To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(31)

Slowly, Kim got accustomed to Master R’s hands on her body, washing her, massaging her, holding her. Each night, after receiving a good-night kiss that grew more demanding, she’d sleep in the nude, curled in his arms, and wake with his erection pressing against her buttocks. He terrified her and made her feel safe at the same time, and wasn’t that weird?

Each morning they’d discuss her day and her tasks and anything else he expected. If she made a mistake in her posture or did something wrong—like the drawer where the silverware went—he’d calmly tell her how he wanted it done. He didn’t yell, didn’t call her names, was always polite.

When she’d broken a cup, she’d frozen, expecting him to yell, if not punish her. He only told her to put shoes on before she swept it up.

The only thing that brought her close to being disciplined was rudeness. Being disrespectful was definitely one of his crash-and-burn offenses. But even then, he stayed calm. Consistent.

If only he’d stop adding things she had to adjust to.

Yesterday, before lunch, the scum-sucking algae eater had buckled leather cuffs on her wrists. As she’d tried to remember how to breathe, he’d informed her he wanted tacos from his mamá’s special recipe. By the time she’d figured out all the spices—like what was wrong with the little envelopes of seasoning?—and had the meal set out, she’d almost forgotten about the cuffs…until he clipped them together in front of her. Couldn’t move, couldn’t get away. Megaclaustrophobia. He’d had to help her to her knees beside the table.


But as she’d knelt beside him and he’d fed her, her shaking had disappeared. Why did taking food from his hand no longer make her feel humiliated, but cared for? Because he selected the best pieces for her? Because his attention was fully on her? Lunch hadn’t been so bad after all.

Today, everything had gone downhill… First, he’d buckled the damned leather cuffs on her wrists after their shower in an automatic way that said she’d be wearing them a lot. Dammit.

Fifteen minutes ago, he’d given her his I’m-going-to-be-mean-to-you smile and clipped the cuffs behind her back, held her while she panicked, and then frowned at her. “You will do squats until I tell you to stop. We’ll build up both your leg muscles and your courage.”

In the empty part of the weight room, surrounded by the scents of rubber mats and steel, she managed a few squats. Bending her knees, she did another and straightened up slowly. That was seven. How many more is he going to make me do? She scowled at him as the first drop of sweat rolled down her neck.

Ten squats…fifteen. Her thighs burned with pain. Drown him anyway.

Over by the rack of dumbbells, Master R was doing biceps curls. His pumped-up arms were huge. The way his darkly tanned skin stretched so tightly over the muscles made her fingers itch to touch. Besides, anything would be better than this squatting garbage.

He glanced over where she stood, her legs quivering until she was afraid she’d fall. “You can do another, cari?o.”

So not happening. “What does cari?o mean?”

“It means sweetheart.” His lips quirked. “Now stop stalling and push those spaghetti legs.”

Yeah, drown him and let the crabs eat him, no matter how many affectionate things he called her. After hauling in a breath, Kim blew her sweaty hair out of her face, checked her balance, and bent her wobbling knees again. Down. She gritted her teeth and straightened. The cuffs didn’t matter anymore, except if she fell, she’d not be able to catch herself. Her thighs burned, and sweat trickled down her back and between her bare breasts. She stuck halfway up. Groaning, she pushed determinedly and made it all the way to standing, sucking air like a landed fish.

A minute later, as her breathing slowed, he said, “Another.”

“Damn you, I can’t. Are you f*cking blind or—”Oh shit. Oh no. Her breath strangled in her throat as his eyes chilled, and his jaw turned stern.

“That was very disrespectful, Kimberly. Do I swear at you?” He didn’t move toward her, but pointed to a bench. “Bend across the side of that.”

No. She took a step back. Her heart had been fast; now it slammed against her ribs as if desperate to escape a cage. “No. Please. I’m sorry. Master, I’m sorry.”

“I know, chiquita. You will still be punished.” He picked up heavier dumbbells. His left arm curled up slowly, straining, then down, before he glanced over at her. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

No no no. Her feet felt as if he’d clamped weights around her ankles. One step. Another. Her wrists were still restrained behind her, and her legs shook, making her stagger like a drunk. As she tried to kneel, her knees gave out and hit the rubber matting with a painful thump. Fighting tears, she pressed her bare shoulders and face to the cool bench padding. Naked. Restrained. Her pulse was an ocean of sound in her ears.

She turned her head and watched his reflection in the wall mirrors. He didn’t pay her any attention. At all. His right arm curled up, down. The other arm. His concentration remained on his exercise, as if she’d become invisible. She wished she had. Really.

The weights went onto the rack. Clank. Clank. Her stomach tightened.

He walked to her, his approach like the darkening atmosphere before a storm. Swinging a leg over, he straddled the bench beside her. She craned her head to see his face.