Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(4)

He shook that thought off and smiled as he listened to her descriptions of ranch life. So cute and so in love. “Do me a favor and don’t pull any of your jokes while you’re there, okay? You’re supposed to be good.”

“I am. Besides, Max said if I was bad, I’d be liable to find a rattler in my bed.” She huffed. “They wouldn’t, Holt, I’m sure they wouldn’t…would they?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “Oh, well, I’m sure they wouldn’t.” He made his tone singularly non-convincing. And didn’t bother to mention that snakes were never aboveground in cold weather.

Her pitiful whine made him bust out laughing.

After more chatting, promising to behave himself, and refusing her offer of sending a bunch of submissives to care for him, he ended the call and leaned back.

He needed another nap.

His endurance was definitely shot. But, fuck, he was tired of sitting around, feeling puny and sorry for himself. There’d be no immediate cure, either. The chief at the fire station told him not to even try to show up for another couple of weeks. Human Resources for his second job as a pediatric ICU nurse said the same thing.

With the surgeon’s eight pound lifting restrictions, he hadn’t even been able to help his neighbor carry in her groceries. Hell, she’d probably have screamed and run if he’d offered.

He ran his finger down the long scar from beside his eye to his jaw. Here was irony. When younger, his pretty boy face had seriously affected his life. He’d barely escaped being raped more than once. Had almost gotten sold as a prostitute. Later, he’d earned a living as a model.

Few people saw past his surface to the man beneath, and he’d hated his good looks. Now he looked like someone fresh out of a war zone and hated that, too. That’s me, shallower than a California creek during the drought.

In the hospital, his now ex-girlfriend, Nadia had stared at his ripped-up face, turned green, and hadn’t even approached his bed. Her unexpected revulsion had been a kick in the teeth. He’d thought she was the one. That they had something special.

He leaned his head back against the chair. No, dumbass, it hadn’t been special, or she would have stuck with you. She would’ve had tears in her eyes and rushed over to the bed. Instead, she’d told him she was late meeting her friend for happy hour.

Well, he’d learned a lesson about surface appearances, hadn’t he? With his schedule at the fire station and the hospital, their time together had been limited—and lightweight. He’d always seen her at her best, never in a challenging situation.

He was a Dom; she was vanilla, so he’d only indulged in mildly kinky sex with her. He’d never tested her boundaries or pushed for more; otherwise, he might have discovered she was showing him only her good side.

With a grunt of exasperation, he pushed himself to his feet. Yeah, he’d been stupid. When it came down to it, he wanted a D/s relationship. While D/s in sex was a must, he also enjoyed the dynamic as a quiet, underlying thread in daily life. He didn’t need a slave, but he’d prefer more than bedroom kink.

Guess Nadia had done him a favor, when it came down to it. Yeah, his heart had gotten scorched, but he’d recover. Eventually.

Now, he should move his ass and find something to eat. The surgeon’s nurse had lectured him on the need for a balanced diet. Appetite or not, he didn’t want a delay in returning to work. Sitting around was boring as hell, and his house was empty and silent. Times like this were a wretched reminder that he had no family left in the world.

Then again, he had great friends.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and saw nearly empty shelves. Zuri and her Doms must have tossed the perishables. Good thing or he’d have been fleeing from green mold and toxic waste.

He had nothing to eat. Rainie had wanted to send food with him, but he’d accepted enough generosity.

As he started to close the door, he noticed a GET WELL card propped against the mustard. Funny place to leave a card.

He opened the card and half-smiled at the scrawling sentiments covering the inside. “Welcome home, Holt!” “We miss you!” “Get well soon!” “The Shadowlands isn’t the same without you!” “Call if you need anything!” All from his friends—the Shadowlands Masters and their submissives, the Shadowkittens.

The bottom of the card read: “Food is in the freezer. Eat!”

What food? He opened the freezer door.

Ziploc bags and plastic containers filled the small freezer section. He pulled one out. “Mexican casserole. Love you, Andrea.” Another. “Stuffed pork chops. Love you, Sally.” Every single one of the ‘kittens had left at least one dinner.

Warmed by their kindness, he smiled. Nah, he didn’t need or want a new woman in his life. His friends had him covered.





Chapter Two





Sipping his beer slowly, Holt stretched his legs out and listened to the latest firehouse gossip. Not a bad way to spend a lazy, post-Thanksgiving Sunday after the NFL game.

Sprawled in the other chairs, his three oversized firefighter friends made his backyard patio look even smaller than it actually was. Not that he was complaining. After years of apartments, he now had an actual backyard of his own—his half of the duplex’s yard.

Warren, built like a linebacker and commonly called Tank, gave Holt an assessing look. “You lost some weight, but you’re looking better. When are you coming back?”