scratch his eyes out—to draw more anger from him for some ludicrous reason.

My core rippled, needing to be taken violently, even as my mind rebelled against the thought of him being with so many others. “Get the f**k off me.”

His answer was to kiss me. His tongue darted past my lips, thrusting, claiming with every angry stroke. I wriggled, but it was no use. While he smothered me with taste, he pinned my wrists above my head, breathing hard. Biting my lower lip, he pulled away. “Why didn’t you want me to know your name?”

The sudden change from anger to inquisition left me reeling. I pursed my lips, glaring.

Temper blazed on his face, and he kissed me so hard, I cried out with the pain. Q took advantage of my open mouth, plunging his tongue deep, almost choking with ferocity. When he finally let me breathe, he bit my neck and shook his head like a lion with prey. My skin stung then screamed as teeth punctured my skin.

“Fuck!” I bucked; he laughed.

His tongue lapped the wound, saliva stinging with liquor.

I squeezed my eyes and just lay there. “Why are you being so cruel?”

Tears pressed and my topsy-turvy emotions flicked from lust to lusty hate. “I wish the police arrested you.” I could never make up my mind which feeling was true when it came to Q. One moment, I thought I might be able to give him what he needed, be his slave if I got something more in return, other times, I wanted him dead.

He reared back, looking with temper and remorse. My heart stuttered, then raced erratically. He was full of personalities tonight; I couldn’t keep up.

Q muttered, “Tu ne peut pas être la mienne, mais je suis en train de devenir le vôtre.”

My stomach twisted, filling with frothy bubbles. Our eyes locked and I couldn’t look away. Q brushed lips against mine ever so sweetly, repeating in English, forcing me to swallow the words. “You may not be mine, but I’m fast becoming yours.”

Time froze.

His confession tied me up, stole my mind. His drunken state let me see the depth of his feelings. Time began anew, sparkling with new possibilities. My body was no longer mine, it belonged to Q. Everything belonged to Q.

“Goddammit, you don’t play fair,” I whispered, brushing away a tear that had the audacity to leak.

Q rolled, propping himself on his elbow. One finger traced my nipple through the thin t-shirt. His deep French accent rumbled, “Esclave… I can’t…. I won’t…” he slurred.

My hand reached on its own accord to cup his cheek. Clammy skin burned beneath my fingertips. He leaned into me as if I was a lifeline.

I murmured, “What do you need, master?” My body knew. It had known all along. Q fought more battles than I did, and after his crazy drunk rantings, I began to understand just how deep he went. Just how much he suffered. “Tell me. Anything you want.”