Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(51)

Being a Mistress was who she was.

Like any new Dominant, she’d gradually worked out what she liked, testing out submissives and slaves, and found she preferred utter control.

The beauty of receiving everything.

She enjoyed the responsibility of caring for her slaves and making the decisions.

And she’d gone through a fair number of boys over the years.

At first, they’d lived with her, sometimes more than one. But then she’d moved into the beach house, owning her own home for the first time, and somehow hadn’t wanted anyone else in her space.

So for the last two or three years, her slaves had been less than 24/7, which also let her demand strict protocol when they were with her. They asked permission to touch, to sit on the furniture, checked with her before doing anything.

In return for their devotion, she helped them grow, learn new skills, advance their careers, improve their social abilities, deepen their slavery. But before a slave grew too dependent on her, she’d find him a new Mistress.

She sighed. That was what had taught her that she didn’t have much of a heart. She’d never had trouble breaking the attachment. When each slave left, she’d miss him for a bit—not long—and soon start the search for someone else.

Perhaps she wasn’t a typical Mistress, but her ways worked for her—and who was to say her nay?

Ben wouldn’t understand her limitations, that she could give only so much and not more. And since the thought of hurting him was intolerable, she’d simply keep her distance.





Chapter Ten



On Thursday, the sultry evening was so humid with the approaching storm that moisture filmed Ben’s arms as he walked the two blocks to his neighborhood tavern. He stepped inside, enjoying the blast of air-conditioned air. After nodding to the handful of regulars, he swung by the bar and bought a draft. Beer in hand, he took a small table by the window where he could enjoy the view.

The way the sunlight filtered through the heavy air made him wish he’d brought his camera.

On the sidewalk, people were hurrying home from work. Others strolled more leisurely as they took their dogs to the small block-long park. Maybe he should start a new series, focusing on humans rather than wildlife.

He’d always enjoyed watching people. In fact, back in the beginning, Z had given him grief about observing instead of participating.

But over the last few years, he’d returned to status quo, although he still took his time in making friends. Military friendships were a tough act to follow. He’d known his team would have his back, no matter what.

Seemed as if ties born in blood and pain went deeper. Maybe that was why he felt so close to Anne. He’d trusted her to take care of him, and she hadn’t let him down.

At least not physically. Emotionally though?

He hadn’t seen her since last weekend.

Staring out the window, he drank his beer and watched the darkness eat away the light. Watched the rain begin and trickle down the dirty glass.

Anne didn’t trust him to guard her back, that was certain. She’d let him f*ck her, but not know her.

His mouth twisted. What was his next move? A woman had the right to establish the boundaries of a relationship; a Mistress even more so. But where did that leave him?

“Yo, Longshot.” Danvers crossed the bar. He was a short, tough guy, rather like a sawed-off redwood. Discharged a year before Ben, he’d found Ben the warehouse and helped convert it into a studio and living space.

“What’s up?” Ben shoved a chair out in invitation.

His friend dropped down hard enough the chair let out a protesting groan. A glance at Ben’s pale beer earned a sneer.

“Miss,” Danvers said to the waitress who was wiping down a nearby table. “Can you bring me the darkest beer on tap?”

“Of course.”

The tavern rotated the draft beers with the seasons, something the locals had come to enjoy.

As Danvers slouched in his chair, Ben frowned. “You look like hell. You okay?”

“Fuck, no.” The vet scowled out the window. “You haven’t heard?”

At the flatness of his voice, Ben felt his gut twist. “Heard what?”

“The team. Walked into an ambush. Lost…” he swallowed. “Three gone. Most were wounded.”

Ben’s mouth tasted like sand and blood. As he lifted his drink, beer sloshed over the rim onto his fingers. His hand was shaking. “Who?”

“Wrench. Petrousky. And Mouse. Mouse didn’t make it.” Danvers rubbed his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, bro.”

The blow cracked Ben’s soul open, slashing a gap in the fabric of his world. The whole f*cking room darkened. He and Mouse had been sniper and spotter, closer than some marriages. Under fire together. Bled together. Saved each other’s ass more than once. Could almost read each other’s mind.

But when Ben didn’t re-up, Mouse’d been pissed. Yeah, his friend had tried to understand, but killing insurgents didn’t eat at him as it did Ben. Mouse’s world was black and white. Us and them. Good and bad. Rangers and enemy. The spotter didn’t think of the enemy as men who were also someone’s father, son, brother. Men who loved and laughed and lived.

Still…Mouse’d talked about getting out after his term was up. Ben would’ve been there to help ease the transition. Would’ve…