To Command and Collar-Masters 6 Read online

  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.

  And she needed to pee.

  She must have moved, for his slow breathing stopped. His arm tightened around her for a second, and then he sat up.

  Before she could react, he rolled her onto her back.

  She tried to move and felt the drag of a restraint on her right ankle. She closed her eyes. Welcome to your new owner. Time for a morning fuck. Her hands fisted as she froze, waiting for him to start pulling her clothing off.

  Nothing happened.

  After a minute, she opened her eyes. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, studying her, much as he’d watched her last night in the dungeon.

  She swallowed. What does he want?

  He sighed. “I’m not going to jump on you, Kimberly. We need to talk.”

  “Talk about what? Master.” How he likes his blowjobs? How he—

  “If I told you that I bought you to free you, would you believe me?”

  She gave a mental snort. He was into mind-fucking like Lord Greville had been. “If Master wishes me to.”

  His dark brown eyes were unexpectedly soft. “That’s what I thought. We’ll wait then.”

  Wait for what? “Yes, Master.”

  “Call me Raoul.”

  Now that was strange. She’d never heard of a master welcoming such informality. And even if he did, she had no intention of calling him by his first name as if they were buddies or something. Never.

  He undid the chain on her leg and helped her out of the bed. Her stomach twisted as she rose, her head spun, and she staggered sideways. His powerful hands closed around her waist, holding her up easily. Why did she have to get an owner who was so strong? How could she possibly escape him?

  She would though. Probably not today—he’d be watching for an attempt.

  And he did. Master R accompanied her into the bath. Dark wood, swirly tan marble, arched ceiling. Another rich bastard with the money to buy a slave. He pointed her to the walled-off toilet while he remained at the sink. She hid her scowl and studied the leaded glass window. She could fit. No problem.

  She heard the water running, the sounds of him brushing his teeth, giving her the illusion of privacy at least. After peeing—major relief—she reluctantly joined him and washed her hands. Turning to hang up the hand towel, she winced when the movements pulled on her sore back.

  “Carajo,” he said under his breath. “Put your hands on the counter and hold still, Kimberly.”

  Yeah, here it comes. The fucking. From my friend, Raoul. Her insides curled up in a tight ball as she followed his order. He pulled her tank top all the way to her neck, and she closed her eyes. Why didn’t it ever get easier?

  A pause. Then he sighed. “I’m not planning to rape you, chiquita. I need to tend to the damage I did.” He met her gaze in the mirror, his sympathy obvious. “This won’t feel good, but it will help you heal. As will time.”

  When he touched her back, she flinched. God, it hurts.

  His left hand tightened on her shoulder, keeping her in place as he tugged off the bandages, going far more slowly than she’d expected. Rather than scrubbing her roughly, he gently washed her back. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t flog you lightly and still be believable.” From a jar on the counter, he spread the ointment over her back.

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  When he pushed her pants down, she stiffened, expecting—but he simply washed and lotioned, pinning her against the counter to prevent her involuntary attempts to evade him.

  “All done.” He pulled her shirt down and her pants up.

  She couldn’t move as the pain filled her vision with red streaks.

  When she raised her head, he rubbed his finger on her wet cheek. “Pobrecita,” he murmured and added at her confused expression, “Poor little one.” After handing her a washcloth, he stepped out of the bathroom.

  As she washed the tears from her face, as the pain died, she had to wonder: Why is he being so nice to me? The only answers she found were…ugly. She checked the window again. Too high to squirm through fast and… She glanced over her right shoulder at where he stood in the bedroom and met his knowing eyes.

  He shook his head at her. “Come. Let’s have breakfast before people arrive.”

  Everything inside her shriveled. Other men. He wanted to show off his new slave. Maybe share.

  Before they reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock and grumbled, “No breakfast for either of us.” He headed for the front door, his hand securely around her arm. “Prepare yourself, Kimberly. You’re in for a pleasant surprise.”

  Pleasant. Get real. She managed to keep the sneer from her face but heard his amused snort.

  Her owner opened the door. And let go of her, stepping back.

  Kim stared at the woman, unable to move, her world shivering to a halt. Red hair with a streak of blue, creamy skin, big blue eyes. Gabi?

  A shriek of joy split the air. “Kim. Oh, God, Kim!” Gabi grabbed her into a jumping-upand-down hug.

  Fiery pain ripped through Kim, and she yelped.

  “Dios!” Master R pried Gabi off. “Stop it. Let go, Gabi. Now.”

  The sharp command froze Kim in place.

  Gabi scowled at Raoul. “Raoul, what are—”

  “You’re hurting her. I flogged her last night.”

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  The fury in her best friend’s face panicked Kim. If Gabi was rude to him… She grabbed Gabi’s arm. “Shhh. Don’t make him mad.”

  “Kim,” Gabi said, “you don’t—”

  “Shhh.” She couldn’t…couldn’t let him hurt Gabi. She stepped in front of Master R. He’d have to go through her first.

  He didn’t even try. Instead, he slowly stroked her hair, ignoring the way she flinched away. His eyes seemed as gentle as his hand. “Brave chiquita. No one will h
urt Gabi or you, Kimberly.” He glanced at Gabi. “It was the only way I could get her out.”

  A man appeared on the doorstep. Styled brown hair, sharp blue eyes, taller than Master R. He took Gabi by the upper arms and lifted her to one side so he could enter the house. Obviously a master with a terrifying self-confidence.

  Oh God, they’d kidnapped Gabi too. As he greeted Master R, Kim swallowed and turned toward Gabi, whispering the horrible question, already knowing the answer. “You’re a slave?”

  Gabi’s eyes filled, and she took Kim’s hands. “Oh Kim, no. Neither are you, sweetie.”

  “What do you mean?” Kim stared at her, then at Master R. Her owner.

  He looked down at her. “I’m no slaver, chiquita. I’m working with the FBI, but you wouldn’t believe me—you thought I was trying to mess with your mind.”

  Kim shook her head. Her lips were numb. FBI? The air pulsed how around her, even though her face felt cold. Her knees sagged, melted into the floor, and the room whirled as she fell.

  “Carajo!” Master R caught her and scooped her up, his arm like iron against her back, and she whimpered at the sear of pain from the welts.

  “Shhh, chiquita.” His smooth voice, velvety and warm, wrapped around her and eased her way into the blackness.

  Raoul sat down on the couch in the great room, not wanting to release the little slave in his arms, the need to comfort stronger than anything he’d known before. She’d survived horrors, and the aftereffects were going to be with her for a long, long time.

  As the color returned to her face, she blinked up at him, her eyes huge. Before she panicked, he eased her down beside him, close enough she could lean against him. If she chose to. He hurt to know she wouldn’t.

  Gabi sat on her other side and took her hands. Did the women even realize they were both silently crying ?

  Marcus came from the kitchen with some juice. He squeezed Gabi’s shoulder comfortingly as he handed Raoul the glass.

  “I want you to drink this, Kimberly,” Raoul said, holding the glass to her lips.

  After taking a dutiful sip, she looked at him through drenched eyelashes. “Really? I’m free?”

  “Really.” He frowned. “But there might be a few problems.”

  “That is a definite understatement. What the hell did you do?” Buchanan walked into the house and slammed the door before stalking across the room. The big man had played defensive tackle in college and hadn’t shrunk any in the intervening years. The Fed’s Scottish complexion was turning an ominous dark red.

  Well, he hadn’t expected the FBI to be pleased, and at least he only had to deal with one of the pair. Raoul smiled. “Buchanan. Meet Gabi’s friend, Kimberly. She was up for sale last night.”

  “And you just had to save her?” The agent sounded as if his teeth were grinding together. Then he frowned. “Really? This is Kimberly Moore?” He muttered something under his breath— probably as well that Raoul couldn’t hear it—and eased back. “Sorry, Sandoval. You were the one in the field. Hell, I’d probably have done the same thing.” He squatted in front of Kimberly. “I’m Special Agent Vance Buchanan with the FBI. Raoul is helping with our investigation. Last night, he was supposed to leave without any slaves, but”—he gave Gabi a smile—“he knew how long Gabi’s been trying to find you.”

  Gabi smiled through her tears and rubbed her shoulder against Kimberly’s.

  The little slave stared at Buchanan, Raoul, then Buchanan again. He could almost hear her brain kick into gear. “An FBI operation? What does that mean?”

  “Good question.” Buchanan frowned at Raoul. “How badly is this operation blown? And how the hell did you get her out, let alone home?”

  Raoul smiled. “Nothing is blown…very much. I bought her, and the hired help brought us back.”

  “Sandoval, you don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Z set up an offshore account in case I happened to run across her.”

  Marcus snorted and dropped down in a chair, saying in his soft Southern voice, “That man is frightening.”

  “So you bought her.” Buchanan rose to pace across the room. “This wasn’t remotely in any of our contingency plans.”

  “No. But there’s time to decide what to do. I told the Overseer I planned to use my mountain cabin to…break her in.” Raoul looked down at Kimberly. Her blue eyes were like a rain-drenched sky. He used a finger to wipe the tears from her face, unaccountably relieved when she didn’t flinch away from his touch. “I have a bridge construction in Mexico needing my attention. Gabi can take Kimberly home with her.”

  Buchanan nodded. “That’ll work. But we want a full report before you leave.”

  “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 fuckhole 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.