To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(10)

He tried to call Gabrielle. The thought of telling the sweet submissive that her best friend was freed lightened his heart. But no one answered at the house she shared with her dom, and Marcus didn’t answer his cell phone. Was this the weekend the two planned to go sailing? Growling, he texted them also, telling them to come to his house tomorrow morning.

Raoul scowled. Apparently he had himself a slave for the night.

Slave. The word sandpapered his nerves. He rubbed his face. Even after three years, the remnants of the ugly fight with his mother and sister still echoed in his memory. “You kept a woman as a slave? You’re a monster, Raoul.” His fun-loving sister’s voice had been so cold. Distant, as if she’d already cut him from her life. His mother’s lined face had grown more careworn, and the brown eyes which matched his own had filled with tears as she whispered, “How could you, my son?”

They should meet Dahmer and see what real monsters look like.

Now what? He frowned at the little slave on his couch. At least she wasn’t really his, even if he was stuck with her longer than he wanted.

Pretty little slave, somehow both innocent and sensual in the pink sweat pants and tank top the Overseer had provided for her. She slept heavily. Her thick black lashes lay against her pale cheeks, her breathing slow. Even if he managed to wake her, she wouldn’t be capable of understanding any explanations.

He sighed. His body ached as if he’d been the one to be flogged, and he was exhausted in a way he’d never felt after doing a scene at the Shadowlands. He needed sleep, or he’d be incoherent when Buchanan or Kouros arrived, expecting a detailed report.

Sleep it was.

In the upstairs hallway with Kimberly in his arms, he started toward the guest room and then remembered the fury in her eyes. If she woke, she’d try to run, no doubt about it. As much as the thought disgusted him, she’d have to be secured against escape…but he never left a restrained sub unattended.

He turned and headed for his own room.

When he laid her down on his bed, her eyes popped open, and she hit at him.

He caught her small fist. “Shhh, Kimberly, no one is going to hurt you here.”

Even drugged as she was, the twist of her lips showed her disbelief, but she couldn’t maintain her anger. Her eyes slowly drooped, then closed.


He stroked her hair back from her face, wishing Gabi had been available to take her friend home. Kimberly shouldn’t have to live in fear a moment longer. What a mess.

No choice. He glanced at the ankle and wrist cuffs she still wore—freebies from the slavers—and ones she’d stay in for tonight. At least the master bedroom was already set up for bondage with chains on the heavy ironwork. He secured the lower bedpost chain to her right ankle cuff. No escape for you, little slave. Not tonight.

After setting the multitool from his boot sheath and the padlock key the Overseer had given him on the bedside table, he moved them out of Kimberly’s reach.

His shower didn’t wash away the sensation of filth, but it helped. He rummaged in the dresser for a pair of loose cotton pants and pulled them on. She didn’t wake as he rolled her over and checked her back. The attendants had put bandages over the places where he’d cut her skin and ointment on the welts. Everything looked clean. He’d seen—even done—much worse, but never to someone who wasn’t willing.

Unhappiness stewing in his chest, he slid under the covers. Propped up on an elbow, he studied her, a little shocked at how different she was from Rachel, the healthy, enthusiastic woman he’d had in his bed last week. Kimberly had dark circles under her eyes, yellowing bruises here and there, and hollowed cheeks that made him want to feed her. Pamper her. But he doubted she’d agree or say two words to him, even after she learned she was safe.

She’d only remember that he’d flogged her bloody. Guilt stabbed through him again.

Well, he’d done the best he could. He sighed. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a pleasant day. Special Agents Kouros and Buchanan would be furious. He was to have rejected all the slaves, essentially forcing the Overseer to invite him to the auction. Instead, he’d bought a slave.

One who had a wealth of anger simmering in her soul. One who undoubtedly hated the buyer who’d lashed her. He might wake to a fist in the face.

Better safe than sorry, he decided, and pulled her against his chest so he’d know if she moved. Her body was just the right size to fit within the curve of his, and when he slid his arm under her head for a pillow, her soft ass pressed on his groin. Ignoring the way he hardened, he kissed her silky hair and followed her into sleep.

* * * *

Pain woke Kim. Her back burned and throbbed. Her mouth tasted like putrid metal and was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Her head pounded, and even her eyelids felt lethargic. Obviously, she’d been drugged. Again. The Overseer did it every time they moved the slaves. Said it decreased the chances of anyone causing trouble.

Where am I ? Lying on her side, she squinted at the painfully bright morning sunlight streaming in through French doors. Wake up, brain. The sale last night. Kneeling in front of a man. Dancing. The dungeon. Pain.

She stiffened. A heavy weight rested on her waist—not covers, but a darkly tanned, very muscular arm. A man lay behind her, his legs tangled with hers. The Hispanic master had bought her. The one who’d flogged her so cruelly her entire back still hurt like heck. His hard chest pressed against her, making the pain almost worse than the roiling nausea from the drugs and what she knew would come next.