Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(2)

“Hello, Ben.”

“Mistress Anne...” His voice came out a low rumble, and she lifted an eyebrow. The guard dog had a growl after all.

“I’m fine.” She patted his arm and found rock-hard muscles beneath his loose, button-up shirt. She had to—quite inappropriately—wonder at what else lay under all that fabric.

“Were you in an accident? Should I call someone?”

She laughed—and halted quickly as her right side blazed with pain. It felt as if someone had jammed a fiery spear between her ribs. Don’t laugh, stupid. She put her hand over the ache, pleased that her over-the-dress bustier served as adequate support for a bruised ribcage. “The only accident was the need to rescue an inadequate member of my team.” Because her cousin had located the fugitive and tried to apprehend the man himself without waiting for backup. Because the idiot had gotten the pistol kicked out of his hand. Because she’d had to jump in before the felon smashed Robert’s head in with his baseball bat. “He got in a couple of good blows”—and a kick to her thigh—“before I took him down.”

The narrowing of Ben’s eyes made him look impressively menacing.

But after a second, he shook his head and returned to his position, leaving the air in his wake unsettled, as if a thunderstorm had moved through. He braced a hand on his desk and frowned at her. “Picking up fugitives is dangerous. Maybe you should…” He trailed off, frozen to silence by her icy stare.

Her father and uncles possessed an identical belief, and she gave his comment the same careful consideration she accorded theirs. None.

“Benjamin,” she said softly. She met his gaze. Held his gaze. “When I want your opinion about my occupation, I’ll beat it out of you.”

He sat down slowly—and she gave him props for that, since a lot of boys went weak-kneed. But this was a man. She’d have said a very vanilla man, but heat flushed his cheeks and lips. And the concern in his eyes had changed to an edgy arousal.

Interesting.

But she shook her head. She didn’t do vanilla.

And she certainly wouldn’t mess with an employee of Z’s.

Lifting a hand, she sauntered—with a damn limp—into the main clubroom. Into gut-wrenching screams, flickering sconces, and the scents of sex and sweat and pain.

Home sweet home.





Three hours later, she’d assessed the various scenes being conducted, chosen a nice quiet caning, and eased down into a leather armchair outside the roped-off area. Done, done, done. Her stint as dungeon monitor was complete, and her leg throbbed as if a dwarf logger was using an ax on it. Galen and Vance were out of town, leaving the Masters short-handed, or else she’d have called to tell Z she couldn’t make it tonight.

But she’d performed her duty.

“Mistress Anne, may I fetch you something to drink?”

She eyed the young man. Dressed in running shorts and nothing else, the blond actually vibrated with his need to please. He must be one of the new ones.

After eliminating the trainee positions, the club owner, Z, had tried professional waitstaff, been displeased with the results, and now offered his submissive members discounted dues if they served drinks a certain number of hours a month.

“What’s your name?” Anne asked.

“Apple, Mistress Anne.”

“Apple, as in take a bite out of you?” She watched him quiver.

“Yes, Mistress Anne. Any time the Mistress wishes.”

“That’s good to know, Apple.” He was a very pretty lad—and she couldn’t summon up an ounce of interest. She put a boot up on the long, dark wood table. “Right now, all I want is my second drink. Tell Master Cullen it’s for Mistress Anne, please.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” His look of disappointment was so intense, she felt like patting him on the cheek and saying, “There, there.”

But that would require moving.

Instead, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and listened to Seraphim Shock’s “After Dark,” the sinister music punctuated by the staccato sounds of the nearby caning. When she heard the thump of a glass on the end table, she held her hand out, palm up, and waggled her fingers. “In my hand, boy.”

He set the drink in her hand.

“Thank you.” One sip told her that Cullen had worked his usual magic. The silky smoothness of a perfectly chilled Manhattan eased her dry throat.

The chair beside her squeaked.

Excuse me? A slave dared sit in her presence? “Listen, boy…” She opened her eyes and met those of the owner of the Shadowlands.

“Good evening, Anne.” Gray eyes alight with amusement, he leaned back and set a foot next to hers on the coffee table.

Since he’d been nice enough to bring her a drink, she drank more of it. Lovely. “Sorry, Z. I thought you were someone named Apple.”

His lips twitched at the emphasis she gave to the name. “Did you have a craving to peel and core him?”

“Not even close. Today you could parade a few dozen eager submissives in front of me, and I still wouldn’t be motivated to move.” In fact, her limbs felt as if they were sinking into the furniture. “Actually, I’m not particularly interested in anyone these days.”

“Are you missing Joey?”

Joey had been her latest slave; the one she’d kept for the longest period. They’d had so much fun together…and then not so much fun. “Not really. Not anymore.”