Twisted Together

Epilogue

6 months later

The crown to my throne.

YOU ARE MY HOME

I’d never been prouder.

Q. My master, husband, protector, and friend strode across the stage to shake hands with the prime minster of France. With a cool, professional smile, Q accepted the scroll, concentrating on whatever the prime minster said in his ear.

Holy hell, he’s handsome.

Suzette squeezed my hand. “I always hoped he’d be recognised for everything he’s done. Everything he’s kept hidden.”

I bowed my head toward hers, mixing my blonde with her mahogany. “I doubt he wants this much spotlight, though.”

Every time we went out in public, my instincts were on high alert. I’d learned to trust them—speaking my mind if I wanted more security, or asking Franco to do an extra background check on an association.

I would never let anyone take Q away from me again. I’d meant my vows and spent every day upholding them.

Suzette laughed. Franco poked her side, pointing at the stage where Q disengaged from the prime minister, heading toward the podium and microphone. “Pay attention.” His voice was harsh, but he winked. “That’s our boss up there.”

Your boss. My master.

I shifted in my seat, happily remembering just who my master was thanks to the ache between my legs.

Suzette sighed, her lips playing with a grin. I didn’t know what was going on with them—if anything—but whatever it was, they kept it a well-hidden secret.

Frederick and Angelique caught my eye across the aisle, giving me a warm smile. I returned the greeting, mentally reminding myself to check on the menu with Mrs. Sucre for their bi-weekly visit.

My eyes returned to the stage where Q stood tall and proud. No bruises marked his face anymore. His legs were a crisscross of silver scars from Lynx, the bullet-hole in his thigh healed to match the one in his bicep, and all check-ups on his heart were clear.

He’d been lucky.

I’d been lucky.

The honeymoon in Seychelles came back. The sun. The moonlight swims. The sex. God, the sex. Tame, soft, and slow. Angry, abusive, and fast. Q had evolved into a lover who read me so well. Giving me pain when I wanted it. Giving me pleasure when I needed it.

Q cleared his throat, scanning the crowd. His pale eyes latched onto mine. His lips curled into an affectionate smile before disappearing into aloof businessman.

My heart beat heavily with love. He looked distinguished and delectable in a graphite suit and sea-green shirt. He’d forgone a tie in favour of revealing a small piece of tanned skin—the exact place I kissed last night while he slid inside me.

The click of camera lenses sounded like a lightning storm behind me, illumination flashing like tiny fireflies. The hive of reporter’s voices itched across my skin. I still hadn’t warmed to being in the public eye—but they came with the package now.

Everyone wanted a piece of Q…and me. And he’d finally agreed to let them in.

I’d taken my place completely beside him—becoming the face of Feathers of Hope officially three months ago. The invitations to events, fundraisers, and interviews never ceased. I feared we’d drown in an avalanche of attention.

This ceremony was a small gathering—only twenty or so members of parliament, and people who’d had direct contact with Q in his endeavours—such as the doctors who’d been with him from the start, therapists, and police chiefs.

The next part was for the world.

That part scared me. Our private existence was about to be gossip and tabloids. We would lose all anonymity. Q would be thrust into more fame than he already had from Moineau Holdings, and the unauthorized stories written about him coming to find me.

The cameras flashed harder as Q held out his hand, beckoning to me.

“What is he doing?” I murmured, slinking further into my chair. Today was about him, not me. I would never get used to being in the spotlight. I’d gone from a small town Australian girl to a married billionairess, who stood beside her husband by day and submitted to her monstrous master by night.

My brand had been on magazines around the world—the woman who scarred herself for love. I was proud to show Q’s mark—it was the other intimate ones I didn’t want them to see. The bite marks on my inner thighs. The wax burns on my breasts. Even though life swept us swiftly with its current, Q still found time to tie me in Shibari and broaden my horizons on what my body could feel.

Franco laughed. “You didn’t expect him to open up his life to complete strangers without having back-up did you?” He grabbed my elbow, forcing me to stand. “Go on. Be his back-up. He doesn’t need me this time.”

Franco’s injuries had healed well. His thumb was in the process of undergoing regular surgery to equip his brain receptors to accept the trial robotic. He’d be one of the first in the world to have one—top of the line—a thousand times better than a real digit.

I fought his hold. “Wait. He doesn’t want me. I can’t wave a gun at anyone and tell them to back off. You go do it.”

Franco chuckled. “Words are needed here, Tess. Not bullets. Now go.” He shoved me, stumbling into the aisle.

Damn egotistical ass. I’d have him fired.

Suzette giggled. “I don’t think the prime minster would appreciate bullets.” Her eyes flickered to Q, whose face had darkened with growing annoyance. “You better get up there before he loses it.”

Holy hell. I wasn’t ready for this.

Tucking a curl behind my ear, I second guessed my outfit—worrying I’d come across as a young idiotic woman who had no right to be on Q’s arm. My hair was a messy tangle of curls—Q hadn’t exactly left them sleek and blow-dried fresh after getting carried away in the limo.

We’d been married for six months and our need for each other grew more insane rather than depleting. Who knew how many household items could be used in play? Who knew how much love my heart could contain when he adored me so sweetly? Who knew how many different tears I could shed when he let himself free?

Happy tears.

Fearful tears.

Lustful tears.

Vengeful tears.

Franco moved his legs out of the way, so I wouldn’t trip. He patted my butt. “Get up there, Mrs. Mercer. Your husband needs you.” Shoving me again, I had no choice but to lurch toward the stage. I glowered over my shoulder.

Suzette slapped Franco’s arm. I couldn’t hear what she said but Franco smirked, grabbed her hand, bit her palm, and placed it on his thigh.

I smiled. I knew it.

Q’s voice cut through my nerves. “Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. The minute my wife decides to join me up here, I’ll begin.” My attention flashed to the stage, goosebumps spreading with a mixture of fear and need. I loved when he called me his wife. Especially in that tone.

He wouldn’t hold back when we got home.

I better hide the collar. He’d scared me last time he used it—letting himself get a bit carried away. But he’d made it up to me by loving me sweetly and importing a pair of beautiful parrots—slowly filling his aviary once again.

Hundreds of lenses zeroed in on me as I smoothed down my grey dress. A frill of lace decorated my chest, running diagonally down my torso to flare out at the hem. The matching jacket lay over the back of my chair. Winter had well and truly thawed—the heat in the room was stifling.

Striding forward, I climbed the three steps onto the small stage—thanking heaven I didn’t trip. The moment I was in grabbing distance, Q snaked his arm around my waist, holding me tight. “Took your fucking time, esclave,” he murmured in my ear. “You’ll pay for that later.”

My heart kicked harder, thrumming from his proximity, heat, and gorgeous scent of citrus and sandalwood. He tugged me behind the podium with him.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, trying to keep my lips from giving away my nerves to the press.

“I’m using you, obviously.”

I frowned. “Using me?”

He shook his head. “You still don’t get it do you, Tess? I wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t have found happiness. All of this is yours, not mine. I’m not going to take the limelight when it’s falsely given.”

A reporter grew impatient. “Mrs. Mercer—how does it feel to be married to a man who has personally saved over one hundred girls from trafficking?”

I lost the power to breathe, stunned stupid by the question. The microphones, the cameras—they all loomed closer, hemming me in.

Oh, God. I’d be on TV. Friends from school would know everything. Family who I hadn’t called would know what happened to the daughter they ignored. My life would be known by everyone.

Q tightened his hold, giving me strength.

But it doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Q was my life and no one else existed in our realm of togetherness.

I nodded, sucking up courage. “I’m privileged to share his life. He’s beyond incredible.” I cringed from my overly bright voice. I sound like a freaking five-year-old.

The reporter tilted his head. “Give me a real answer. You married the guy—why?”

My forehead furrowed. “Why?” What sort of ridiculous question was that?

Q stiffened, his muscles locking into place.

Hoping Q wouldn’t say anything reckless on a live broadcast, I said, “The truth? It’s simple. Marrying him was like coming home.”

A small murmur of satisfaction bled around the room. Cameras clicked faster, hands shot up with notepads and recording devices.

Questions rained.

“Tell us what happened.”

“What does fifty-eight mean to you?”

“Have you met any of the women your husband has saved?”

“Do you believe the cheating allegations that he uses the women he rescues?”

“Tell us about your wedding—is it true you released a thousand birds?”

Q held up his hand, silencing everyone with one savage downward sweep. “Enough! We’ve agreed to one interview, and those questions will be answered at the appropriate time.” Looking as if he wanted to shoot everyone in the room, he said, “I wish to thank everyone who donated to Feathers of Hope, for their continued support of Moineau Holdings, and for everyone who has been a true friend right from the beginning.” Holding up the scroll, he growled, “But this has been given incorrectly. I’m not deserving of this accolade. I’m nothing but a man with a past looking for a way to deserve everything I’ve been given.”

His eyes fell on mine, burning with desire; I flushed. Cameras clicked and I had no doubt the image would be splattered on newspapers around the world. Q had become a hot commodity, and he’d married me—an ex-slave…a kidnapped woman.

I’d caught my own prince. My own dark wonderful prince.

Q tore up the scroll.

I blinked. “Q—what are you—?”

The room rippled with concern. The prime minster stepped forward, his forehead furrowed. “Um, Mr. Mercer, I don’t think…”

Q cut him off. “Please give me a moment. It’s not what it looks like.” He continued to rip up the thick parchment. I hadn’t even read what he’d been graced with and now never would—he’d turned it into confetti.

Shit, what is he doing?

My heart raced, not wanting to interfere, but terrified he was making things worse.

Keeping the shards in his hand, he stalked off the stage, heading to the first row where doctors, therapists, and police—all who’d been with Q from the beginning—stood.

With a hard smile, he gave them a piece of the scroll.

Once everyone had a scrap, Q returned to the stage. Dragging a hand through his hair, he simply said, “Now the award has been rightfully given. To the men and women who fought on a daily basis—before any recognition or benefit. They fought against evil—just as all the supporters and workers of Feathers of Hope do. Thank you. And now, I’m leaving. We have another engagement.”

Cameras flashed as Q grabbed my hand, yanking me off the stage.

We didn’t go back to our seats, instead, Q slammed through the double doors, leading me into the huge entrance of the town hall.

“Q—we should wait—” I didn’t like going anywhere without security. Ever since committing murder to avenge my master, I’d been ruthless inside. I pretended to maintain my innocence, but beneath it, I was vicious. I wouldn’t have any qualms of killing or hurting if our life’s were threatened. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t let others get their hands dirty, however.

Where’s Franco?

Cameramen and reporters swelled behind us like an unstoppable wave. They clicked and queried, staying at a respectful distance.

“Franco’s behind us. I just want to get to the interview and get it over with.” Q’s jaw ticked, guiding me fast toward the exit. He didn’t say a word as he smashed open the doors, striding into the street.

A roar.

A cresting of voices, cheers, gratefulness.

My eyes widened, unable to comprehend. Q’s fingers tightened around mine. He cursed, eyes looking frantically for freedom. “Goddammit.”

Women.

So many women—some with friends, others with families, but all linked by the same look of reverence in their eyes for Q.

Q.

My husband was beloved.

Franco appeared, flanking Q while Frederick and Angelique appeared by my side. “Wow,” Angelique murmured. “How is this possible?” Her long black hair was coiled into a bun; her white dress setting off her dusky skin.

A policeman in full mob gear climbed the steps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer. We didn’t anticipate this.”

“What the hell happened here?” Q demanded.

The prime minster tapped Q’s shoulder. “The state invited some of the women you’ve had a hand in saving. I’m afraid we underestimated the response we would receive.” His wrinkled face and salt and pepper hair looked regal if not a little pompous. “It looks like you’re in for a long afternoon.”

Oh, my God. My heart went from thudding to whizzing. “Are these…”

Q’s face was stoic, but his pale eyes burned. “You did this without consulting me?”

So many women! So many risks. My instincts fanned out, seeking a threat. Q’s sacrifice to let Lynx hurt him had worked. No other death notes were delivered, no attempts on his life initiated.

But all it takes is one.

The prime minster looked at his shoes, abashed. “We wanted to show you just how honoured France is to have such an exemplary citizen. I’m sorry if it was the wrong thing to do.”

Q pursed his lips, scanning the crowd of women. His fingers twitched in mine, and I knew he recognised them—running through the catalogued condition they’d been in when they arrived—the environment in which he’d brought them from.

My stomach twisted with awe. Awe for how many lives he’d touched. I wished I could see his thoughts—follow his memories and understand.

“Q—this…it’s amazing. They came to thank you personally.” I clutched his arm, willing love through my fingertips. My chest cracked open with adoration for the man I called mine.

He looked at me, his face hard and unreadable. “This is extremely dangerous. Not just for me but for you. Don’t you think traffickers will be watching this? Waiting to see if they can pick off women who have already been prey?”

Panic shot through my system. I searched the crowd, relaxing a little, noticing the familiar bodyguards dotted in the swarm. We were protected. We had a team behind us now. A network of people we didn’t have before. No more attacks would be made.

I must stay confident.

“You have to say something…they need closure. Something, Q.”

Q’s face whitened. “What on earth can I say? Yes, I saved them, but I had no contact. I left them to Suzette to fix—I wasn’t there in their healing.”

I shook my head. “To them you’re the hero. The one who came for them when no one else did. You have to listen. You have to do something.”

The prime minster nodded. “Just a small speech, sir. Nothing big, then we can ask them to leave you in peace.”

Q dragged a hand over his face. His shoulders tightened, hiding his nerves. Letting his hand fall, his annoyance was veiled behind the stern, forcible nature I knew so well.

My core clenched. I wanted to tell him he may be my husband, and I was beside him every hour of every day, but he still made me wet—just by being him.

“Fine. Give me a damn microphone.”

A policeman appeared with a wireless one almost instantly. Q snatched it off him, never letting go of my hand. “If I’m doing this—so are you, Tess.”

He marched forward, giving me no choice but to follow in his footsteps. We stood at the top of the stairs, staring into the souls of victims who’d been saved. Clearing his throat, he said, “Bonjour.”

The crowd hushed, all eyes—blue, green, brown, grey—all landed on Q. Fixated by the man who gave them back their lives.

“I want to thank you for coming to see me today. The gesture is both gratifying and humbling. But I assure you, it wasn’t necessary. You gave me all the thanks I needed when you returned to your loved ones. The only payment I required was making you strong again.”

Murmurs rose from the crowd. A blonde woman darted between spectators, slowly making her way to the steps of town hall.

My heart whizzed, prickling with awareness. My eyes narrowed at the darting form.

Q continued, “Despite the evilness of the world, good has prevailed, and I hope each of you has been able to move on and not let them win.”

The blonde girl fought the crush of bodies. Her hand went to her pocket. Time slowed, moving in heartbeats, dying in increments.

“Franco!” I yelled, pointing at the girl. Petrified she had a gun—some weapon to kill Q.

Q yanked me behind his body, protecting me. Franco leapt down the stairs, imprisoning the girl’s arm. It all happened in a blink—swift, efficient, trapping the would be threat.

But then her blue eyes locked onto mine.

“Please, no more. You’ve done enough! You’re like them. You’re a monster!”

I stumbled backward; my palm went slick with glacial sweat. Q’s hand slipped from around my arm. I reeled away.

No. It can’t be.

My hands clutched my hair as a cloud of torrid memories sucked me under.

“Hurt her, puta.”

“I’m going to rape this one—then you’ll know what it will feel like when I start on you.”

My ears roared. My heart died.

Blonde Angel.

It can’t be!

But it was. I’d stared into her eyes while hitting her. I’d listened to her screams while Leather Jacket tortured her. I would recognise her anywhere. She was a tattoo upon my soul.

She raised her arm, pointing at me. Painting me like the witch who deserved to be burned. The blissfully happy six months evaporated under the weight of what I’d done. How could I forget? How could I pretend I’d paid the toll when I’d killed a woman? When I’d brutally tortured another?

“Tess—Tess?” Q’s voice cut through my horror, dragging me back to the sunny warm day in France. Innocent. Safe. But it wasn’t innocent or safe.

My past had found me.

And now I must pay.

“Her,” I croaked. “It’s her.”

Blonde Angel fought Franco, trying to climb the steps. Her eyes never left mine, locked together in purgatory. She wore such innocuous clothing—a pair of loose fitting jeans and huge yellow jumper. Her hair was up in a ponytail—she looked so young. So young!

My eyes fell to her walking stick, splintering my heart more surely than any bat I’d swung or any terror I’d rained.

“Please—I just want to talk,” she called.

Her voice sent me straight back to Rio—to my dreams. There she’d been reincarnated to die night after night. Here she was real—a figment of my nightmares come to haunt me for my crimes.

Q wrapped an arm around me. I didn’t register his warmth or comfort. I didn’t register anything but bugs and beetles and pain.

“Please—let me pass. I promise I mean no harm,” Blonde Angel pleaded.

Franco looked to me. His chiselled face was dark. “Tess—what do you want me to do?”

Blonde Angel fanned her hands. “I only need a minute.”

I couldn’t say no to her. Regardless if she was there to kill me. I couldn’t’ say no to the woman I’d hurt so badly.

“Let her go, Franco.” My voice was reedy, lost.

“Tess?” Q shook me, but I sank into memories.

“That’s it. Do it. Hit her. Harder.”

Blonde Angel hurled herself up the steps, beelining for me. Her mouth opened, but I heard nothing. Only Leather Jacket lived in my ears.

“You’re so weak, puta. Beg for your life. Beg for it—maybe then we won’t make you kill her.”

Tears.

They sprouted up my throat, trickling from my eyes. My entire body wept for what I’d done to this girl. She halted a foot away; both of us breathing hard, both staring silently. Her tears matched mine—a torrent of emotions on her heart-shaped face.

A story screamed in her gaze.

Confusion.

Hatred.

Sadness.

Forgiveness.

She cried out, deleting the space between us. I cowered, bringing my arms up to protect myself, but her body smashed against mine, clutching me hard.

I froze. Not breathing, hardly existing under the horror I’d caused.

Q grabbed the girl’s shoulder, wrenching her back. “Qu'est-ce que tu penses faire?” What the hell do you think you’re doing? His voice was livid, his body trembling with rage.

I opened my mouth to explain. How to explain? I’d told him what I’d done—what they made me do. But having the evidence standing as judgement was too much.

“I had to see her. I had to tell her,” Blonde Angel sniffed, uncaring tears tracked down her face.

I sucked in a fearful breath. My limbs quaked. “I’m—I’m—” I’m so damn sorry. So eternally, endlessly sorry. I’ll never ever forgive myself.

She shook her head, a smile breaking through her sorrow. “I had to tell you—I…” A fresh spillage of tears ruined her strength. Swallowing hard, she managed, “It wasn’t your fault. All that time, I knew you cared. You accepted more pain to stop us from receiving, but in the end nothing you did could’ve stopped it.”

She reached for me again, burying her face in my shoulder.

Something snapped inside. The grief I thought I’d dealt with gushed forth, purging the remaining darkness in my soul.

“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, clutching her, drowning in tears.

Q stiffened but never let go of my waist. I stood hugged by two people. My past and future. Anchored by my love, drifting on a sea of pain.

The world ceased to exist as I found closure in the arms of my victim. The arms of the woman who I’d watched be raped and traumatised.

Q’s hand shifted to my lower back, linking me to the present where I was good. Where I’d repaid my sins by saving others. He gave me silent support while I came undone on the steps of the Paris town hall.

Slowly, my grief ebbed. Blonde Angel smiled, her face blotchy and red. I knew my reflection would match completely.

A smile graced her lips, a weight lifting off her shoulders, evaporating into the sunny sky. “Thank you.”

I shook my head. “Thank you. For being strong enough to forgive me.”

She pressed a kiss to my cheek. “We were both their victims. We knew that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Tess—is everything okay?” Q murmured, rubbing my spine. His eyes never stopped glaring at Blonde Angel. He stood as my guard, soothing my soul.

I smiled softly. “I’m better. Now.” Turning to Blonde Angel, I asked, “What’s your name?”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s Sophie. And I’m guessing yours is Tess?” Her eyes flickered to Q, growing wide with awe. “I remember you. I remember you coming into our cell and some guards taking us away. I remember your home.”

My eyes snapped to Q. “She stayed at our house and I never knew?”

He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t want you to see any girls from Rio, Tess. For this exact fucking reason.” His gaze softened. “I’m very glad you’re happy now, Sophie, but can you please let go of my wife?”

Sophie laughed, rubbing the saltiness from her cheeks. “Sorry.” Letting go, she added, “Sorry for jumping on you. I just—when I saw you—I had to—”

I captured her hand. “I’m so glad you did. I’ll never be able to thank you.”

I would never be able to articulate the freedom inside—the freedom I didn’t even know I needed.

The prime minster cleared his throat. His eyes bounced from me to the woman hemmed in between Q and Franco. “Um, miss. Are you saying you had direct contact with Mrs. Mercer when she was taken in the reported second incident?”

Oh, no. My heart picked up. I couldn’t have my crimes told. I wouldn’t be able to advocate Feathers of Hope if people knew what I’d done in that awful place. “No—she—”

Q growled low and threatening. “Leave her out of this. She came to see my wife. Nothing more.”

Sophie flashed me a smile, before facing the prime minster. “I respect Mr. Mercer, but yes. I knew this woman before I was rescued by him. I know what she went through, and I know how intrinsically good she is.”

My heart fell out of my chest. I was full of deceit. I hadn’t been good then. I’d been drugged out of my mind—their little puppet.

“Shoot her, puta. Or we’ll cut off her fingers.”

Why didn’t I shoot Leather Jacket? Why did I have to obey?

Prime minster nodded, his eyes glinting. “Would you be so kind to say a few words to the crowd, on behalf of the charities Mr. and Mrs. Mercer run?”

“Quoi!” What? “No. Definitely not,” Q snapped. “Leave her—”

“I’d love to,” Sophie said, almost giving Q a heart attack.

Sophie gave me another smile and I knew I had to trust her. Whatever she said would be the truth—I couldn’t control how people perceived it. There was no arguing with what I’d done.

Laying a hand on Q’s trembling forearm, I swallowed my fear. “Let her, Q. Let her speak.”

Q’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring with anger.

“Very good.” The prime minster handed Sophie a wireless microphone, guiding her to stand in front of us. “You may begin when you’re ready.”

The crowd hushed from bedlam to whispers. Their energy was infectious. My legs itched to run. I didn’t want to be here—not when people learned the truth.

Sophie looked behind, holding out her hand.

What? No. I can’t!

I squirmed backward, pressing against Q, seeking his protection like a wimp.

Q cursed under his breath. “I wish I could carry you away from this, Tess. But you can’t run—not now.” Pushing me forward, he murmured, “Stand beside her. Be strong.”

My heart confounded with terror, horror, and everything in-between. I inched close to Sophie, avoiding the eyes of the crowd.

All women. Women saved by Q.

The only woman I’d had contact with, I’d beaten until she screamed for mercy. I’m an imposter—a fraud!

I couldn’t breathe. The sun was too bright.

Please, fly me away from here.

Sophie linked her fingers with mine. Holding the mic to her lips, she said softly, “My name is Sophie White, and I owe my life to Mr. Mercer.”

The crowd went deathly silent. The quiet click of cameras and whir of video recorders were the only noise. I stood terrified and judged beside the woman I’d done such atrocious things to.

I couldn’t move.

“My story began with the death of my grandmother. We used to go to the regular flower show. I collect berry seeds—I make my own tea, you see…” Her voice trailed off before growing louder. “I was sitting on a bench, nursing my sadness, when a nice man sat beside me. He asked why I was crying. I told him about my grandmother—about how much I missed her. It felt so good to talk to someone, so when he asked me out for dinner, I didn’t hesitate.”

Her voice turned inward, filling with memories. “People think you’ll get taken from dark alleys or seedy nightclubs. The truth is…nowhere is safe.”

She swallowed. “They stole me three days before my grandmother’s funeral. I never got to say goodbye. I woke up cold and bruised in the dark. I was there for ages—or maybe it wasn’t that long at all—time plays tricks on you when you’re no longer a girl but property.”

Her hands tightened around the microphone.

My barcode tattoo with the sparrow inked into the cage, itched. I’d been property. I’d been merchandise for sale. I knew how it felt to be traded. And I also knew how it felt to be saved.

My heart lost its terrified rhythm. I stood taller. These women were my allies. These women were the reason why Q found me.

“I won’t go into my captivity—but I will say that when Mr. Mercer arrived, I didn’t want to live anymore. I was ready for death. I craved death. But he wouldn’t let me.”

My lungs stuck together. My own ordeal swamped me. Not only had Q fought to get me home, he’d sacrificed so much to bring me back to a life I no longer wanted. I’d been so busy wrapping myself up like Rapunzel in my tower—I’d forgotten how much I had to live for.

I hurt him so much.

He forced me to embrace pleasure as well as pain. He gave me a fuller life—a life I never deserved.

He loves me so much.

I turned to stare at my husband, suffering a flush of all-encompassing love. He smiled, the sun catching the tiny scars I’d marred him with.

Sophie continued, “Mr. Mercer opened his home to those of us rescued in Rio. He paid for our doctors, provided psychiatric help, and gave us time to heal away from our families. Families who we didn’t want to let down by being broken.

“By the time I returned home, I was strong enough to be supportive of my boyfriend, Ryan. We forget, as the ones taken, that the ones left behind have it bad too—if not worse. They can’t do anything to save us. If I’d returned to him before I was strong enough, our relationship would’ve failed—I wouldn’t have been able to love him the way he needed.

“I won’t lie and say it was easy. But life does go on.” Her voice changed from storyteller to fierce advocator. “The key I found in surviving LAT… Life After Them…is…allowing yourself to acknowledge you will never be the same. Don’t try and return to who you once were. It won’t work. Give yourself the right to say you’re stronger, better, wiser, harder. Don’t let them win.”

She twisted, looking over her shoulder at Q. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you on behalf of so many other women. I’ll never forget you and will treasure my life because of what you did to give it back.”

A squall of tears charged up my back, blurring my vision.

Thank you, Q. For being you.

Q rolled his neck. His eyes blazed with feeling but his posture was graceful as he moved to my side. Slinking his arm around me, he subtlety took possession, separating me from Sophie. He nodded, granting power and gracefulness in one movement. “De rien.” You’re welcome.

An orb of light filled me, growing brighter, bolder with every second.

This was the man who I loved and would always be proud of. I wanted to rain kisses over his face for all that he’d done.

The crowd grew loud, one voice rising with praise.

Q eclipsed my entire heart—giving me comfort in his dark embrace.

He waved. “Thank you, everyone. And thank you Sophie for having the strength to tell us of your ordeal.” His forehead furrowed as an idea came to mind. “If anyone else would like to share their stories, and continue to gain support from one another, I will personally visit you over the next week as we tour with Feathers of Hope. As for now, you are my guests. Please speak to Mr. Roux for details on your accommodation.”

Q smiled. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me and my wife. We have an important interview to attend, and we’re already late.”

The crowd roared with applause, humming with happy energy as Q handed the microphone to the prime minster.

The prime minister took it. “Thank you for your time and generosity. The city of France will gladly contribute to your tour.”

Q shook his head. “No, need. The financing is taken care of.” Looking at Frederick, he said, “Find out how many rooms you need and book out the finest hotel. Franco will assist you if needed.”

Frederick nodded, slapping Q on the shoulder. “Consider it done, my friend. Now, you really better go.”

Untangling myself from Q, I gathered Sophie in another hug. “Visit me any time.”

She grinned. “Maybe we can have coffee one day—just us.”

I didn’t know if the topic would be our past or future but I would spend time with her regardless. I needed to stop feeling guilty. I needed to move forward. “That would be nice.”

We parted, drifting toward our respective places. Q gathered me in his strong arms, welcoming me back into the world I loved while Sophie disappeared into the crowd. The women offered hugs and high fives, swallowing her up in their collective embrace.

My body was drained. I had nothing left. I felt carved like a pumpkin with no seeds. But it was a good carving—a cleansing leaving me eerily weightless and completely vulnerable to the new existence before me.

I’ve forgiven myself. I would never curse my fate again.

Q had successfully given me every stage of healing.

I was whole.

Frederick grinned, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “You guys really better go. They’re waiting. We’ll see you later in the week.”

With one last glace at the crowd, Q stole my hand and guided me into the sunshine.

We entered the hotel suite on the tenth floor, frazzled, humbled, and completely drained.

Q hadn’t let go of my hand as we traversed the crowd to the hotel across the street. Franco had kept us safe, his team of bodyguards ghosting around the swarm.

The moment we stepped into the room, a blanket of peace descended, hushing my racing heart, letting me relax for the first time since this morning.

My feet throbbed in my heels as we crossed the richly decorated suite. Q released me, dropping onto the English rose-print couch. “That was exhausting.”

I smiled, slouching next to him. “Yes, but so incredible—to see those women worship you, Q. To know she’s okay—it’s amazing.”

He scowled. “Not worshipping, esclave. Never that. They only have themselves to thank for taking their lives back. I was only the beginning, not the solution.”

I wanted to kiss him senseless for being so proud—unable to accept the good he did.

His lips quirked into a gentle smile. “And who knew you had fans already. I’m going to get jealous if people start hugging my wife.”

I laughed. “No fans—just a part of my past giving me freedom to let go.” My eyes faded, thinking of Sophie. I was so glad she survived. So happy she’d been invited by the prime minister, giving me absolution.

“Come here, Tess,” Q murmured.

My tummy flip-flopped at the quiet authority in his tone. I scooted closer, falling into his open arms. “What do you need, maître?”

He smirked. “Oh, I can think of many things I need.” His lips landed on my ear, making me shiver. “I need you naked. I need you strung up, so I can show you how damn proud I am. And I need you screaming because my nerves are shot and being in public isn’t getting any easier with you so vulnerable by my side.”

I’m not vulnerable. I have you.

“If you promise to do that thing with your tongue again—I’ll scream for you.”

I gasped as his lips descended on mine, kissing me stupid. His tongue speared my mouth, dragging moans and pleas and promises from my soul.

The hotel door opened.

Q growled, his arms tensing around me. For a moment, I feared he wouldn't let me go—to hell with the reporter.

But then he released me, moving away. My lips twitched, noticing the way he crossed his legs, hiding his impressive, delicious erection.

The reporter, with her plaited black hair and vibrant hazel eyes, entered. We’d agreed to one interview. Only one. And then it was back to work.

A hotel staff member followed, wheeling in a trolley full of pastries, éclairs, and coffee.

The woman smiled, sitting down, brushing her navy skirt around her legs. She pulled free a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from her bag, placing them on her nose. Her smile was cupid-sweet and bright pink.

We waited in comfortable silence as the coffee was poured. Once the waiter had left, Q grabbed a steaming cup, holding it to his lips. His sharp attention fell on the reporter, sizing her up with one glance. “Bonjour.”

She snagged a cup of caffeine, mimicking Q in a sip. “Hello, Mr. Mercer. Mrs. Mercer.” Her warm gaze landed on me; I smiled. “Hello, nice to meet you.” Collecting the last cup from the table, I held it, letting the hot liquid soothe my fluttering nerves.

I’d never been interviewed. I had no idea what to say. What not to say.

I needed a rule book so as not to embarrass myself or Q.

Taking another sip, she said, “My name’s Fiona, and I’ll be conducting the interview today.” She placed a recording device on the low coffee table between us, opening her notepad. Reclining into the Louis Vuitton styled chair, she grinned. “I wish to extend my gratitude for your time and expect us to be here for a few hours—but it all depends on how deeply you wish to tell me your story—and if you’d like to break during questioning.”

I’ll need a break. If only to gather my thoughts from the very distracting male seething with energy beside me.

Q nodded. “That’s fine.”

Fiona looked to me, a bond of femininity shot between us. She turned off the recording button. “Just before we start, I wanted to say on a personal level, your story has inspired me to help with Feathers of Hope. I’ve signed up to report on the women who want to tell their stories. I didn’t think anyone would be interested in speaking, but I’ve been overwhelmed with their tales already.”

Her eyes flickered to Q. “I feel out of bounds saying this, but I think I’m a little bit in love with you—mainly because of how much you love your wife.”

Q choked on a sip of coffee, before rearranging his face into something resembling coolness. “I think the only answer to give is thanks?” He glanced at me. His eyes yelled a message: what sort of interview is this?

The sort of interview where you finally understand how much people adore you.

I laughed. “I think a few women are in love with my husband for what he’s done—and I can share in that respect—but I do get rather possessive.”

Q’s lips tugged into half a smile. “Are you talking about the threatened restraining order last month, Tess? Surely not. Not you, my sweet blonde wife who would never put any claim on me.”

My heart raced remembering my threat and the consequences that came with it. Q had thoroughly proven why I had no need for jealousy—granting me another mark right above my belly button, so I would always remember.

I grinned, placing an owning palm on his thigh. “I’d fight for you, Q. I did fight for you. And every day I’ll never let you forget who you married and why.”

Fiona giggled. “Is it just me or did it rise a few degrees in here?” Pinching an éclair, she took a bite, and turned on the recording device again. “It’s so nice to see true love these days. I can tell I’m really going to enjoy this interview.”

The atmosphere changed from friendly to business. Crossing her legs, Fiona asked, “Okay, my first question is for Mrs Mercer. In fact, I don’t have any questions.” She waved her pen in the air. “Basically, I want to hear everything. Call me greedy, but I don’t want you to leave anything out.”

Q tensed, his leg muscles locking under my hand.

Fiona didn’t notice. “Tell you what—start from the day you got on the plane to Mexico.”

Q moved. Uncrossing his legs, he sat forward, steepling his hands between spread legs. Dominating. Governing. Stealing all my concentration and making me shamelessly wet.

My heart bolted, filling with words and memories and everything I would share.

This was it.

My story. My legacy. The one thing that would be immortalized onto pages and told forever. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t easy. But I would spare no emotion or detail. I would be honest to the very last word.

I opened my mouth to start. To tell my tale of heartache, love, and loss.

I’d waded through blackness and survived.

I’d fallen in love with a monster and thrived.

I’d danced into riches in every conceivable way.

But through it all, Q had been there. My monster in the dark.

Q grabbed my hand, bringing it to his lips. “L'histoire n'a pas commencé au Mexique.” The story didn’t start in Mexico.

Fiona frowned, “Oh? Where did it start?”

My brand seared, resonating with heat from Q’s intensity.

He glanced at me, sending fire into my soul. “Not where, but what.”

I melted. Utterly melted for my incredible husband. He understood me. He’d always understood me.

Fiona leaned forward, hanging on Q’s every word. “What?”

“A number. It all began with a number. For me anyway.”

My heart soared from my chest on sparrow wings. Birds filled my body—blackbirds, robins, and fantails.

I smiled. “That’s true. That was the beginning. The rest doesn’t matter.”

Fiona’s cheeks pinked as Q never looked away from me, sending the room swirling with desire. The moment the interview was over, Q would take me.

And I would be ready to accept whatever he wanted to give.

“What number?” she breathed.

Q tore his gaze from mine, locking her in his fierce pale stare. He riveted us with his power, trapping us in his net. “Fifty-eight. It all began with fifty-eight. And that’s where my wife will start.”

I looked at my wrist, tracing the numbers beneath the barcode and sparrow. I’d once been merchandise for sale. But then the winds of fate changed and blew me straight to Q. His cage became my home. His love became my wings. I became his bird through and through.

Tears pricked my eyes. I was so utterly happy, so faultlessly content, so completely complete.

Fifty-eight.

I’m Esclave Fifty-Eight. The girl who broke her owner.

My master had spoken.

I began.