Twisted Together (Monsters in the Dark #3)(3)

"Pull the trigger. Go on. You know you want to be free. This is your only way," Leather Jacket said, prowling around me.

My malnourished, bleeding hands shook as I looked at the dead woman with her vacant eyes. Her skull looked odd-cracked and concaved from the killing blow.

I did that.

Me.

God, what has become of me?

Q sacrificed so much to bring me back-it was sacrilege not to keep fighting-to be worthy of his gift. But I had no reserves-no more strength to live these nightmares and stop them from trickling into reality. My nerves were raw. My mind broken. My spirit ruined.

No more.

One bullet, lightning pain, then it could be all over.

Leather Jacket yelled, spitting in my face. "Do it. You belong to us. You do what we command!"

I didn't have the strength to fight back. I no longer wanted to exist in this world. Raising the gun, I opened my lips and guided the metallic chamber into my mouth. It tasted just like I remembered. The taste of finality. Closure. Squeezing my eyes, I tensed.

"That's a good girl. Send yourself to hell. We're waiting for you there."

I pulled the trigger.

The sulphur of gunpowder itched my nose.

The loud detonation of a bullet rang in my ears.

Disbelieving tears streaked from my eyes.

Desperation and utter grief crushed my heart.

The dream howled and gusted and I split into identical images of myself.

One Tess jerked in death-throws as the back of her head exploded in a horrible mess of tissue and red rain. Another Tess, an omniscient dreamer, silently screamed-unable to do anything but watch.

"No!" This couldn't be possible. I just killed myself.

I ended my own life.

I'm weak.

I'm a coward.

I'm worthless.

I screamed.



"Tess! Fuck, it's okay." Q caught me, just like he always did, as I shot upright and clung to his hard shoulders. I couldn't suck in a breath; I scrambled nearer, trying to get closer, trying to morph into him to steal his endless reservoir of strength. Give it to me. Give me your sanity and warmth. I couldn't let him see how rattled and ruined I'd become.

Q scooped me close, resting his chin on my head. "Goddammit, esclave. You're ice cold."

I shivered in his arms like a rapidly decaying leaf. "Sorry. Sorry-I'm-"

His muscles bunched beneath smooth, naked skin as his arms wrapped tighter, giving me safe harbour. "Arrête. Tout va bien." Stop it. You're okay. His voice was level and full of unmistakable authority, but he couldn't hide his own trembling. His hard body quaked with silent flurries of tension. But Q didn't tremble from horror. Oh, no. My maître shook with undiluted rage. He bristled with ferocity. He smouldered with temper. His anger wasn't directed at me but at the ghosts haunting my mind.

"You have to stop fucking letting them in. You're safe. How many times do I need to tell you that?" His anger heated the ice in my blood, reminding me I was still alive and survived. If I could survive being forced to kill, having my finger snapped with pliers, drug overdoses, and rank living conditions, I could survive the residual memories. I had to survive. I owed Q my life. I wouldn't fail him-not after what he did to bring me back.

Maybe I need help.

The thought of talking to a therapist filled me with horror. I wouldn't be able to stomach their carefully blank faces as I confessed to killing a woman. I wouldn't be strong enough to look into their eyes while I spoke of being high on a cocktail of toxins all formulated to cripple my mind and make me their little toy to be sold and used.



       
         
       
        

And antidepressants? I would go completely mad if I ever took another mind-altering drug again.

You owe it to Q to put the past where it belongs. He believes you're healing. I hated lying. I hated that I sucked at lying because Q saw everything I tried to hide. Getting professional help might be the only thing left for me.

I looked up, sucking in a breath as I made eye contact with the most amazing, kind, fearful, stunning male in my life. His hair was slightly longer but still showed his regal widow's peak and perfect bone structure. His lips were twisted in anger, sending wings of gratitude and weakness through me.

After everything, he still cared for me. Still fought for me.

Q stared back, his pale jade gaze ripping me apart, seeing so far inside I had nowhere to hide. And that was what made it so damn hard to pretend.

Q had turned himself into a human punching bag for me to take out the seething anger inside. He let himself be the scapegoat of the bastards in Rio, so I had someone to direct my rage onto. He did so much. Too much. But it wasn't enough.

Love suffocated my heart, stitching me up until I felt mummified with confusion. Bandages upon bandages held me hostage with no way out of the horrible prison I was in.