To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(13)

“Of course.” Raoul frowned at Marcus. “Make sure she stays out of sight until we figure out how much danger she’ll be in.”

Marcus nodded. Considering the hell the lawyer had suffered when the slavers had kidnapped Gabi, Raoul knew his friend wouldn’t be careless with either woman’s safety.

Raoul turned back to Kimberly, his heart aching. In volunteering after an earthquake, he’d seen survivors with the same shocked expression that showed they’d discovered how unsafe the world could be. Every dominant gene in his body said she needed to be cared for, protected, helped—and that he should be the one to do it. But a master was the last thing she wanted. “Give me your wrist.”

She hesitated a long moment, then held one arm out. After taking his keys from his pocket, he unlocked and removed her ankle and wrist cuffs. Finally the collar.

When he pulled it away, the relief on her face almost broke his heart.


A second later, her expression changed to fury. She plucked it from his fingers and threw it across the room, then cringed. “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders stiffened as she braced for him to hit her.

“Relax. I understand.” He glanced at the collar, lying like a dead thing on the floor, remembering the first time he’d collared a woman. She’d had tears of joy, of gratitude in her eyes. She’d kissed the leather and then his hands as he’d buckled it around her neck. He’d been humbled by her trust, determined to never let her down, to love and cherish her. The collar he’d given his first slave had been padded on the inside, gentle on her skin.

He traced a finger over a scar and raw marks left on Kimberly’s neck from the rough leather, before realizing she was forcing herself to hold still. No, he wouldn’t go get his healing ointment. Not mine to care for. “Will you be all right, chiquita?”

She looked at him uncertainly, as if waiting for his anger, but all he had to offer was sorrow. She touched her bare neck, and determination filled her face. “I’ll be fine.” As she looked past him at the ocean, the storm in her eyes settled. “I will.”

Chapter Three

Gabi had invited over two friends, and Kim had hidden in the bathroom. Hoping to stall for another minute, she stared into the mirror. The blue sleeveless top Gabi had lent her fit fairly well since she hadn’t regained all the weight yet. Eyes clear, nose and cheeks a little sunburned. Almost healthy looking, at least on the outside.

Faith, the psychologist, kept insisting self-assessment was a necessary part of recovering. Easy for her to say.

The past week had been…bad. Real bad. But—she nodded at herself—now she no longer cried so violently she’d end up in the bathroom puking, although the tears still hit without warning. Her bouts of terror had lessoned, and hey, sometimes she even managed to talk herself out of one. The feeling something horrible would happen had gone from every second to oh…every few hours. Little victories. Of course, she had help from everyone, including a counselor.

Thank you, Master R. Even though he’d never visited, she felt he was watching over her. Maybe it was the way a doctor had shown up soon after she’d arrived at Gabi’s house, then Faith that evening and daily after that. Gabi and Marcus had been surprised; Master R—Raoul—had arranged it without any consultation.

Yesterday, she’d gotten back the results of the tests the doctor had done. No nasty diseases. No pregnancy.

She patted her chest, smiling. Today, the elephant-on-the-chest sensation was gone. Yes, I’m getting better. The counseling definitely helped. So did Gabi, with her years as a victim specialist and her own history of rape. Kim could share with Gabi things she couldn’t tell Faith—and vice versa. The two women gave her sympathy, hugs, and an occasional hard dose of reality. Gabi, especially, would shake her head and say, “Yeah, of course you’re having panic attacks and nightmares. They might not ever go away completely, but they’ll subside.”

That helped a lot, knowing Gabi had gone on to have a life. To find love. And what a sweetie she’d found. Kim sighed. Marcus couldn’t disguise he was a dominant, but he kept his distance, never asking Kim to do anything, usually letting Gabi do the talking. Seeing his tenderness toward Gabi and the love he openly showed her had been healing in itself.

Why couldn’t I have found someone like that? Why did the slavers choose me anyway? Other women liked BDSM, went to the clubs, didn’t get Tasered and kidnapped. Chained and beaten. Why me? Because I’m a slut? Kim peered into the mirror. Did it show on her face maybe?

Gabi had stopped visiting BDSM clubs years before. I kept going, even drove back from Savannah to visit the Atlanta club. So maybe Kim deserved everything she’d gotten. Maybe she really was a slut and a f*ckhole as Lord Greville had said.

Laughter came from the other room, breaking into her thoughts before the darkness overwhelmed her. With a shuddering breath, Kim pushed the bleakness aside and tried to remember what Gabi and the counselor had said. I’m not a slut. Not.

“Kim, get out here,” Gabi called. “The cookies are out of the oven. Jessica and Kari are hungry.”

Enough already. Recovering would take time. Eventually, the FBI would give her permission to go home. I can do this. After splashing cold water on her face, Kim joined Gabi in the kitchen where the comforting fragrance of just-baked cookies filled the air.

The phone rang, and Gabi made a sound of exasperation. “Here. Can you take these out?” She handed over the platter and turned to answer the phone. “Hello?”