Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(53)

Yes, that’s what a man like Ben would feel, no matter how crazy.

Logic wasn’t a factor in a guilt equation.

“Thank you, Z. I appreciate the quick psychology lesson.” Mourning had to run its course, but irrational emotions…well, maybe she could derail him from the it’s-my-fault track he was on.

“You may take him with you now. I’ll guard the desk myself until I can call in Ghost,” Z said. “He’s lucky to have you, Anne.”

Have me? “He doesn’t—”

But Z had already disconnected.

By the time Ben finished checking people in, Z had arrived. He must have started down the minute she called. “You’re relieved, Benjamin.”

Ben frowned at him. “But—”

“Let’s go, subbie,” Anne said. As objections rose in the guard dog’s eyes, she pushed her energy outward, bringing her dominance to bear like an invisible battering ram. She held her hand out, pleased when he let her draw him to his feet.

She led him into the main room and toward the back. “As long as I respect your limits, I can do what I want to you. Is that right?”

“What?” The question pulled his gaze away from the passing scenes—the glass cups on a submissive’s chest and cock, an exquisite pattern of needles being shaped across a wide back, a Dom using the two-flogger Florentine style.

After a second of processing her question, Ben nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

A trace of life showed in his face. Not many people could walk through the super-charged ambiance of the Shadowlands and not wake up.

The subtle threat she’d just delivered added to the effect.

She started up the circular staircase leading to the second floor.

He stopped. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to play upstairs in one of the private rooms.” Although she’d occasionally used a slave’s penis as a leash, today, she only gathered the front of his jeans, belt and all, and pulled him behind her up the stairs.

“I’ve never been up here.” He looked down the long hallway. If a room was in use, a red light glowed above the door.

“After all these years? I’d say it was about time.” She glanced in each unoccupied room as they passed. She rejected the ornate Victorian, which would make Ben ill at ease, and then a depressing Goth-styled room. One with a harem decor had potential, but not today. Barbarian—no.

The one she was looking for wasn’t where it had been last time. Z’s tendency to rearrange and redecorate rooms annoyed the hell out of her.

And there it was.

She led him into the room she’d titled: Cowboy Central—although Z called it the Texas room.

Dour Nolan had actually laughed when he saw it.

The walls were paneled with dark wood rather than wallpaper. Cowhide rugs were scattered on the gleaming hardwood floor. An antique chest served as an end table to an oversized black leather armchair. A handwoven Navaho rug in dark-red and black brightened one wall. The other held a mounted buffalo head—and she really, really didn’t want to know if it was real or not. A wagon wheel chandelier provided light. Toys were stored in an aged walnut armoire.

Barely loud enough to be heard, country-western music came from the speakers.

She smiled as she saw Ben relax slightly. Big guys tended to prefer rooms without fragile glass and furniture.

When he saw the decorations surrounding the armoire on the far wall, his eyes widened. Welded horseshoes had been turned into hooks to hold a variety of floggers and whips.

She’d noticed how Z enjoyed using implements of pain as artwork.

After setting her toy bag on the chest, she took out some thin Velcro strips. “Strip, then stand under the chains, please.” She pointed and watched Ben’s shoulders tense as he sighted the two heavy black chains hanging from the dark, exposed ceiling beams.

He silently stripped, still too subdued, still so far into his own head and emotions that he was almost separated from the world.

She could pull him out of that place. But if she didn’t effect some change in his thought processes, he’d fall back into his funk afterward.

Her lips pressed together. There were times that being a Domme was like driving up in the mountains. In the dark. On a tiny, curvy road.

Mistakes could be very, very bad.

He trusted her not to screw up his body; he didn’t realize she was more worried about his mind.

She tossed one of her subbie blankets over the leather chair and set a bottle of water on the trunk.

As she buckled heavy leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles, a tremor ran through him. Being bound was one of his triggers. One she planned to use—not abuse. “Arms up.” She stood on the carved miniature steer footstool to attach his cuff’s D-ring to one chain, using a half-inch-wide Velcro strip.

“Pull down,” she said.

He gave a slight tug on the restraint and nothing happened.

“Harder.”

The Velcro gave with a ripping sound. Just right. He’d know he was restrained—and that he could get free if needed. Silently, she secured that wrist again as well as the other. Once finished, she wrapped his fingers around the chains. “You can hang on for support.”

After stepping off the stool, she pushed his feet apart. “Keep your legs wide open for me, Benjamin. I don’t want to see them move.”