To Command and Collar (Masters of the Shadowlands, #6)(9)

He struck across her upper buttocks, and this time, as the pain exploded through her, she forced a shriek past her clenched jaw. Another two blows fell, ripping into her body like fire. The wall of silence broken, she sagged and screamed again. A trickle of liquid ran down her back. Her blood.


He stopped. Oh God, he stopped. Tears rolled down her face, splattering on the floor. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say to the Overseer, “Quite a melodic scream. I noticed she serves nicely as well, and that’s important to me. The clumsy blonde would be unacceptable.”

“I like a master who knows what he wants. Too many impatient idiots purchase blindly.” The Overseer laughed. “But it makes for good return business. They break their toys and have to buy a new one.”

Her knees had buckled, and she hung from her arms, her shoulders aching. Her back felt as if she’d lain on glowing coals. Kim swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. She’d been broken once—and found herself again. She didn’t think she could survive another.

“Nice even marks,” the Overseer said, his voice much, much closer than she wanted. The chains kept her from moving as he stood right behind her. A finger ran down her spine, and it felt as if a trail of slime followed his touch. Get away. Don’t touch me.

“I hit what I aim at.” Master R walked in front of her, tilted her head up, and inspected her coldly.

Raoul could feel the little slave’s pain—pain he’d given with no pleasure, no emotional satisfaction. Guilt shot through him, and the desire to maim Dahmer was so strong he couldn’t move. One slow breath. He controlled his rage, sent it deep into his foundations, and stepped away from the girl.

“I like your professionalism,” Dahmer said. “Are you still interested in auditioning to do a demonstration at one of auctions?”

“Possibly.” Could he still get into an auction? Maybe buying Kimberly wouldn’t ruin the FBI’s plans after all. Raoul tossed the cat with the cruelly knotted falls on a bench and forced a grin. “I’d like to attend one for the fun of it.”

“I’m afraid the events are open only to active buyers and performers.” Dahmer cleared his throat politely. “And you indicated your funds were limited.”

“True. I won’t be up to buying another slave for a while. But I could certainly do a demonstration.”

“Bear in mind, the scenes have to be…carnal…in one way or another.”

Fuck some poor woman in front of a bunch of perverts? Raoul’s stomach turned over. “Of course. What’s the point otherwise?”

Dahmer laughed. “That’s the spirit. There’s a long list of performers waiting already, so I’m not sure when you’d be scheduled. But you could audition during your follow-up visit and get on the list.”

What the hell? “Sounds good, but what follow-up visit?”

“The info is in the paperwork you get when you buy. But basically it’s for our refund policy—and a way to ensure buyers conform to the Harvest Association policies.” The slimy cabrón chuckled. “After a few weeks, I stop by and watch you with your merchandise. It’s so I can answer any questions that have arisen about training, and if a slave has proven unsatisfactory during the trial period, I remove her then. You get a refund, and we arrange for you to buy a new one.”

That sounded totally impossible. But no matter now. Raoul frowned at Kimberly, every cell wanting to remove her restraints and care for her. “All right then. This slave is adequate. Let’s do the paperwork.”

“Good.” Open satisfaction showed in the greedy bastard’s eyes. “I think she’ll do well for you.”

Raoul glanced back at Kimberly, saw blood drip onto the floor, and covered his wince with a cold jerk of his head. “Have someone hose her off and dress her, please.”

Chapter Two

Raoul cradled Kimberly in his arms, watching the slaver’s van pull away from his home, its headlights illuminating the splashing fountain, then the bronze statue of a heron at the end of the drive. He hated them knowing where he lived, his background…anything to do with his life.

Nonetheless, this was what he’d signed on to do.

As the sultry night air wrapped around him, he took his first decent breath of the evening. Home. The lights bracketing the front door tried to dispel the night’s darkness but didn’t touch what had lodged in his soul. A long, long time would pass before he’d get over his sense of helplessness and guilt at having to abandon the other two women.

But he’d saved one. “Don’t worry, chiquita. I’ll take care of you.”

Her eyes opened, hazed with the sedative the Overseer had administered to ensure an uneventful trip. “Take care of myself,” she mumbled yet curled closer into his arms.

Indomitable spirit—fragile, scarred body. The Feds wouldn’t approve of him choosing emotion over logic, but he’d never have any regrets. Her head lolled against his chest, and his heart squeezed as he carried her into the coolness of his home. His boots thudded on the tile of the small foyer and echoed in the empty house.

As she slept on the couch in the great room, Raoul texted the number the FBI agents had given him. The message was 1, reporting he’d returned home.

In the morning, he’d inform them he’d screwed up the operation.