A soft laugh escaped me. “God, Q. You have the strangest sense of humour.”

The sickly tension existing in the room and the fearful anxiety still thrumming in my blood dissipated. He not only put up with my screams, but he knew just how to free me from the residue of such terror.

The stitching in my heart tore wide, spilling my chest with love so deep and eternal I knew I would do anything, absolutely anything, for this man. He was the reason I was alive. The only reason I wanted to stay alive.

His forehead furrowed. “What makes you think I’m joking?” His fingers dropped from my cheek as his eyes darkened with self-hatred. “I have many perversions, esclave. You think because I fell in love with you, they’re miraculously cured?” He leaned closer, his nose an inch from mine. “You think you know me…” His voice trailed off as thoughts swooped him away from my arms and into the dark I’d hoped he’d left behind.

After I’d hurt him—made him bleed and escorted him to death’s door with a whip in my hand—I feared I’d ruined him. He’d been shut off—remote. Not cold or cruel but protecting his inner thoughts. He’d always been private around me—guarding his inner secrets like a sentinel with a castle full of unspeakables—but it wasn’t until yesterday when Q proposed and branded me that the crack in his façade finally gave me hope.

The burning on my neck amplified, taking over my senses with a dull throb. The scorched skin hurt—even the numbing balm Q rubbed into it yesterday hadn’t halted the singeing, searing ache. But unlike all the other parts of me that’d been hurt over the past month, I welcomed it. It gave me something to focus on.

It gave me purpose.

It reminded me I was owned, and my sanity wasn’t just my responsibility but a necessity. I’d made an oath to Q. I’d signed a contract the moment the ‘Q’ sigil scorched my neck. I was his as he was mine. Therefore, I had to be whole—not just for me but for him.

A chill scattered over my body. What was he thinking? What did he hide behind his tough outer-shell?

Wanting to dispel the darkness in his eyes, I murmured, “I know all I need to know. I know you’re kind and generous; the best lover, protector, and master I could ever want.”

Q clenched his teeth as a flash of ferocity etched his features. “Is that all I am?”

“You’re all that and more.”

“Are you forgetting the question I asked you yesterday? The one where you said yes?”

I smiled, ducking my eyes to trace the sweeping lines of his chest. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ll no longer just be your lover, esclave.”

The swell of love hit me again like a squall of hot air. I couldn’t contain it. I didn’t want to contain it. “You’ll be an amazing husband, too.”

Q tensed. “So amazing you didn’t want to run away and get married yesterday. So amazing you said you were tired and wanted to stay here for a few more days.”

My shoulders hunched. I knew he didn’t take my reasoning well. When he’d gone to whisk me away only moments after proposing, I’d been hit by a brick wall of grief. Not just grief but guilt and sorrow and every complicated emotion left over from what happened. How could I explain I wanted to embrace our future and happiness with wide open arms—to throw myself into eternal bliss—but couldn’t. Not while my entire soul was weighed down with the crimes and sins I’d committed. I can’t tell you my nightmares. I can’t share my guilt or trauma. I didn’t want to burden him any more than I had.

Speak to Suzette. Maybe she could help me. Then again, it wouldn’t be fair to talk about such darkness, not after everything she’d survived herself.

Suddenly, Q crushed me against him, dragging my head to rest against his chest. “So much has passed, yet it seems like just yesterday I had my first taste of you. I feel like I know everything about you—the fundamental parts of you. You’re like me in so many ways, but really…I don’t know you at all.” He pressed a fierce kiss to the top of my head. “Not anymore. Pas depuis qu'ils t’ont kidnappée” Not after they stole you.

I’d never seen Q so melancholy, so withdrawn. He held me as if he expected me to drift away—like he was petrified all of this—us, our connection—was an illusion.

I didn’t know how to bring him back. “All you need to know is that I adore you,” I whispered. The nightmare took what energy I had, so I did the only thing I could—I snuggled closer, letting him bind his relentless arms around me until my body creaked and pain echoed in my spine.

Q didn’t speak.

Closing my eyes, I let the clug-clug of his strong heart calm the flickering images of blood and murdered Blonde Angel. Her broken skull, the white shards of bone. I’d lost count how many times I’d killed her in my sleep. But no matter how many times I stole her life, she was always there—reincarnated for my torment night after night.

Q was right. He knew nothing. Because you haven’t told him.

I sighed. What could I tell him? He’d seen me snap and come undone when I beat him bloody. He knew whatever I lived with was too big, too hard to put into words. Only time could heal me. Only the tick-tock of life blotting out what I’d done stood a chance of making me whole again. There was no rushing the process, and that was why I didn’t want to talk to a psychiatrist or anyone who would judge me.

I carried my sins deep—after all, I was a murderer. For someone who’d been unwanted all her existence, the act of taking a cherished life filled me with something transcendent of guilt.

It filled me with shame and inner hatred.

It filled me with filth.

Q sighed hard, stirring the air in the bedroom. Each thought and conclusion jerked his muscles, transmitting his anger through body-Morse code.

My stomach shrivelled with yet more guilt. Guilt for hurting him yet again. “I’m sorry, Q,” I whispered. My lips sealed over the small bandage over the ‘T’ branded above his heart. The mark I’d seared into his skin.

I still couldn’t understand how he’d forgiven me. He’d tried everything over the past month, all in the name of fixing me: being tender. Firm. Angry. Gentle. I pretended each day it was easier. I smiled and nodded and let him believe he was fixing me with every passing moment.

I’d become a better actress than I ever dreamed of, but it made no difference when he could strip me of my lies with one look. Some moments I even believed my pantomime. I swallowed my fibs and felt pure happiness at being better.

But then I remembered.

I wasn’t better. I’d just learned how to bury it so the horror became a part of me. The flashbacks, the recollections—they were a constant companion, and I fought so hard to keep my reactions free from my face.

I couldn’t tell him the truth. It wasn’t fair after everything he sacrificed. I lied when I told him I was strong enough. I spun tales every time I assured him I no longer thought of my tower or felt the urge to barricade myself behind its rotund walls.

I whispered, “I’ll get better. I’m sorry you have to put up with the sleepless nights. I’ll understand if you want me to move downstairs for a while.”

Q squeezed me angrily. “Get that ridiculous thought out of your head. You’re not moving from my fucking side. Tu m'entends?” Do you hear me?

Of course, I heard him. He was my master. Obeying him gave me a sanctuary I never knew I needed. It took away the pressure of thinking for myself when my mind was too jumbled with remorse.

I nodded.

Q swallowed his temper, softening his voice. “Do you want a bath?” His voice may be whisper-soft, but his body didn’t relax. The vice of his arms cut off the blood supply to my fingertips, but I didn’t care. He needed to hold me tightly. He needed to convince himself I was still there and no matter how bad the nightmares got, I would never leave him the way I had before.