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Chapter One
Q
“MAÎTRE?”
I groaned and squeezed the back of my neck.
Whenever she called me that, bad things happened.
Hot, dark, deliciously bad things.
“Esclave…I told you. Give me thirty minutes and then I’ll fuck you within an inch of your life. Distrais-moi et tu saigneras pour cette erreur.” (Distract me and you’ll be bleeding for the mistake.)
The soft whispers of her bare feet on carpet sounded behind me. “I haven’t come for you to pleasure or punish me, Master.”
“Oh?” I ran my fingers over the figures of the latest building development in Amsterdam. “Why are you here then? Corrupting me like you always do…”
She didn’t reply, creeping up behind me like a girl who wanted to provoke every despicable monster that lived within me.
I shuddered.
I felt the darkness unfurl and get ready to play.
The short leash I kept myself on had ensured I’d lived a lonely, miserable existence before Tess tripped over my doorstep, spat with such intoxicating fury, and ensured I tumbled right into the darkness with her.
She was the only slave I’d ever touched.
The only woman I’d ever loved.
The only mate I wanted, now and forever.
Doing my best to ignore her games, I kept my gaze on the spreadsheet. I’d been offered the deal by a middle-ranking Dutch Mafia member—a bastard who thought he could go behind his bosses and make some coin on the side by enticing me and my overly inflated bank account.
Pity for him, I knew exactly what he was and cast out my line, fishing with bait I knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse.
I’d said I needed a special sort of incentive to work with him.
He’d laughed and told me to meet him in the red-light district.
I’d gone, purely because I’d heard rumours. And rumours always started in truth. He dabbled in slavery. Sold living, breathing girls and boys as if they were coins to buy him power.
It was up to me to see if that was true.
And do something about it if it was.
Despite my wife’s fury, I’d flown to Amsterdam three days ago. I’d allowed the bastard to seduce and flatter me, but the moment he’d closed the hotel suite’s door and paraded a whimpering sixteen-year-old girl shot to hell with heroin toward me, he’d signed his death warrant.
The girl was a gift.
For me.
Like always.
My reputation preceded me in almost every country on this godforsaken planet.
Police knew who I was.
Criminals knew who I was.
