I ached for home with Brax. The roughness, the texture, but most of all the happiness. I’d never find happiness here. Perhaps Suzette was right. Maybe playing a part would be easier until I could be free again.

Shutting my feelings off, I asked, “I’m here. What did you need me for?” I hoped she wouldn’t lock me in the library. Q hadn’t ordered me to breakfast, but who knew what rules he left her to follow.

Suzette stopped cleaning the windows with a bright pink rag and smiled. “Nothing. I didn’t want you upstairs all alone, that was all.” She stuffed the rag into her pinafore pocket, coming closer. “I do know what you’re going through. You can talk to me. I won’t betray your confidence.” The look in her eyes wavered with pity and understanding.

Her kindness, and offer of friendship, wrung my heart dry. Tears sprouted, unbidden. How desperate was I for a friend? To have someone to talk to would be beyond wonderful.

You can’t. She belongs to Q.

Suspicion replaced hope and I glared. “What did Q order you to do? Befriend me so I’ll tell you my name? Tell you things I’ll never tell him? Strip me of my only defence?”

Her mouth gaped, face twisted. “No, not at all. I’m only trying to be nice.”

Her reaction caused doubt and I slouched. I was a bitch. When I didn’t reply, an uncomfortable silence fell.

A woman called from the kitchen, “Suzette, arrêter de parler à l'esclave et vener aider à faire le dîner de maître Mercer. C'est dimanche; je ne vais pas faire le canard à l'orange par moi même.”

I strained, deciphering the long string of French. Something like: stop talking to the slave and make dinner for Master Mercer—my torturer. He didn’t deserve food.

I raised an eyebrow as Suzette smiled. I’d give anything to know what she thought—it might help figure out what the hell my future held.

“Do you want to come help us cook? Maître Mercer has duck à l'orange on Sundays. It takes a while to prepare.”

My mouth hung open. She honestly thought I wanted to prepare dinner for the bastard who fingered me last night? Did she know what happened in the gaming room? My cheeks flushed. Q hadn’t exactly been discreet, dragging me down the stairs.

I laughed with a bitter edge. “Do you want my honest answer? Or the one I should give?”

Suzette dropped her eyes, stepping closer. Her gaze bounced fugitively toward the kitchen. “Come help. Be a part of the household, while he isn’t here. He can’t stop you from having fun, companionship.” Her hand fluttered on mine; I tensed. “If you find connection with others, you’ll be able to withstand a lot more.”

Stand more? Of what? Erotic torture and mind-warping games? I laughed again, brittle and tear-sharp. “You think I’ll be able to have fun? That’s an impossibility. Let me go. Let me return to my boyfriend, then I’ll have fun.” My body shook as anger exploded. I wished it were Q I screamed at, but his minion would have to do. “Brax might be dead because of the men who kidnapped me. All because your sick boss likes to own women. All of this is a mistake.” I thumped my chest, buckling with heartache. “Brax might be dead. Do you understand? And it’s all my fault!”

She nodded, biting her lip, distressed by the outburst. “I’m so sorry to hear about your boyfriend, but you have to forget him. He’s in your past, and Maître Mercer isn’t a bad man. Give him a cha—”

I slapped hands over my ears, like a child refusing to hear the awful truth. “You’re heartless to think I could ever forget about Brax.” I fought tears with temper. “And stop lying for Q. Stop trying to mould me into whatever he expects slaves to be. Just stop it!”

She touched my arm, tugging lightly so I released my ears. She whispered, “Don’t stop living while you endure. And don’t let the pain of your past stop you from being happy in this new life.” Taking a deep breath, her passion tinged with anger as she added, “Don’t do what I did, and pretend it will all go away. I let my owners break me. Not because I couldn’t fight anymore, but because it was the easier way to live; you never truly break. The key is not to lie to yourself, even while you fake it.”

Breathing hard, I dropped my arms. Her hazel irises were clear and full of wisdom. She’d learned the hard way and wanted to help me cheat on the lessons coming.

I still didn’t know why she spoke so highly of Q, but I thawed a little. However, the memory of sitting in Brax’s lap, on our last night together, fragmented me. Brax’s voice resonated in my thoughts, “The truth hurts less than fibs and fakers.”

I had to abandon the truth and wrap myself in lies to survive. I had to change completely.

Suzette showed a different reality, and even though she rattled the bars of my jail and confirmed there was no way out, she comforted, too. She was living evidence I could endure and survive.

“Thank you,” I murmured. “Surprisingly, that does help a little.”

Linking her arm with mine, she tugged toward the kitchen. “I’m glad. Next time, don’t fight him, okay?”

My hackles rose, effectively stomping on my warming feelings toward her. “What does it matter to you?”

She refused to meet my eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Come along, dinner won’t cook itself.”

* * * * *

Hours later, flour dusted my nose, and the citrus tang of orange enveloped the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Sucre, who was round as a donut and just as doughy, pulled a well-roasted duck from the oven as the front door slammed.

The afternoon spent in the kitchen had been the best since I boarded the plane to Mexico. Suzette wormed her way into friendship, and we started a tentative bond which I hoped would keep me sane as long as I remained captive.

But all those relaxed feelings flew away as Q strode into the kitchen.

I froze, holding a pan of roasted rosemary potatoes. Q’s presence filled the kitchen, consuming oxygen, awareness…space. He looked like a resplendent peacock in a royal blue suit and crimson shirt. His pelt of hair shone under the kitchen lights, while his pale jade eyes smouldered.

My entire body reacted: ni**les hardened, mouth parted. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t ignore his call.

Him. He was back. Here. In the house.

Oh, God. Primal instincts clawed, itching to bolt, while at the same time, I softened with need. Emotions tore me in two and I trembled, almost dropping the potatoes.