Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(99)

“Darling.” Her mother’s face was white. “He doesn’t—”

“He does, Mom. It’s fine. I get it.” Her voice didn’t betray the echoing emptiness inside. Her gaze turned to Russell. “You win too. I quit as of this moment.” She glanced at Travis. “Please pick up my things for me.”

Face set, he nodded.

Finally, she looked at Robert. “You are a slimy turd not worth scraping off my stiletto, let alone speaking to. So fair warning. If you ever address me again for any reason, you’ll wake up in a hospital bed, pissing blood for a month.”

Silence accompanied her as she walked out.





In the Shadowlands, Ben leaned against a black leather couch and idly watched a chain station scene. In a dark-red suit, the Domme was wielding a cane on a gray-haired submissive. Her husband, actually, as Ben recalled. She was whacking him in time with the Aboriginal-sounding drums of Massive Attack’s “Inertia Creeps.” His groans provided an interesting counterpoint to the lead singer’s whispers.

The Domme stopped to observe her sub.

The man kept trying to look over his shoulder. As the seconds passed without a blow, he continued to tense.

“Take a deep breath now,” she ordered in a light, sweet voice.

The guy didn’t listen.

Bad move, bro, Ben said to him silently.

And yep…

The Domme moved the cane and lightly swatted her beloved’s ball sac.

The man’s yelp pulled in air—and focused his attention on his Mistress, where it belonged.

Ouch. Ben shook his head, recalling how a whack in the jewels felt. Poor f*cker. Why were Dommes so fascinated with a guy’s junk?

Not that he was complaining. The results were—he watched the guy shake with the need to come—like that.

“You are not working security this evening?” The Spanish-accented voice came from Ben’s right. Raoul glanced at the scene. “Are you taking notes for Mistress Anne?”

Just the sound of her name upped his pulse as if an RPG had hit nearby—and made his chest ache. Dammit, he missed her.

Raoul’s brows drew together. “’Mano, are you all right?”

“Don’t know yet.” Ben turned away from the action. “I told her I’m not cut out to be a slave.”

“It was what she needed to know, yes?” Raoul studied him. “What was her response?”

“She asked for time to think.” Not even the beauty of the Everglades had been able to keep his mind from Anne. The slow sway of the royal palms reminded him of her grace. High clouds in a sunlit sky made him remember how her eyes lightened when she was happy.

But now the time had come to hear her answer, and he was worried shitless. “She’ll tell me tonight what she decided.”

Raoul’s jaw tightened, and Ben could see he wasn’t optimistic.

“You know something I don’t?” Ben asked.

“Only that when slaves have requested more from her—to receive more attention and time or to live with her—she would pull away, match them with Dommes who would satisfy their needs, and find herself someone new.”

Great. Being replaced would be even worse than being dumped. A lead ball settled in Ben’s gut.

Raoul moved his shoulders. “Although for you, she might, perhaps…change.”

Change. And Anne. Right. Ben tried to shrug. “It’ll fall out as it will.”

“Life does do that,” Raoul agreed gently. “Will you… Can I—”

“I’ll be f*cking fine.” Because Anne had forced him to see that life was meant to be lived. “She should be here by now.”





Why in the world had she exploded at her father and uncles? Anne shook her head as she walked into the Shadowlands clubroom. Her body, even her skin, felt fragile, like a hollowed-out egg that the slightest bump would crack.

Of course, the confrontations with her father and her uncles had been long overdue. She hadn’t said anything she hadn’t thought for a long time. It had been…maybe…a bit freeing to express herself.

But for the rodent Robert to set off the fire and make her burn her bridges so thoroughly? That stung.

Whatever had happened to her control? Her temper never flamed out of hand like that. She didn’t yell, didn’t scream, didn’t cry. But now, rather than properly stored inside, her emotions clung to her fingertips, shaking loose with any minor upset.

And then she knew. Hormones caused mood swings. Tears…and anger.

A corner of her mouth lifted even as she scowled down at her belly and the cause of her wayward emotions. You and I need to talk about your effect on me. Soon.

Her hand ran over her stomach—still flat—and gave it a pat. She was going to have a baby. A real baby. Her eyes instantly prickled with happy tears.

Oh, honestly. She hauled in an exasperated breath. At this rate, she’d start bawling during cat food commercials.

A sudden scream drew her back to reality.

On a nearby bondage table, a petite submissive had started to struggle frantically, sobbing, and screaming. “N-n-no! Asparagus! V-vinegar. Please, no more. Apricots. Stop. God, please stop!”

Someone had just discovered she hated needle play—and apparently couldn’t remember her safeword.