Instantly, hot water rained from two massive showerheads, sending needles of heat through my clothes. I tilted my head toward it, letting each drop scald, purging my skin of filth and tragedy.

Q unwrapped the blanket and tossed it from the shower. He tugged the hem of my jumper, pulling it over my head.

His immaculate suit darkened as moisture seeped into cashmere and silk. He’d ruin it if he didn’t leave. But he didn’t seem to care that his perfection became wrinkled and stained beyond repair. His focus was entirely on me. Hands moved swift and sure, face closed off and concentrated. But his eyes—they glowed with ferocity, an anger sending spasms of fear through me.

He tossed my jumper to the floor, and eyes fell to my chest. My white bra turned see-through and ni**les stiffened under his look. His jaw clenched as he dropped his gaze, down my body, over my nakedness, to criss-crossed welted thighs.

The pain from the flogger hissed under hot water, and I wished Q would look away. I was damaged—not a pretty slave anymore. He might send me away.

Q ran a whisper-soft fingertip along a welt. I flinched and tears rushed as memories took me hostage. The shower dissolved into the rotting grandeur of the Tuscan house, Q’s touch turned brutal and nasty.

I sucked in a breath, trying to stay in the present, refusing to let nightmares suck me into the dark.

Q’s face twisted; he captured my face between hot hands. “What are you?” he clipped, face hard and unreadable.

The question anchored me and I looked into his pale ferocious eyes. I knew the answer he wanted. “I’m yours.”

He sucked in a heavy breath, body jerking. “Say it again, but not in English.”

Q intoxicated me. My lips parted, and I wanted to stay captured by him, forever. An ancient connection linked us together. I looked into his soul—it churned with agony and demons, but he wasn’t evil.

Q dropped his gaze to my lips. “Je suis à toi.” Something feral heated his features; he pressed his mouth against mine in one fast kiss. “It means, I am yours.”

My breath stuttered as power sliced, deep and fast, igniting broken parts of me with sparks. His allure, his power, all magnified to fist around my stomach. In the dark recess of my brain, I translated his words to him being mine. The power trip the little words gave was indescribable.

No wonder he wanted me to say it. I was drunk on them. He was mine. Mine.

What life did Q live, needing to hear such a strong affirmation? What ghosts haunted him?

Q tightened his fingers, biting into my jaw. “Say it.”

With his command, I fumbled into the victim I was, the rape survivor, the slave. The brief sense of ownership left me bereft.

Q twisted my nipple under the wet material of my bra. His cruelty reddened my skin and fight skittered into yielding. He sent me reeling into needful and damaged. I’d been so close to finding strength, but he took it away in an instant.

Fresh tears spilled as I whispered, “Je suis à toi.”

Q sighed heavily, resting his forehead on mine. “Will you run again? Will you leave the one man who wants you above all others? Leave his protection?” His voice wavered with regret, resignation, as if he expected me to run, and already suffered loneliness.

My eyes popped wide; I shook my head. “No, I won’t run again.”

He looked with half-hooded eyes. “How can you be so sure? Don’t I scare you? Repulse you?”

He never repulsed me, and fear where Q was concerned was an aphrodisiac. But I couldn’t tell him. “I will never escape. Je suis à toi.”

With a sharp nod, he reached around to unclip my bra. Droplets stuck to his eyelashes as he frowned, throwing the flimsy lingerie from the shower.

The dynamic of him fully dressed in a soaking wet suit, and me na**d and beaten, reminded me once again, I wasn’t on equal footing. This wasn’t a man caring for me

because he loved or wanted me—he was my owner, fixing a possession.

Q pushed me against tiles, and my body panged with pain. He wrapped strong fingers around my throat and panic soared. Q dropped the barrier, unleashing his anger. “You f**king ran, you bitch! Do you know how hard I’m trying to make you happy? To enjoy you while trying not to break you? Have I seriously hurt you? Have I raped you? Have I done untold damage to you?”

He pushed away, as if horrified with what he’d done. He watched with wide, incredulous eyes as I coughed and rubbed my neck. Phantom fingers lingered around my flesh.

I trembled, watching, waiting for another outburst, waiting for him to hit me. After all, I deserved it.

Q growled, running hands over his sleek hair. “Answer me, esclave. Is it really so bad to be owned by me?”

I hung my head. I was so f**ked up when it came to Q. He hadn’t raped me, but put me in situations that raped my mind, turned me inside out, and made me face dark desires despite clinging to the ideology of loving a man like Brax.

He tortured with games, and let a man shove a dagger hilt inside me. So many things he did, but none as bad as Brute and Driver.

I don’t know why, but I need you to want me!

I collapsed to my knees, crying out as welts on my legs burned, and tiles slapped against kneecaps. I bowed at his feet, not able to do anything else. He hated me. He would throw me out, then where would I go? Who would want me after this?

“I’m sorry!” I shouted, sucking in large, gulping breaths as something fractured. I heaved as sadness, self-pity, and lostness asphyxiated. “You hurt me, you torment me—” Sobs stopped my words; I wrapped arms around myself. “But I need you!” I couldn’t do this. I can’t!

Q didn’t offer comfort; he didn’t give me what I needed—he stood there with his aura of power and ruthlessness, watching me dissolve. Where had the man gone who carried me upstairs? That was the man I needed. Not this bastard. This owner.

Q crouched, trying to unlatch my arms from round my ribcage, but I fought him and huddled in the corner. Blonde hair tangled around me, offering protection from his livid gaze.

“Je suis un salaud,” he muttered, pulling me into his lap. His suit oozed with liquid as he leaned against the wall, rocking me. I wanted to agree, he was a bastard, but the ache in his voice hurt me deep. He truly believed it, on a much deeper level.

So many things ran through my body at being held. I wanted to snuggle, let him whisper and soothe; another part wanted to run because his compassion was false and hurt all the more. But I couldn’t do either. I was weak, and tears held me hostage.