To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(3)

“Skinny.” He glanced at Dahmer.

“Ah.” Dahmer said in his slimy voice, “The slave got herself hurt. She’s fine now but hasn’t regained the pounds she lost. She hasn’t had much training, and she bears some scars, which is why we’re offering her at a bargain price.”

The tiny muscles around the woman’s mouth barely tightened, but no other reaction showed. Very good control.

“She’ll do. For now,” Raoul said. The two FBI agents running the show had recommended he present an aloof personality.

Raoul threaded his hand in the girl’s black hair, the weight like heavy silk, and used it to pull her closer.

She didn’t fight him, silently compliant.

“Look at me.” When she didn’t obey, he tightened his grip and pulled her head back…gently, although it hopefully appeared cruel.

Her gaze lifted to his, and he froze for a long breath. Startling clear blue eyes, the color of antique glass. He’d seen those eyes before…when Marcus’s submissive had shown him a picture and begged for him to watch for her friend. This had to be Kimberly.

Madre de Dios, what a f*cking mess. “The coloring is an asset,” he said to the Overseer, then opened his hand and released the…slave. Not Kimberly. For tonight, she was nothing more than a slave, there to serve him. He had no other choice. “Bring me something to eat,” he snapped and walked over to sit with the others by the fire.

Stretching his legs out, he sipped his wine and idly watched the old fart fondle the young girl’s breasts. Rage simmered in an ugly stew in his guts. No, Sandoval. Control. Perhaps someday he could feed the lecher a knuckle sandwich, but not today. Raoul forced his fist to open.

Thankfully, the black-haired slave appeared and knelt at Raoul’s side, holding up a plate of tidbits. Her submissive silence reminded him of his first slave, but Antonia had served him in love and joy. There was no comparison to this abused woman. “Very nice,” he murmured to her, startling an upward glance from those beautiful eyes. And a hint—only a hint—of pleasure before it was drowned in fear and control.

He selected a cheese-stuffed mushroom, appreciating the effort someone had put into making the food, although it tasted like straw right now. He ate another, then held a piece of melon in front of the slave’s mouth. “Eat, chica.”

Her eyes lowered, but not before he spotted the icy flash. She took the morsel, her soft lips grazing his fingers. He fed her several more, alternating with his own meal, then held his fingers for her to lick clean. He noted the pause before she obeyed. Although she subdued her body language skillfully, the tiny muscles around the eyes and mouth were difficult to control, and her eyes were an open window to her emotions. He could see she’d hated taking food from his hand. Hated him.

He needed to get with the program. “Behave as if you’re interviewing her for a job,” Special Agent Kouros had coached, obviously doubtful Raoul could manage.

“What talents do you possess?” Raoul asked, taking the plate and setting it on the end table.

She shifted her weight on her knees. “I don’t have any skills, Master,” she murmured, almost inaudibly, as if she didn’t want the Overseer to hear.

No talents? Doubtful. Perhaps she hoped he wouldn’t buy her? Was it him she disliked or all the buyers? Did she hope to remain here? “What happens if you’re not bought tonight?”

She couldn’t control her flinch. So her aim wasn’t to remain with the Overseer. She preferred one of the other two buyers? Raoul glanced over. Perhaps she hoped she might escape more easily from a fat or an old master? Clever girl.

But both buyers were sadists. Not good. And he could tell from her flinch, something bad happened to girls who didn’t get sold.

How could he leave this young woman here to suffer? Gabi’s friend. He couldn’t.


Some of the foul taste left his mouth. At least he could save one girl. The agents would go ballistic, but they’d find an alternative plan.

And if they couldn’t?

He rubbed his hand over his mouth. In buying Kimberly, he might doom the others. His gut tightened. There were no easy solutions to this nightmare.

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Yes, Master R.”

Not going to expand on the answer, was she? He chuckled. “Must I drag the information from you?”

She went white with fear. “No, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

His anger at the slavers rose so hard and hot that his hands clamped on the chair arms. He forced himself to lean back. “Bring me a fresh drink.” And let me get past wanting to strangle every bastard in this place. He damn well wanted this evening over with, but no chance of that. No buyer would spend this much money without a test-drive first, and if he offered for the girl too soon, Dahmer would make him for a fraud. Play the part, Sandoval. Even if you terrify her.

She returned, knelt silently, and held the glass up.

As he sipped his drink, he studied her, learning how she breathed, how she shifted her weight as her anxiety grew. In her late twenties or early thirties. Average height, skin slack rather than taut, so she was normally rounder. Softer. Her nipples a pinkish brown and large. A long, almost-healed red scar wound along her left rib cage, reminding him of his gang-member days. Knife scar.

Tracing a finger over her scarred remnant of violence, he saw the momentary vulnerable quiver of her lips before her mouth flattened. Gabi had described her friend as exuberant, and he could see lines of past laughter bracketing her mouth and veeing out from the corners of her eyes.