My vision lost its sharpness, but I didn’t give a damn. If I had to crawl home, I’d be fine with that.

“I don’t need to chase. I have answers.”

“Don’t torture yourself, Q. That stupid conclusion you came to last week isn’t the reason.”

“Fuck, it has to be. What else?”

“Anything more believable, that’s what.” Frederick suddenly stood up. “You know what? Go home. Talk to your wife. I’m not doing this with you. Only she knows exactly what you guys get up to. She’s the one who will tell you you’re being a fucking idiot.”

I stood up, bracing my fists on the desktop. “Don’t call me a fucking idiot.”

Frederick chuckled, moving toward the door. “Go home, Q. Talk to her. It’s the only thing you can do to get this mess sorted out.”

He didn’t let me retaliate.

Slipping through the door, he closed it with a soft click.

I itched to throw his empty glass at the wood but refrained. Just.

He was wrong that going home and talking to Tess was the only thing I could do.

I had other alternatives.

Such as sitting here drinking and finding liquid courage to do what was needed.

Forgoing the glass, I tipped the bottle straight to my lips.

Who needed a goblet when it all ended up in my stomach anyway?

I SMELLED HIM before I heard him.

Even obliterated Q moved like a freaking ghost.

I’d fallen asleep in the library beside the fire. Courage and his family were curled up in the ambient warmth of the flames on the chesterfield rug, snoring lightly, while I reminded myself over and over that Q and I were fine.

For hours, I’d been ensconced with old books and the memories of the past—remembering when I’d returned to Q and taken a blood pledge to always fight him, always stand up to him, and never, ever let him break me.

For some reason, I’d let him pull away these past few days. I’d broken that vow by not fighting. I’d destroyed my side of the bargain because I’d let him win.

But not anymore.

I’d done a lot of thinking about the charity I’d seen on his desk and the reasons for his unhappiness. Seeds of ideas had sprouted into mildly terrifying but scarily exciting conclusions.

I think I know…

Q padded past the library, taking with him the fumes of whiskey. I waited as he patrolled the house, looking for me. Everyone had gone to bed even though it was only eleven p.m.

I was glad for the pretense of an empty home. We had no recovering women living under our roof tonight; the three rehabilitating girls in our current care slept in the house across the lawn with their families.

Which was good.

Because Q and I had a lot to talk about and I wasn’t entirely sure how it would end.

When he finally stalked through the premises and didn’t find me, he retraced his steps. My skin prickled as his footfalls sounded louder just before his shadow appeared in the doorway. The dog’s ears pricked; their black eyes zeroing in on the master of the household.

“There you are, esclave.”

His voice was heavy and potent, slipping through my blood like the alcohol he’d consumed. I doubted he’d eaten; I hadn’t seen him this pissed since the night the police arrived.

My body tingled, remembering what we’d done afterward. How connected we’d been. How in love I’d fallen from one night of unbridled monstrosity.

I wanted that to happen again.

I wanted him angry and rough. I wanted to be completely consumed. And I knew how to make that happen.

Placing the first edition copy of some French classic onto the side table by the wingback, I stood on firm legs. I’d slipped into a pastel pink negligee. My hair was freshly washed with air-dried curls, and my body hid behind the clinging satin, hinting at my curves. My hands curled for war, but my nipples betrayed me, pinpricking like diamonds against the lingerie, very visible and aching for his teeth.

I’d dressed accordingly for the sexual fight we would no doubt commit.

His eyes drifted to my chest, his throat working as he swallowed.

Q had only grown more attractive as he aged.

His sharp widow peak and soft green eyes were severe and pristine. His black suit and aubergine tie crisp and full of dominant authority. From his clipped fingernails to his polished, sharp teeth, Q was a predator through and through.

But I wasn’t his prey.

I was his equal. Hunting by his side, massacring our enemies, not afraid to enter a fight with him snarling beside me. But like any good partner, I submitted to him and only him. I sheathed my claws when he came for me. I bit but only gently. I let my mate mount me and fuck me because our power lay in the dynamics of being equals and accepting our place in life.

Our place together.

Q had forgotten his place.

I would help remind him of it.

Ignoring the dogs, I strode to meet him in the middle of the carpet. I tilted my head. His glassy eyes met mine, struggling to focus after drinking copious amounts of whiskey. “Hello, maître.”

“Bonsoir.” Good evening.

His French never failed to lash around me with the softest threads and harshest demands. I shuddered with anticipation and desire. I wanted to give in to him so desperately, but I also wanted to fight.

We needed to fight. To air whatever it was that he hurt with.

I wouldn’t drag this out. We both knew we’d been stalemate. We hadn’t moved past the conversation we were about to have when Frederick had interrupted us.