I could trust her.

And I would fucking obey her.

WE’D DRIVEN FOR over an hour.

Past patchwork countryside, furrowed fields, and sedately grazing animals, and Q hadn’t said a single word.

When I’d finally braved leaving the bathroom—wearing a grey woollen dress, turquoise scarf, and hair dried and soft around my shoulders—I’d expected Q to pounce on me. I feared he’d strip me, bind me, and force me to ruin my surprise before we’d even left the estate.

However, my cunning ploy worked.

I knew Franco wouldn’t be able to make him see reason. But Frederick could. Frederick had the same sort of power over Q that I did. We both held keys to his temper, only in different ways.

Somehow, he’d managed to convince Q to wait for me in the Aston Martin with some classical French opera throbbing through the speakers and my secret picnic shoved in the back. The expensive car was too small to include our luggage. Our clothing had been sent with our guests via helicopter. The same helicopter Q had fucked me in on the way to his office for the first time.

Our last time together before I was taken again.

Biting my lip, I glanced out the window. Snow lay in banks here and there, but the sunshine had burned off the lighter frosting. Icicles still glittered on the trees in the shade. However, the inside of the car was toasty thanks to the heated leather seats and warm breeze from the vents.

Another few miles passed, and still, Q didn’t speak. His hands remained tight around the steering wheel only moving to shift gears or hurl us around a corner.

I didn’t mind he drove fast even if ice decorated parts of the road. I trusted him.

I just wish he trusted me.

He didn’t trust me enough to agree to a surprise, and he didn’t trust me to say what was eating him. Because something was and it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

I jumped as soft fingers caressed my neck.

Whipping my head around, Q’s jade green eyes smouldered. “Let me see it.”

My heart pattered, but I knew what he meant.

Slowly, I unravelled the scarf from around my throat and tilted my chin so he could see. Slipping my hair over my shoulder, the full mark was visible.

Inhaling raggedly, Q traced the brand he’d seared into my flesh so many years ago. For many months, it’d remained red and ugly. Now, the skin had silvered, and it looked like a birthmark rather than violent ownership. The Q with a sparrow for the tail marked me forever as his.

My eyes dropped to his jacketed chest, wishing I could see the brand he’d let me sear onto him in return: the birdcage dangling from a capital T. His had also silvered, becoming tangled with tree branches and sparrow feathers of his tattoo.

Unless the sunlight hit my scar correctly or Q willingly pointed out his, no one could tell we’d permanently signed ourselves to the possession of another.

Taking another rattling breath, Q continued to drive with one hand and caress my brand with his other. If he’d had a bad day, or we’d argued, or things just weren’t entirely perfect between us, he found his way back to me by seeing proof that I was his. Not just in the past or now but in our turbulent future, too.

Placing my hand over his, I kissed his fingers.

His eyes narrowed.

The scent of desperation and desire braided around us.

Clutching my hand, he made a sharp left turn, veering off the road and onto a gravel path. I never looked away from him as he navigated at dust-cloud speed down the track and slammed the car into park the moment we reached a shaggy field with a falling down barn and rusted tractor.

His fingers became claws, locking around my neck and yanking my face to his.

I sucked in a breath as his lips claimed mine and he kissed me hungrily, viciously, so damn possessively. I forgot we were in a car on private land in the middle of the French countryside.

My thighs clenched together as I grew wet. My breasts grew heavy and ached, and I couldn’t stop my hand as it crossed the handbrake and rubbed his hard cock through his silky slacks.

“Esclave…” His lips turned to teeth, nipping their way pleasurably and laced with warning down my neck to my brand. His tongue lapped the silver sigil, tension slowly seeping from his body.

He breathed calmer; a soft chuckle left his lips. “God, I’m a fucking ass.”

Relief made me puddle in the seat. “Not at all. I knew you’d have a hard time agreeing to this.”

He pulled back, his eyes flickering from my lips to my eyes. To so many, Q wouldn’t make sense with the way he needed constant reminders that I meant what I said the day I returned to him. That we weren’t living a lie. That I was his, through and through. But to me, I got it.

Because I had my own insecurities.

I feared that one day my submission in the bedroom and my fight in every other facet of our life wouldn’t be enough. That one day, he’d find another slave girl—rescued from abuse and a life of pain—and find her brokenness more desirable than my unflappable strength.

We were convinced of our love for one another. Yet so distrusting of it, too.

I supposed that wasn’t healthy—that we demanded so much of each other when after years together we should've settled into a more relaxed acceptance. But who was to say what was healthy and what was not. Some people didn’t like sex. Others did. Some people liked vanilla. Others liked blood-play and violence.

There was no right or wrong.

No guidebook on how to be a perfect wife or husband. And if there was, it ought to be ripped up because no one could know what another truly needed. Each relationship was its own mess full of faults and flaws, fighting every damn day to be worthy.