Chapter Fifteen

Raoul was grateful when Dahmer finally showed up in the ballroom. Following the Overseer, he steered Kimberly toward the doors. She didn’t need to see any more. Bidding had started on the third woman whose screaming and fighting caught the buyers’ attention like bloody flesh attracting sharks. As he walked into the quiet foyer, Raoul gave a silent sigh of relief. The crying slaves had kept him tensed with the need to protect.

“Before you set up for your scene, I need you for a moment upstairs.” The look in Dahmer’s eyes was still…off.
Raoul tightened his hand on Kimberly’s leash, pulling her closer. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way there is.” Dahmer led them up the wide stairs, the dark red carpeting like a waterfall of blood. He opened a door directly across from the staircase and motioned them inside.
Raoul glanced around at the richly furnished sitting room. To the right was a small table and chairs on an Oriental rug. Against the far wall was a hand-carved buffet with a serving tray and the remains of a meal. Oddly enough, the corner held a portable dog kennel. On the left…ahhah. A lean man waited in an armchair by the window, the lamplight glinting off styled light brown hair. Two men—bodyguard types—stood behind him. He would be the reason for Dahmer’s detour.
As Kimberly stepped into the room, she gasped and gave a thin moan.
Raoul spun, grasping her shoulders. “What?”
“Lord Greville,” she whispered, her eyes going glassy with panic, her breathing like a steam engine.
Raoul slapped her sharply across the face, rocking her back on her heels. Fisting her hair, he pulled her head back so the only person she could see was him. “You are mine. You do not react to any other master,” he told her through gritted teeth…and saw reason return to her eyes.
She blinked tears of pain away, and he let her lower her head. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“Better,” he grunted. He glanced at Dahmer, letting his irritation show. “What’s this about—aside from trying to destroy the work I’ve put into this slave?”
“I apologize for not explaining earlier, but I wanted you to view the undamaged beauties downstairs first.” Dahmer’s gaze lingered on the scar visible beneath Kimberly’s harness. “Which ones did you find interesting?”
“I have a slave, thank you.” This wasn’t going well at all. Kimberly’s former owner had given Raoul a dismissing look, then hadn’t taken his eyes off her. From the hand-tailored suit, the Italian shoes, the sheer pampered posture, Greville wasn’t used to being denied anything. And he wanted Kimberly.
The hatred burning in his blue eyes sent cold streaming up Raoul’s spine. He saw murder in that gaze.
Raoul took a firm grip of Kimberly’s arm and whispered in her ear, “He seems a little angry. Some people are poor sports about being poked with a knife, no?”
Her shocked laugh lightened his spirit. Brave, brave Kimberly. “Dios, I love you,” he said under his breath, not realizing he’d spoken until he saw her face. The dawning glow outweighed her fear.
When she looked down hastily, he squeezed her arm lightly. She needed to hold up awhile longer. Somehow.
And he had to keep her away from Greville. The FBI would arrive eventually, but if her previous owner got his hands on her, she might not survive that long. Stall. Stall and stall.
Dahmer took a seat on the couch and motioned to the chair across from Greville. “Please sit. I’m sure we can reach a meeting of the minds. Raoul, this is—”
“Greville, I assume.” Raoul assessed the bodyguards with a glance. One had puckered scars across his face and neck. The other had a shaved head with a death’s head skull tattoo on one side of his neck, a swastika on the other. They wore white shirts, dark slacks. No weapons visible. They’d probably received the same pat down as the buyers—so weaponless—but from their stances, they were well trained.
Not good odds. He was no Chuck Norris. Stall. He took the chair, caught Kimberly’s gaze, and glanced at the floor beside him.
She knelt at his feet and kept her eyes lowered.
“Hello, fuckhole.” Greville spoke directly to her, trying to get her to meet his gaze.
“You do not address my slave without permission,” Raoul snapped.
Greville’s face reddened with rage.
“Raoul.” Dahmer held up a hand.
“This is not the professional standards I was led to expect from the Harvest Association. What kind of shoddy scam are you running here?”
Dahmer drew himself up. “Not a scam. Lord Greville simply wishes to repurchase his slave. During his…illness, his staff returned the slave for a refund. He wasn’t aware and had no intention of returning her to us.”
Raoul forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Perhaps he should keep closer track of his staff. They sound incompetent.” This is not going to end well. If he got Kimberly out of the room, could she hide until the FBI arrived?

* * * *

The attendants were too damned efficient, Sam thought. In answer to his request, one had quickly wheeled a mobile St. Andrew’s cross into Linda’s slave space. So much for his attempt at stalling.

After turning the woman to face the X shape, he secured her wrist cuffs to the upper rings. The other blank-faced attendant handed him a cane and dragon’s tongue whip.

He set them down, out of his working area, and considered how to go about wasting time until the FBI arrived. Unfortunately, anything he did would have to be genuine. The assistant had positioned the cross so bystanders could see the marks he’d put on the slave’s back.

Well, then. He had a masochist who preferred him to the others, he had equipment, and he obviously had time. Apparently he had a scene to do.
His concentration narrowed.

He stepped behind the woman and ran his fingers over the pretty spattering of freckles on her shoulders. “Linda,” he said quietly. “Are you ready to begin?”
Under the freckles, her muscles tensed. She nodded.
“When I ask you a question, I want to hear your voice, girl,” he said in an even tone, setting up the rules of the game. His hands curved around her wrists, adding to her sensation of restraint as he pressed his groin into her from behind, then let his whole body meld with hers, pushing her ribs against the wood in the middle. “You can call me Master if you need to beg.”
He threaded his fingers into her short hair, tugging her head to one side so he could close his teeth on the curve between her neck and shoulder. He bit down firmly, enough to hurt. Waking her to her helplessness and his intent. The beast inside him moved forward; his body felt larger, stronger.
“If you yell, ‘Mercy, Master,’ I will…perhaps…give you a break,” he growled, sickened and aroused at the same time. He never worked without a safe word, without consent, but to save her from worse, he’d have to do so—or at least appear to do so. “Say it now.”
“Mercy, Master,” she whispered. Even her lips looked soft, slightly puffy. Kissable and damn fuckable.
“Good,” he grunted. He rubbed his hands over her arms and shoulders and down her back, pleased with the gentle hollow at the base of her spine. A big-arsed woman, his British friends would say. His favorite kind. He slapped that white ass, one cheek, then the other. Not hard, just enough to warm the skin, stroking the sting away before striking again. He hadn’t bothered with trying to fasten her ankles to the legs of the cross, not with one shackled, but he set one boot between her feet and shoved them roughly apart.
“I want you open to me,” he said in a raw voice and was hell of pleased to see a flush rise into her face. His eyes narrowed, meeting hers, and she flinched and dropped her gaze. Submissive. God, she was a beauty.
Pushing the noise of the auction from his mind, he filled his thoughts with only this woman. He slid his hands over her ample curves, over her rounded stomach to her God-bethanked breasts. Heavy in his cupped palms, spilling over the sides. Fucking her would be like burying himself in a down quilt, surrounded by feminine softness.
He pressed his chest against her back, delightfully surprised when she didn’t cringe away. When he rubbed his erection on her reddened ass, he heard the smallest moan—and hell with it, he needed to know. He put his hand on her pussy, unsurprised to find she’d begun to dampen. “You’re wet, girl.”
“I’m a slut.” The self-loathing and misery in her voice pissed him off considerably. Raoul had mentioned something about this.
He growled in her ear and pressed his cock between her buttocks. “Feel that, missy? A man’s dick rises with the smell of a female, with the sound of a woman’s voice, with the dawn, at the sight of pretty tits, at the touch of…anything. No one calls us names because our cocks aren’t under our control.” He cupped his hand over her—nicely—bare cunt, playing in the dampness. “So when a woman’s pussy reacts on its own, why would I call her a name?” He sucked on her earlobe, surprising a shudder out of her, then ran his scratchy cheek over hers, giving the so-sensitive nerves there a hint of pain. And her juices responded.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, girl,” he said, using her own arousal to slicken her vulnerable clit. “And I’m not only good at it, but we—you and me—we have something between us.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes, missy.” When she tried to pull her legs together, he kicked them open again and felt her tightening nipple press into his palm. The beast inside him said, Hurt this one and make her mine.
Dammit, not mine. I’m here to stall. Dragging his brains up from where they’d lodged in his balls, he diverted himself with a quick check of the restraints. Hands were pink, cuffs not too tight. Then to please himself, he cupped both of her breasts again, hearing her inhale, feeling her heat against his body.
“I’m going to make you hurt now, girl,” he whispered. Her breasts were heavy in his hands, and he tightened his grip until he heard her breath catch. “I’m going to whip you until you dance the dance, until your screaming wakes God himself.” He pulled her nipples, pinching cruelly.
Tears stood in her eyes—and her ass pushed back against his shaft. “No, please.” Her head whipped back and forth as she moved her body, trying to evade his grip.
He wanted to see her face. A shame he couldn’t walk around the cross and simply look at her; he preferred a chain station for that reason. But this was what he had. He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. Her eyes held the pain he’d given her, showing some fear—and more heat. Just right.
“Eyes on me,” he snapped. “And don’t look away.” He took one nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Damn, he wished the slavers provided breast clamps as well as impact toys. He squeezed harder, enjoying the whine in her throat. Pulled and pinched, studying her eyes to judge the right amount, and savored the blossoming of fresh pain in her eyes, her face, the way her body stiffened, muscles tensing here and there.
Sweat started to bead on her upper lip.
He smiled at her. “That’s a good girl. Let’s do the other side.”
“Master, please. My breasts are sensitive.”
He paused, knowing even now that she wouldn’t safe-word out, that this was the beginning of the dance, and he answered the need under her words. “I know they are, Linda. That’s why I’m doing this.” And he squeezed her other nipple.
“Eeeeee.” Her scream caught between her teeth as she shut it down. Her arms jerked with her efforts to escape. To push him away. Her knees sagged.
He stroked her damp face. “Those screams in there aren’t going to be buried very long,” he whispered into her ear. Her hair was silky, and he rubbed his cheek over it. “If we were somewhere else, afterward I’d fuck you hard…and pull on your nipples every time you came.”
The tremor ran from her breasts all the way to her fingers, and he smiled.
Stepping back, he ran his fingers down her ass, between her legs, to the dampness on her inner thighs. He teased the folds between her legs, nice fat labia—perfectly designed for clamps. His finger slid into her, earning a low moan and wiggle. Very wet. She’d be a joy to fuck. He played with her clit and cunt, the scent and little noises she gave upping his own desire.
She’d take more pain and last longer if he could keep her arousal high. Fucking slavers— he damn well didn’t want to be here.
He wiped her juices off on her leg and felt her flinch, remembered her word. Slut. He gripped her hair, pulled her head back. “I like you wet, Linda,” he growled. “And what I want is all you have to worry about right now. Clear?”
The way she moistened her lips to speak… The way her response flowed to him was getting to him. Hell. He took advantage of how he’d made her arch, and shoved his hand between her legs again—forcefully this time—pushing into her in a manner that showed exactly what he wanted to do to her.
A tremor ran through her as she clenched around him. More moisture wet his fingers.
She liked rough. Hell, maybe he’d add a little pussy pain while he was at it. Drive her high before endorphins shoved her head into the clouds.
He barely glanced at the two buyers who stood nearby as he strolled to his spot. Even turned away from her, he could almost feel her breathing. Feel how the ache in her breasts receded, but the memory lingered. Feel how she craved more.
After a second, he picked up the cane. Time to warm her up. A slow, slow warm-up. Damn them for not having his favorite toys available. But a light application would work well enough.
He started by sliding the rattan over her legs, letting her enjoy the smoothness of it, the hardness, before running it up her front.
She stiffened.
That’s right, girl. This is a cane. But pain wouldn’t come from it. It was just for warm-up to the whip.
Tapping lightly, occasionally giving her a feather-stroke touch, he woke up the flesh on her back, butt, and thighs. He followed the path of the cane with his free hand as her muscles gradually lost their tension.
Her breathing slowed.
He increased the intensity, keeping to the sting rather than the blow. Her body was still relaxed, and from the tiny curve of her lips, he knew the small smacking sounds of the cane pleased them both.
Her ass was turning a pretty pinkish red, a color that made a dom want to use his hand to see if he could darken it. Light play just didn’t do it for him. He glanced at his watch. How long could he drag this out? He saw an attendant talking to a buyer and frowning in his direction. Not long.
He tossed the cane off to one side and picked up the whip. A dragon’s tail—not his favorite but a good choice in tight quarters. About three feet of rolled leather opening into a swordlike shape and ending in the distinctive point. At least the leather on this was thin enough to give a whippy sensation. After rolling his shoulders, loosening his arm, he snapped the tail a few times, getting the feel, gauging his accuracy, smiling each time she flinched at the light crack. Hell of a lot lighter than a flogger—he could do this all day.
Then he let the end strike, enjoying the slapping sound, up and down her back, her ass, her upper thighs, finishing the warm-up in the medium range of pain. He moved into a good rhythm, watching her start to fog over. Her breathing deepened as he slowed his strikes.
He stopped and stepped forward quickly so the loss of the whip was balanced by his hand on her shoulder, the pressure of his body against her back. Rubbing his chest and groin on her reddened skin should give her a rush of pain from everywhere, different from the individual slaps of a whip. Her gasp felt as if it gripped his balls.
After checking her restraints and circulation, he turned her head, looked into her eyes. “You still with me here, Linda?”
She blinked and actually smiled at him. “That’s my name. You used my name.”
This one could tear a man’s heart right out of his chest. “That’s who you are. Linda.” He kissed her cheek and brought her back to the scene by taking her lips, taking her from lightness to hard and demanding. Her body melted into his, then revved with arousal when he cupped her breasts and teased her puckered nipples into jutting points—velvet softness, the bigger size said she’d nursed her babies. He wanted his mouth on them.
Instead, he ran his hand down to her pussy, beautifully wet and puffy. Her instinctive pulling away from the intimacy rubbed her soft ass right on his cock, forcing her forward again and onto his fingers. A nice predicament for a little sub.
But he solved it for her, removing her choices by leaning forward, trapping her even as he penetrated her with a finger. Hot, wet sheath.
He felt how her arousal, her need, vied with her wish to move away from him, to keep herself hidden from him. She made a sound he couldn’t interpret, then whispered, “No. Don’t.” Her words were negated by the low moan she gave.
“Are you asking for mercy, girl?” he whispered, pinching her clit lightly and sliding back in.
Panting, she hesitated. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”
“Then we continue. You ready for some real pain now?”
Her cunt clenched around his fingers, and he grinned.
After picking up the dragon whip, he did a set, up and down her body, bringing her pain level back to where she’d been before. Then he held the tip of the tail in his free hand and snapped it at her ass like a rolled towel. The end hit. Her skin jumped a split second before her jerk. A sob came from her, and he smiled.
“Not the same sensation, is it, missy?” Snap, snap, snap. “Feel a little like a whip?” Snap, snap, snap. Her first tear splattered onto the floor, then more. The dragon’s tail flicked its way down the backs of her thighs in pretty red streaks, the narrow leather giving barely satisfying cracks.
And up her legs, her ass, her back. Her first gasping scream.
“That’s a good girl. Give me more.” After easing up for a moment, not too long, he worked her into pain, into screams that satisfied his soul and squeezed his cock. By the time she tipped into a truly deep subspace, she’d stopped holding anything from him.
Her husky scream resonated in his balls.
He continued a little longer, watching closely now. A safe word wasn’t worth shit if a sub’s brain wasn’t awake enough to use it. He lightened up, finishing what they’d both wanted. Needed. Then even slower, gentling the strikes. Bringing her down.
Sweat made her skin gleam as if covered in oil. Her head sagged against her upraised arm although her legs still held most of her weight. Yes, she was no stranger to bondage and pain. He set the whip down and moved forward, feeling like a predator stalking his prey but also a man wanting to please a woman. Sadistic. Dominant.
He ran his hands over her, pleased with his handiwork, even more pleased with her gasp as his thick calluses scraped her abused skin. Her ass pushed back as if begging. He straightened and turned her head. Still mostly in subspace. Aroused and needy.
Damned if he’d fuck her here, treat her like that, but he could at least ease her, give her relief. And if he walked around with a boner for a while, it wouldn’t be the first or last time. He bit her neck, reminding her of his presence, emotionally ground-tying her so she didn’t detach entirely.
“You gave me your pain.” His voice came out raspy. “Now give me your pleasure.” His rough fondling of her breasts brought forth a moan, and when he reached down to her swollen, wet pussy, she was right with him. Her body showed her need; her eyes showed her submission.
Surrounding her with his body, reading the tightening of her muscles, hearing the faint noises in her throat, he stroked over her engorged clit, working her up and up. Was there anything more satisfying than moans after screams? He kept her on the edge, savoring the quivers of her inner thighs around his big wrist, then stroked firmly.
When she came—her hips bucking, her pussy creaming over his hand—her wailing moan ran down his spine.
He leaned against her curvy back and her lush ass, pressing her into the cross as he nuzzled her neck, adding sweetness to the ending.

* * * *

Don’t look at the cage in the corner. Don’t look at Lord Greville . Kim stared at her knees, controlling her breathing. Controlling the panic was like piloting a boat in a tropical storm, trying to keep the bow headed into the seas. The counselor’s suggestion of imagining Greville with a rabbit-sized dick, whiskers, and a fuzzy tail didn’t help at all.

The men talked. Lord Greville had a voice like his whip, cutting and ripping, leaving bloody flesh behind.
The Overseer’s voice was an oil film on water, suffocating all life beneath. Her chest tightened.
When Master R spoke, the sound washed her clean, let her breathe. His knee pressed against her shoulder, bumping her now and then as if to keep her in the present. Her shoulders straightened. Pay attention. He’ll need your help.
“You’d said that buying damaged merchandise might have been a mistake, so this is your opportunity to find a slave more suited to your needs,” the Overseer said, still trying to arbitrate.
“I see. I did complain about the damage, didn’t I?” Master R sounded so reasonable, they probably didn’t hear the tight thread of anger underlying his words. “You’re offering to buy me a different slave?” She felt the vibration as his fingers tapped on her leash. “I wouldn’t mind owning one with a curvier figure. Big breasts appeal to me.”
What? After a moment of fear—then a sense of insult—she understood he was stalling for time. He could do no less, although all she wanted was out of here. The sickly sweet scent of Lord Greville’s cologne filled the air, and she breathed through her mouth, trying not to gag. The sounds of screaming came faintly past the closed door. The auction was going on.
“Well then, we should be able to work something out.” The Overseer sounded relieved.
“Perhaps. Unfortunately, the slaves here are masochists—not anything I’m interested in. What other auctions do you have coming up?”
“I—Well, the next will be in October. The black-and-white affair, featuring blondes and brunettes, with a sampling of black women as well.”
“I definitely like blondes. That might work out quite well.” Master R rose. “In October then. And Greville there will buy whatever slave I wish in return for the girl.”
The leash tightened; Kim started to rise.
“Unacceptable. I’ll take possession of her now.” Lord Greville’s voice was flat.
“Leave me without a slave? I think not. October.”
“I’ll buy her outright then. How much?”
“Still leaves me without a slave.” Master R pulled, and Kim rose to her feet, staying a step behind him.
“The hell with this. Just take her.” Lord Greville motioned to his men.
Master R dropped the leash and shoved her toward the door. “Run!”
She scrambled away, expecting him behind her—only he wasn’t. He’d charged the bodyguards. She hesitated and—
The Overseer slammed into her, knocking her into the wall. He grabbed her hair and yanked her back against his body.
No! She jammed her elbow into his gut.
He folded over but still clung to her hair.
Screaming, she ignored his grip, curling her fingers into claws.

Two against one. Dios . A big fist grazed Raoul’s face, leaving a burn in its wake. He spun and kicked the other guard in the gut, knocking him on his ass. Spin back, block another fist, try for a knee. Missed. The guards were both damn good fighters. Scarface’s return punch nailed him in the jaw, stunning him.

Raoul shook his head and half-blindly punched back, feeling the impact and crunch as his fist hit a nose. A bellow. Hot spray of blood. He twisted to check the other.
And then something punched him from behind, high on the right shoulder. He jerked around to see the Greville bastard jump away.
The skinhead swung. When Raoul blocked with his right arm, pain sheeted into him like all of hell had opened. He grunted and continued, but his block held no power, and the man knocked him into the wall. As he hit, fire ripped through his shoulder. His knees gave, dropping him to the floor.
“You knifed him good, Lord Greville.” Scarface stepped sideways as Raoul pushed to his feet.
Greville. He’d attacked from behind like a feral cur.
The two guards had him bracketed, his back to the wall. He could feel the knife, still stuck in his shoulder. Pain shot through him with every movement.
As the two glanced at each other, trying to synchronize their attack, Raoul darted a look across the room. Dammit, Kimberly hadn’t run, and Dahmer had grabbed her.
Still looking, he faked a grin, and Skinhead fell for it, glancing over his shoulder at Kimberly. Raoul stabbed rigid fingers straight into the bastard’s throat and felt the cartilage break.
Scarface yelled and lunged. Raoul tried to block, but his right arm failed—fucking knife— and a roundhouse knocked him sideways. He staggered, fell onto his hands and knees.
“Use the knife and just kill him, you incompetent turd,” Greville said coldly. “I’ve got better things to do.”
When two more men ran into the room, Raoul knew his—and Kimberly’s—chances of survival had just died. Run, gatita, dammit, run.
Scarface jumped forward and ripped the knife from Raoul’s shoulder. Pain burst like fireworks. Before the guard could step back, Raoul slammed his fist straight up into his balls.
With a choking gasp, Scarface fell to his knees, grabbing his groin. The knife clattered to the floor. A fucking steak knife from the dinner tray.
Raoul tried to snatch it and got kicked in the ribs. New guards. His hand skidded on the blood on the floor.

Heart battering at the inside of her ribs, Kim stared across the room at the group of men. Lord Greville’s bodyguards were down, one on his knees moaning. Between two new men, Master R pushed partway up and dived at Greville, hitting him in the stomach, knocking him down.

Swearing, the new men grabbed his arms, tearing him off Greville, holding him between them.

Face dark with rage, Greville staggered to his feet. Using a handkerchief, he wiped blood from his mouth, looked at it. He bent and picked the knife up. “Hold him good—I’m going to gut him like a trout.”

“Nooo!” Her shriek stopped everything.
Lord Greville turned, taking his time, Kim could tell. Playing her. He glanced at the Overseer who lay a few feet away, moaning, hands over his face. “Worthless bastard.”

She didn’t look, wouldn’t look at the Overseer or her bloody fingers. Could only think of Master R. He’d die because of her, because he’d tried to save her. My fault. “Please, don’t kill him. Please!”

Lord Greville tilted his head. “You care for him?” A cruel smile twisted his lips. “Oh, I like that. Yes.” He pointed his knife at her, then the cage in the corner. “In.”
A cage. Her breath stopped. Darkness, no light at all, the scent of a basement, excrement, urine, blood. Wire under her fingers, around her, she couldn’t stand, couldn’t straighten her legs. An ocean pressed on her chest, flattening her lungs. Air gone. No… She felt a breeze from the open doorway behind her—she could run. Run.
She edged toward the opening.
Master R was fighting madly, drawing everyone’s attention. His gaze caught hers, and he jerked his head toward the door. An order matching the one that every nerve in her body was screaming. Run.
“Hold him, dammit.” Lord Greville sliced at Master R with the knife—the blade scraped over the leather vest on the left, then cut viciously over his right ribs. A huge, long gash.
He made no sound, but Kim saw him jerk. A trickle of red spilled over the edge of the gaping flesh; then blood flowed.
Sobs choked her; tears blinded her. He’d die; he was dying. “No, no please, oh God, no. Please.”
Lord Greville glanced over his shoulder. “The cage or I cut him into little pieces in front of you. Crawl, fuckhole.”
She did, her hands numb, her heart hammering too violently. None of it mattered. The cage surrounded her.
Lord Greville laughed, jagged and cold like a saw blade. He turned back to Master R and scowled at how the two men had to hold him up. “Hell, he’s out cold. That’s no fun.” He glanced at the water pitcher, hesitated, then motioned toward the cage. “Toss him in.”
As the guards dragged Master R over, Greville’s eyes met Kim’s. “If he’s still breathing when we get home, you can show me just how far you’ll go to keep him alive.”
She’d do anything, and her stomach tried to empty as she thought of the perversions Greville would demand.
The guards heaved Master R into the cage. She pressed against the wire, feeling the wire sides closing in on her. Just as small as the one in Lord Greville’s basement.
“Get that collar off her,” Lord Greville said.
One man grabbed her hair, yanking her far enough forward to unbuckle the collar with one hand. The feel of air against her bare neck was horrible—not like being stripped, but like seeing her house burn to the ground.
The guard stepped back; the other closed the door and snapped the heavy padlock, removing the key.
“Look, fuckhole.” Lord Greville waggled her collar and threw it out the door.
Kim stared after it, her life tumbling down the stairs with it. Dreams die before people do.
Greville accepted the padlock key from the guard and put it in his pocket. “You’re mine, cunt, for as long as I let you live.”
No matter how many hours or days, it would be too long. Kim couldn’t stop shaking, her chest so tight no air seemed to get through. Red and black wavered in her vision—blood and death—and she wanted it, wanted the oblivion.
Lord Greville pointed to the moaning Overseer. “Haul him downstairs and have someone see to him. I need him able to sign the papers.” He turned to check his bodyguards. One had managed to stand. The other was…was dead.
Kim stared at Master R. He’d killed. And he was dying.
Her hands shook; her body shook. Don’t die. She tried to turn him. Stop the bleeding. No room to move him, no room. Her hands clamped into fists.
“I’ll clear us leaving with the front door attendants,” Greville said to the guard. “Get three more men to carry the crate—and something to cover it.” He laughed. “Good deal. Two slaves for the price of none.”
The door closed behind them with a solid thump.
A hand gripped on Kim’s arm, and she jumped.
“Cariño.” Master R looked up at her, brown eyes completely alert.
“Master R?” she whispered and stared at him. The scum-sucking bottom-feeder… He’d been faking it.
His eyes were filled with laughter. With pride. “So, gatita with sharp claws, what did you do to Dahmer?”

* * * *

Sam knelt beside Linda. He’d released her, lowered her to a sitting position despite her groggy protest.
The scrawny attendant pulled the portable St. Andrews into the aisle and frowned at Sam. “Please step out of the display area, sir.”
“She needs a blanket and some water.” Abandon a sub who was coming out of subspace?
“She’s up for sale, sir. Your time to sample the merchandise is over.”
“I get it.” God blast these bastards. He couldn’t leave her so vulnerable. Sam slapped her face lightly. “Wake up, girl. Now.”
She blinked, eyes focusing on him, then looked around the room, and her fear yanked her out of comfort faster than anything he could do.
“That’s right. Come on back,” he said, smoothing her hair.
She pulled away from his hand, and her expression held…revulsion. Anger. “Damn you,” she whispered and shuddered.
Sam frowned. What—why? “Linda, what—” He saw the attendant signal for a guard and stopped. Can’t draw that kind of attention. Or be forced from the vicinity. He rose to his feet, bent, and patted her shoulder. “Hang in there, girl.”
She cringed away…from him.
He hesitated, then withdrew to outside the display area. That hadn’t been fear she showed, but anger. Disgust. His lips tightened. He’d stay close. She might not want help, but too bad.
Another buyer approached, looking almost mesmerized. No question as to why. The redhead might be older, but after taking what Sam had given, she had a…glow. Her lips were swollen, her face abraded, her breasts marked by his hands. Her eyes were heavy from how intensely she’d come. She looked like a wet dream in chains.
The buyer, middle-aged with a hefty paunch, stared at Linda and started to signal to an attendant. Leaning an elbow on the pedestal, Sam said quietly, “I’m buying that one. You can play, but if I find one mark on her body that I didn’t put there, I’ll take that whip and knot it around your neck.”
The man puffed up, trying to look bigger, and then yellow-dogged out. “Fine. If you’re going to purchase her, no need to waste my time.” He walked away, his attempt at dignity spoiled by a nervous glance over his shoulder.
Sam half-smiled, then looked over at Linda in satisfaction.
She stared back. Coldly.
He winced inside. Dammit, she hadn’t acted like that before he’d whipped her. Or when he’d been getting her off. She begged—he closed his eyes as the pieces started to fit. Dignified. Older. Not letting fear show in her manner. Controlled. Embarrassed by her own needs.
And he’d taken those needs and reduced her to begging—in front of others. The slavers who called her a slut.
Hell. He should have stopped at the whipping. Getting her off had been a fucking major mistake. It had seemed like a gift he could give, to help her escape her awareness of this place for a bit, but…females were odd creatures. Emotional. Rather than a gift, he’d shown her how easily her own body would betray her.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, wanting to swear up a storm. He’d sliced into her defenses with less finesse than a baby dom with a new whip. After a glance at the attendant who still hovered nearby, Sam knew he couldn’t explain to her, to apologize—not here—but when this was over, they’d talk. Damn straight, they would.

* * * *

Raoul struggled to reach down his leg but failed. With both of them stuffed in the cage, there wasn’t enough room. “Chiquita, get the tool out of my right boot. On the outside.”
“But I need to stop the bleeding.”
“Now.”
With her mouth set in protest, she squirmed around and did as he asked, his sweet, sweet sumisa.
She frowned at it. “What is this?”
“Safety tool. I always carry it if I’m doing a scene.” He twisted onto his right side. The pain ripped through him as his weight came onto his stabbed shoulder—that knife-happy cabrón. Sweat broke out on his forehead as tiny lights blurred his vision. “Madre de Dios.”
She examined the tool, opened the handles. “Like scissors?”
“Mini bolt cutter,” he said, taking them from her hand. Good for rope, wire, leather…
“But the lock’s too big.” The hope in her eyes died as she stared at the thickness of the steel padlock.
“It is, yes.” Raoul snipped the wire above the lock. Then the one to the side. She gasped as she understood—the lock need not be open if the wires around the latch were gone.
He clipped the last wire and shoved the door open, then pulled back. She scrambled out. He followed, muffling his groan as his back grazed the door frame. After a second, he pushed to his feet, her hand under his arm lending support.
Slow breath. He brought his body back under his control and then frowned at the unoccupied cage. “I was going to leave you in there for him to see, but I need your help out here. If you would—”
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, you idiot,” she said in a furious low voice. Such a temper, his tesoro. “Don’t move.”

God, he was going to bleed to death in front of her eyes. Swearing under her breath, she used his bolt cutters to cut up her leather harness. Linen napkins made an adequate crappy dressing, and she secured it all in place by knotting a long leather strap tightly around his chest. The wound on his shoulder—she couldn’t figure out how to contrive something for that.

He ignored her, studying the room. “We’re directly across the hall from the top of the stairs. And there’s a chair right outside. I should be able to get rid of one or two that way.”
By sitting in a chair? How much blood had he lost?
“We don’t want to get trapped in here.” He eyed the door, then made Kimberly push and angle the couch so someone entering wouldn’t see the emptiness of the cage until they were well into the room.
“Now what?” she asked. There were going to be too many men for them. She knew it.
He pointed to the heavy ironwork lamp on the end table. “Get that, gatita.”
After she’d unplugged and carried it back, he motioned for her to keep it. “Use it on the first man through the door—unless he’s FBI, of course. Hit him in the head as hard as you can. I’ll go after the others, and we will party.” He waited a beat, then teased her, “This is when you say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”
Master R’s grin made her feel better, and how dumb was that? We’re going to die here. Her chin came up. But she’d do it fighting and not dying little by little in a cage. “I always liked to party.”
“Tesoro mío,” he murmured. Andrea had said the words meant “my treasure.” The approval in his eyes made her insides tremble—and strengthened her legs. He needed her to be strong; she’d give him anything he needed.
He tilted his head to listen, then pointed for her to stand behind the door and took the other side for himself.
Footsteps. Many. Men’s voices. The horrible sharpness of Lord Greville’s voice. No. She lifted the lamp over her head and braced her legs. Her hands shook, almost dislodging her grip, and she growled and steadied them. Master R nodded approval, increasing her determination. She’d hold up her part. See if she didn’t.
The door opened. “Cover the cage—I don’t want extra witnesses,” Lord Greville said.
Her heart was hammering, pounding, hitting her lungs. She couldn’t—couldn’t move.
Someone walked into the room, the open door hiding him from her. “Yes, sir,” the man said. One step past the door’s edge, he spotted the empty cage.
She saw—actually saw—his mouth open, but the buzzing in her ears drowned out his yell. With a death grip on the base, she swung the heavily decorated solid iron lamp down onto his head. He fell like a rock.
She almost dropped the lamp. Blood streaked the back of his head. She stared, waited. His chest rose—he was breathing, thank heavens.
As she started around him, the smooth iron base of the lamp slipped from her sweaty hands. My only weapon. She snatched it up, curling her fingers into the fancy ironwork on the top. The balance was poor, but at least she wouldn’t drop it.
She heard grunts and shouts outside the door. Master R. Fighting all the rest. By himself. Damn you, Kim. Move! She lurched into the hall and almost tripped on a man on the floor. Eyes open, chest caved in. A buzzing started in her ears. She edged past him and stopped, trying to see. So many men.
With a roar, Master R swung the chair that had been outside the door and knocked a man down the wide, steep stairs. Then he spun, bending forward, kicking backward to catch another in the groin. The man staggered, lost his footing, and yelled as he went over and down the stairs.
Off balance, Master R dropped the chair, staggering a few steps until he caught himself on the banister. Two more guards moved in.
And Lord Greville. Kim’s blood turned cold. He’d grabbed the chair. Master R’s back was to him as he pulled the chair back like a bat.
“No!” Kim yelled.
Greville’s head turned. His cold gaze stopped her…held her…
No. Screaming her fear, her fury, she swung the lamp with all her strength. The heavy base hit Greville in the side of the head, and she felt something break as if the light bulb had shattered.
He fell, and his head… His head. The lamp dropped from numb fingers. The floor whirled under her feet: red carpet, red blood, red carpet…
She was on her hands and knees, choking, trying not to throw up. Cold sweat ran down her face. God, God, God.
Don’t look. As the ringing in her ears subsided, she heard a low groan. Master R. She pushed up on trembling legs and turned. Still alive. Fighting. A man at his feet. More men ran up the stairs.

* * * *

Raoul and Kim had disappeared to an unknown location, and Sam was ready to kill someone. No buyer was allowed outside of the ballroom unescorted, so he couldn’t wander through the place, yelling for his pal. As the auction continued, less than a third of the buyers and slaves remained.

The FBI hadn’t shown up. What did they do, stop for a beer first?
Finally, he spotted a dark jacket, another; then a steady flow of them streamed in under the arched ballroom door. About time. Vance followed. He exchanged glances with Sam and stopped nearby as his men moved up the aisle. Their presence was masked by the screaming and sobbing of slaves, the auctioneer’s sick humor, and the perverted display on the stage.
In the front of the room, a door opened, revealing more men. Sam would give odds that they also surrounded the house. He wished he could see the Overseer’s face right now…and where was he, anyway?
A buyer jumped to his feet. “Cops!”

“So observant.” Vance lifted a bullhorn. “This is the FBI. You will kneel on the floor, hands laced behind your heads. Any resistance will be met with deadly force.” He lowered the bullhorn and added under his breath, “You fucking assholes.”

No one moved.

Vance put the bullhorn to his lips again. “Sit!” His voice whipped across the room with the authority of a hardened cop—and a dom. Most of the slaves dropped instinctively to their knees, and a lot of buyers did as well.

Sam grinned and glanced at Linda, who was still on her feet. His slave was made of tough material. Mine. She studied Vance—frowned at Sam, who wasn’t moving either—then knelt as well.

Galen limped up to Sam and gave him an assessing look before asking, “Where’s Raoul and his sub?”
“Don’t know.” Sam scowled. “The Overseer took them somewhere outside the ballroom.”

* * * *

Kim screamed as a guard hit Master R from the side, slamming him into the wall. He grunted in pain, started to fall, then caught himself.
Another headed for him.
Kim lurched for the guard, turning at the last minute to kick the side of his knee. Pain shot up her ankle, but as Master R had promised, the guy went down, bellowing curses. She jumped for another—spoiling his blow at Master R—and punched the side of his neck, even as he backhanded her. Her butt hit the floor, her head a second later with a cracking blast of pain. The lights dimmed, turned black. She moaned. No. Can’t.
“FBI. Freeze!”
Through unfocused eyes, Kim stared up at the slaver over her, at his furious eyes. She braced for his kick… Then he raised his hands and stepped back.
She lay for a second, pain ripping through her head with each pulse beat, then managed to sit up. Her stomach lurched, nausea churning, making her swallow and swallow again. The room whirled, a merry-go-round of lights. And finally slowed to a stop.
Vance was at the top of the stairs, several uniformed police coming up behind him. Unable to stand, Kim watched as two uniforms dealt with the men Master R had knocked down the steps. One was handcuffed and taken away. The other didn’t move. The remaining officer checked for a pulse and left him there.
Master R. Where was he? Dread clawing at her, Kim turned the other way. Thank you, God.
Still standing, Master R was propped up by the wall as he gasped for air. The white napkins she’d used on his wound were soaked with blood.
Kim moaned.
He glanced at Vance and Dan, then looked around and spotted her. His intent gaze ran over her body, returned to her face, and he actually smiled. “Bueno.”
“Raoul,” Vance said. “You’re a mess.”
“And you’re late.” Master R winced and put his hand over the linen napkins.
“Asshole. Where’re you hurt?”
“In the back,” Kim said, talking right over her master. “And over his ribs, and he’s been bleeding forever.” She tried to stand, but the world started to disappear halfway up.
“No, gatita!” Master R took a step toward her. His knees buckled, and he fell back against the wall. He slid down, leaving a bloody trail on the wallpaper.
Oh God. Kim crawled frantically. “No no no.”
“Medic!” Vance yelled. He pulled Master R forward, netting himself a foul curse in Spanish. “That’s a knife wound. Thought they couldn’t have weapons,” Vance growled, easing the leather vest off Master R’s shoulders.
Still alive. He’s alive. “It’s from a dinner tray,” Kim said.
“Ugly hole,” Vance muttered. He pulled off his black jacket and ripped the sleeve from his white shirt. After shoving it against the bleeding shoulder wound and getting cursed again, he looked at Kim. “You able to keep pressure on this?”
She nodded, ignoring the pain in her head. Just watch me.
“Good enough.”
Galen appeared, leaning heavily on his cane. He had jackets under his arm and tossed one over Kim’s shoulders and another over Master R’s legs. “That might keep you from being dumped into the slammer.”
“Whoa!” A yell came from nearby. “Looks like this mother’s not going anywhere. His skull’s cracked like an eggshell.”
A younger deputy at the top of the stairs reversed course, his face green. I know the feeling, Kim thought. Along with the painful throbbing, her head kept replaying that shattering sound. She tried to swallow.
A firm grip on her knee got her attention. “Cariño? Are you all right?”
She smiled down into Master R’s worried brown eyes. “I love you.”

* * * *

With an FBI jacket over his shoulders, Sam worked his way back into the ballroom, shoving past a cop and the buyer he’d threatened earlier.
“Hey! Arrest him too. He was whipping a slave,” the asshole shouted.
The police officer frowned at Sam, then the jacket he wore. “Wait one minute, please.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket, flipped to a set of thumbnail photos. Sam saw his own face, Kim’s, and Raoul’s. The cop nodded politely at him and gave the slaver a push. “Let’s go, you.”
Sam shook his head. The two feebies had definitely tried to make sure their civilian undercover people were safe. Holding the blanket he’d found, he headed back to Linda. An FBI agent with a bolt cutter had just gotten her unchained from the long cable.
Sam scowled. That was inefficient at best. “You know,” he told the agent, “if you could locate the asshole called the Overseer or Dahmer, he’d probably have master keys.”
“You seen him?”
“Maybe the kitchen or upstairs. He’s not in the ballroom.”
The feebie motioned for a uniform. “Get a description from this man and find the Overseer guy. Try the kitchen first, then upstairs.”
Sam filled the cop in and turned to his woman. “Linda.” He kept his eyes on her.
She stiffened, her gaze on the floor. Embarrassed. Hell.
He stepped forward and wrapped her in the blanket.
The agent with the bolt cutters was working on the next woman’s chain. He looked up. “Hey, where’d the blanket come from?”
“There’s a stack in the closet by the front door.” Sam pulled the blanket more securely around Linda.
Streaks of red appeared on her cheeks. She stared stubbornly at the floor. Dammit.
“Look at me,” he growled.
Her eyes lifted. Pretty, pretty brown, then down again.
“They’re going to take you all to a ward in the hospital where the docs can check you out. The feebies will be doing interviews. I doubt they’ll let me in to see you.” His jaw hardened when she didn’t answer. Unease tightened his gut, flattened his voice. “Give me a way to contact you.”
Her chin jerked up, and she gave him a stunned look of revulsion. “No. Never.” She took a step back from him. “I never want to see you again.” Another step back. Her lush mouth had flattened in a tight line.
He saw her shiver and knew she feared reprisal for the rudeness, but her determination to keep him away had been enough to risk it. He could read her as clearly as if he’d been in her head.
The agent dealing with the next slave over frowned.
This wasn’t the time to push. He’d made a hell of a mistake with her, going with the scene dynamics, and not taking into account the rest of the world. “All right. My name is Sam. When… If you want to reach me, ask at the Shadowlands here in Tampa.” He hesitated. “Be well, Linda.”
She looked away.

* * * *

They’d taken Master R from her, said they were airlifting him to a hospital. Kim had watched, still unable to stand, unable to do anything except shiver.

He was gone. She was alone. The memories of shattering, blood, and screaming kept surging forward in waves, twisting her stomach. If she could manage to get to her feet, maybe she could… Where would she go?

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” a cop asked brusquely and tried to yank her up. She yelped and grabbed her ribs. The Overseer had gotten in a good punch. He stopped pulling but didn’t let go. “You slaves are supposed to all be in the ballroom

until—”
“They’re not slaves, now are they?” A cold, gravelly voice. Kim looked up as Master Sam
walked over. “Last time I looked, slavery was outlawed in this country.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry, sir.” The cop released her and took a step away. “Um—” Sam moved in front of the officer and knelt. “Are you all right, Kim?”
“My master.” Her mind blanked on the name. “My…my Master R. I need to go there.”
Where he is. “He’s hurt. I need to go there.”

Sam didn’t answer, just wrapped the blanket he held around her and over the black jacket she wore. When did she get a jacket? Her thoughts stuttered, started forward again. If her head would just stop hurting… She pulled the covering closer. “Thank you.”

“That’s better.” His hand cupped her chin before she could dodge. After turning her face to each side, he examined the lump at the back of her head. Pain burst behind her eyeballs. He frowned at the blood on his fingers. “You’re banged up, girl.”

“My master. I need to go to—”

“Stop.” He made an exasperated sound. “Dan arranged for us to go to the hospital with the first bunch of women. We’ll get you seen by a doc, and you can see Raoul.”
She nodded, taking it in, although her mind seemed to be awfully slow.
Maybe he realized, since he didn’t move. “You’re not tracking too good, are you?”
He’d take her to Master R. “I’m fine.” The floor insisted on moving in waves, upsetting her balance. Wait. Something else. Someone. “Linda?”
“She’s okay. She’ll get processed with the rest. Galen wouldn’t make an exception in her case.” Sam wrapped an arm around her.
She tried to jerk away, and he waited, not releasing her. As she saw his pale blue eyes, she remembered. Master R’s friend. “Sorry, Sir.”
He simply smiled and lifted her to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Halfway down, she saw… She fought from Sam’s grip, bent, and picked up a black collar. And fell forward.
With a curse, Sam grabbed her and yanked her back upright. “What the hell are you doing, girl?”
She ran her fingers over the leather, the silver engraving. Her grip tightened when he tried to take it. “Mine.”
Instead of fighting her, he turned the collar in her hands so he could read the writing. Master Raoul’s gatita. “Yours.”