My bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Even after three years, I still had trouble saying that.
This chateau was mine.
Q’s fortune was mine.
The day he’d allowed himself to take me fully was the day he’d given me not only his heart but his empire and hearth, too.
Pulling out my hair tie as I strolled across the rug, I ruffled my blonde curls as I stared at the photo of us side by side still dressed in wedding finery. We weren’t aware of the camera, only each other.
If anyone tried to convince me that Q wasn’t capable of love, that he was a monster with deep dark urges, that one day he might hurt me far beyond my tolerance of pain, I’d laugh in their disbelieving face.
The way Q stared at me in that picture negated any naysayers or sceptics.
Our love was unique.
And I would never, ever take it for granted.
“You’ve given me so much, maître.” Stroking his cheek in the picture, I murmured, “This weekend, I want to give you everything that I can. Starting with eradicating the sadness that I’ve glimpsed once or twice in your gaze.”
I didn’t know what caused it.
I didn’t know if I was the cause of it.
But I did know I would do everything in my power to dispel it.
Unzipping my navy dress, I left it pooled on the carpet where Q had first strung me up. The night he’d come to me drunk, (after the police had interrogated him) he’d shown me exactly what I needed. It was one of my most favourite memories.
My skin tingled from that night as I made my way to the large arched window in my black underwear.
The long driveway spiralled into the manicured trees and the gatehouse hidden just beyond. Snow twinkled on bare branches, but the light dusting on the fountain and grass had thawed with the afternoon sun.
Winter.
Q’s favourite season when everything died, only to be reborn fresh and bright and new. If he were here now, I’d show him just how he’d transformed me as well as any season. However, he wasn’t due home for another few hours. He was working too hard—on both his property business and our charities.
My eyes drifted to the left where a new residence had been erected early last year.
We still rescued women. Still funnelled vast quantities of wealth into our organisations—both law-abiding and mercenary driven—and shared our home with wraiths of sexual abuse.
Only now, the women we fought to repair no longer had to exist here on their own. Those who couldn’t stomach to see their family so soon were permitted to remain in our chateau in a wing especially for them as long as they liked. However, those who didn’t hold such deep emotional trauma were relocated to the mansion beside ours where multiple families could live and recover together.
The moment Q found another survivor, I was in charge of tracking down her parents or loved ones and encouraging them to come and be there for their daughter, wife, or sister.
Many people tried to compensate us financially. However, we refused every euro.
Our repayment was watching a terrified abused woman learn to laugh and smile again. Our reward was when they eventually left our sanctuary and returned to a world that’d almost ruined them.
Q had saved so many people.
I’d saved him in return.
But he was hiding something from me.
And by the end of the long weekend, I would know exactly what it was and how to cure him.
After all…what were birthday celebrations for if not to interrogate and infiltrate the thoughts of the birthday boy?
Picking up the photo and placing a quick kiss on his handsome face, I whispered, “Happy birthday, maître. Get ready to let me into that gorgeous mind of yours because I won’t stop until you confide in me.”
I WAS USED to sneaking around.
I’d done it as a kid. I did it as an adult. Partly because I liked to be invisible—to approach and eavesdrop when others weren’t expecting and stalk the bastards who hurt women for pleasure—but mainly because it was who I was.
I couldn’t change habits that had become a part of me.
I moved in silence.
I didn’t know any other way.
However, tonight I wasn’t infiltrating an enemy’s den; I was returning to the woman I loved, tiptoeing across our bedroom like a fucking fugitive.
Every day, it became harder to avoid her.
She knew something bothered me but hadn’t gathered the courage to ask yet. But she would. It was only a matter of time.
But that time was not tonight. Not after the long day I’d had.
My eyes adjusted to the dark; only a sliver of moonlight cracked through the haphazardly drawn curtains.
My wife—I’d never get tired of that word—lay balled up beneath the covers of our enormous bed.
I sighed heavily at the blonde curls (that I’d fisted and caressed so many times) spread over my pillow. Every part of her claimed every part of me.
Her skin glowed almost luminescent in the darkness, and I read her pinched brow with concern. Even asleep, her body language let me know she was pissed at me.
And she had every right to be.
When I’d headed into the office this morning, I’d promised her I’d be back in time for dinner. Normally, I was able to keep my promises.
But not today.
Frederick had been particularly annoying, going over reports and end of year asset consolidation as if I wouldn’t be there to do it.
I’d made him CEO so I could spend more time with Tess and our charities, so why had he been so adamant about me working so hard today?