Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(65)

He was already letting her control him. And, at least in the bedroom, he enjoyed the hell out of it.

For her heart’s sake, she needed to be certain he was hers. He’d avoid anything that would make her question their longevity—because he damned well intended to be around for a long, long time.

No matter how much she guarded her tender heart, eventually she’d let him in.





Chapter Fifteen



At the Tomorrow Is Mine domestic violence shelter, Anne stood in the group section of the gymnasium. Four of the teenage girls practiced hitting the sand and punching bags. The rest of the dozen had paired up to work on the block-punch technique she’d just taught them. Shouts echoed off the walls, and the acrid smell of teen sweat hung in the air.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the door open.

Beth entered, followed by her Master, Nolan. As always, the discrepancy between them was startling. Nolan was over six feet, and construction work had given him an impressively muscular build. With coal-colored hair and eyes, a scarred face, and a rough expression, his looks ensured people would avoid him.

In contrast, his submissive was short and slender, fair-skinned, red-haired, and soft-voiced.

And she had a very big heart.

Tomorrow Is Mine would have closed if Beth hadn’t stepped in with a huge donation. Her abusive ex’s death had provided Beth with the money to fund battered women’s shelters in Florida and her home state of California.

After that, she’d persuaded several Shadowlands’ members—including Anne—to help with the shelter’s programs.

Anne crossed the room. “It’s good to see you two. Did you come to help teach?”

Nolan shook his head, silent, as usual.

“Can we talk when you’re finished here?” Beth asked. Her unreadable face was worrisome. Beth usually showed all her emotions.

“Of course.” Anne checked her watch. “The girls have another five minutes. Will that work for you?”

“Sure,” Beth said.

“All right then.” Anne returned to her class and stopped at the head-high sandbag, hanging from the ceiling rafter. “That kick was excellent, Petra. Can you feel the difference when your power comes from your core?”

The thirteen-year-old girl nodded, her mouth in a line of determination. The canvas-filled bag was taller, wider, and far more threatening than the slim teen—but a dent still showed where her foot had hit. Perfect.

Anne moved to the next girl who was working through block-punch moves with another girl.

Gina was seventeen, pretty, five-ten, and built like an Amazon. She frowned at Anne.

“What’s wrong, Gina?”

“No matter what I do, a guy would just flatten me. This is, totally, a waste of time.”

Hmm. “If you think that, you will definitely lose.” Perhaps the staff needed to show more empowered female movies—including some with women fighters. In fighting, the mental attitude was just as important as skill.

Nolan’s rough laugh drew the attention of the girls. He and Beth had moved close enough to hear Gina’s comment. Two of the newer teens backed away from him, but the rest continued practicing, having seen the big contractor working on the buildings.

Annoyed at the interruption, Anne set her hands on her hips. “Something funny, Nolan?”

“These girls ever seen you fight?”

Anne frowned. Actually, they hadn’t. She demonstrated techniques, but actual fighting? No. And she caught Nolan’s point. The girls needed the bone-deep belief that a woman could effectively use her fists and defend herself.

“Do you think it would help if Anne and I sparred?” Beth asked.

Nolan smiled down at his submissive. “Sugar, you’ve come a long way, but she’d flatten you.” His black gaze hit Anne. “Fight me.”

Gasps and whispered protests ran around the room, warming Anne’s heart. Her students cared about her.

Although it was pretty insulting the way they assumed she’d lose.

“You’re on. Let’s go for medium impact.” After handing Gina her watch, Anne led the way to the area covered with thick floor mats and sank into a ready stance.

Nolan stripped off his belt and wedding ring, removed his boots and socks. Face impassive, he attacked immediately. A right toward her face—slightly wide—testing her readiness. She slapped it aside and followed with a solar plexus punch with just enough power to make a point.

She ducked under his return backhand, thumped his ribs, and continued turning, using the momentum as a foot sweep.

He rolled to his feet and pressed her ruthlessly this time with a one-two-three punch flurry that she blocked as she stepped forward. One of the girls gasped.

Inside his guard, she shoved him back—to open his stance—and set her knee against his balls gently.

He froze and let out a laugh. His muttered, “Mistress,” was for her ears only.

She smiled and lifted her voice. “What happens when my knee hits your balls?”

He played along and groaned, hands covering his crotch. She gripped his thick hair and yanked his head down far enough to show how easily his face could meet her knee.

Turning toward her class, she said, “If you can, always just get away. If you have to fight and you get a man down, then it’s smart to incapacitate him, giving yourself time to escape. Have you watched movies where the woman drops the bad guy—but he tackles her before she reaches the door?”