Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(25)

Nolan took Beth’s hand before running a finger down the scar on his own cheekbone. “Yeah, the reactions can be a pain. On the upside, a nice long scar is handy when you want to scare li’l submissives.”

Beth snorted, and then grinned at Holt. “When we met, he had me so terrified I almost puked.”

Yet she’d married the Dom. The tension knotting Holt’s shoulders eased away.

“The scars fade so they’re not as noticeable,” Nolan said. “People who aren’t shallower than a puddle will notice the scars and see past them.”

“So I’m finding.” It also seemed there were a lot of shallow women in the world—like his girlfriend who’d walked out of his hospital room. Holt leaned back. “Our new bartender’s reaction was unique. She’s my neighbor, saw my Harley and these scars, and decided I was some murderous biker and should stay far away from her son.”

Ignoring Nolan’s burst of laughter, Beth turned an angry red and pushed to her feet. Her hands were fisted. “I’m going to have a chat with her.”

She got one step before her Master yanked her down onto his lap. “Uh-uh, sugar. Holt’s problem.”

Beth’s fury on his behalf was heartwarming, but no longer needed. “It’s all good, sweetheart. When Josie found out the truth, she came straight to me to apologize. Was damn upfront about it, too.”

“Oh.” Beth’s frown faded. “Well, all right.”

“Seems like Z warned you about fighting in the Shadowlands, didn’t he?” Nolan asked her.

“He knew I was protecting my Master from a nasty she-predator,” Beth muttered. “It’s not like I punched her or anything.”

Damn. Holt wished he’d seen that altercation. He grinned. “You’re a lucky guy, King.”

Nolan’s instant “damn straight” made Beth smile.

“I should head on home.” Holt gave them a smile, started toward the locker room, and found himself detouring toward the bar.


Josie wanted to be home and talking with Carson about Everett’s letter. She tried to focus on dispensing drinks, but worries kept bubbling to the surface. Surely time would heal the breach between them.

It helped to remember that her boy wasn’t one for holding on to his anger.

Okay, then. She took a long, slow breath to get her mind back into the proper workspace. At least this shift was going better than last night’s. Or maybe she was adjusting to the strangeness of her surroundings. The costumes—fetwear—weren’t as startling, although she was still wincing at the sight of clamps and leashes attached to balls and cocks, nipples and labia. Sheesh.

She definitely liked the music. The songs had a pronounced beat that kept her feet dancing, her hips swaying, and she had to remind herself she was at work and shouldn’t be adding in a shimmy now and then.

Of course, her added comfort level meant she watched more of the scenes and now totally wanted to participate. The thought of being on the receiving end of a sexy—not a punishing—flogging made her insides all quivery.

Don’t be foolish, Josephine.

One: She worked here.

Two: She didn’t have anyone to wield the flogger.

Seriously, this wasn’t anything she wanted to get into. Heck, she didn’t even date. What kind of disaster would she make out of a BDSM scene?

As she looked out over the room, she glimpsed Holt…and a zing shot straight to her girl parts.

Again. Surely those electric zaps should have stopped, as often as she’d seen him tonight. Okay, she had to admit she’d watched for him as he went about his monitoring rounds. Honestly, what woman wouldn’t watch him? Every time he moved, muscles rippled under his sleeveless, black T-shirt. Would his biceps be as hard as they looked? It was insane to have such a craving to touch.

To be touched.

Such thinking was simply crazy. Even if she dated and even if she was into the serious Dominant/submissive stuff—and she wasn’t—Holt was out of her league. She was pretty…in a healthy sort of way. Master Holt looked like he should be on a magazine cover.

True, he did have scars, the dark red one running from his temple to his jaw and a more jagged-looking one under his chin. It hurt to see them—to think of the pain he must have endured, to see the perfection of his face marred. Yet the scars added a deadly edge to his appeal. He’d been in a knife-fight and survived.

With a huff of exasperation, Josie yanked her gaze away. Bad Josie. No leering at Master Neighbor. Unfortunately, returning her attention to the bar meant she saw who was at the barmaid station. Amber.

Josie gave a quiet unhappy sigh. Most of the volunteer barmaids were friendly and fun. However, Amber was making it clear she blamed Josie for her punishment last night and had grown increasingly rude.

Josie smiled politely and held her hand out for the tickets.

Amber tossed the tickets, scattering them over the bar, then slapped down her tray. “Hurry it up, would you?”

Somebody should have had more time-outs as a child.

“I’ll have these for you in about five minutes.” Josie kept her tone even and started working her way through the list.

Amber’s sighs of impatience grew louder. Her fingernails drummed on the bar. “I don’t have all day.”

Josie tilted her head in acknowledgment. Early in her bartending career, she’d learned that reacting to rudeness only escalated the unpleasantness. Bartenders who lasted soon developed armor impervious to insults, aggression, and leering.