Twisted Together (Monsters in the Dark) (71 page)

My wife.

I came hard and deep into the woman I’d married.

The woman I’d claimed.

The woman who would always be mine.

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.