Guilt settled in her belly, cold and leaden, and with every breath she could hear Holly’s terrified screams, as if the dungeon were only a few feet away. I can’t. Can’t be a slave. Her throat felt as if a rope bound it, contracting to keep the words from escaping.
But to leave them there? Linda had changed the bandages on Kim’s stomach, her hands gentle and careful. She’d told jokes to make Kim laugh, diverting her from memories of how Lord Greville had… I can’t do this. But then Linda would be never get free. She’d live in pain. She had two children in college. Talked about being a grandmother someday. Held Kim when she cried. She’d been so strong, but eventually everybody would break, even Linda.
Is it worth it to live if I betray…everyone ? She looked at her wrists. The bruises from the cuffs had faded to a faint yellow. I endured before. I can endure again. No, she probably couldn’t. She’d die if she was a slave again. No no no. She looked at Master R, who still stared out the window. He’d tried to soothe her fears. He’d held her, not hurting her, but—she shivered—not letting her go either. He did as he thought best. He was a dom.
I can’t do it, can’t even pretend to be a slave. No.
Holly had cried herself to sleep every night. Every night.
I have to do this . The nausea came fast, choking her, and she inhaled through her nose, forcing it back. I’m me. Not a slave, even if I choose to pretend. And I will do this. Because I’m me. Not broken.
A warm hand closed on her upper arm. “Chiquita…Kimberly…look at me.”
She heard him sometimes in her dreams, his voice breaking through the storm of screaming, and everything would calm, the slow smooth baritone as comforting as the ocean rocking a boat. She looked up at him. “I’ll be your s-slave.”
* * * *
Had he ever seen anyone look so terrified and still manage to move? Raoul leaned against the door frame and watched Kimberly enter his home. Her dusky complexion was a grayish pale, her cheekbones standing out above a clenched jaw. She walked as if the tile floor was covered with sharp spikes.
He sighed. She was incredibly brave, but he had doubts she could maintain her courage. Gabi might get a call this evening begging for rescue.
Kim saw him watching and took a step back. “What would you like me to do now, Mmaster R?”
Stop looking at me as if I plan to slice you into inch-sized chunks of flesh. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost suppertime. Why don’t we sit on the patio”— where you won’t feel as cornered—“and talk? Then we can figure out what to do for supper.”
She gave him a jerky nod.
He led the way through the great room and out the French doors. Sun sparkled off the wide expanse of water. On the shore, waves lapped quietly on the sand. Behind him—silence. He turned.
She was on her knees, hugging herself, staring at the beach, at the waves rolling in. The breeze ruffled her hair back, and the setting sun glinted off the tears on her cheeks. She cried as silently as anyone he’d ever known.
Very slowly, he dropped to one knee and touched her cheek with his fingertips to get her attention. He could feel tiny shudders running through her. “Kimberly, can you tell me why you’re crying?” Should he call Gabi now?
To his complete shock, she rubbed her cheek against his hand like an overwhelmed kitten, and her blue, blue eyes looked up at him. “I forgot. I didn’t even remember…”
He cupped her cheek and rubbed her shoulder, feeling the fragile bones. “What did you forget, gatita?”
“You live on the beach. On the gulf.” Her eyes were wide—not with fear, but with joy. “I can breathe again. Thank you.”
He laughed and rubbed his knuckles over her curving cheek. Perhaps this was not such a forlorn hope after all. If she could share happiness with him, then the rest would come.
* * * *
The next day, Kim stepped out of the guest room onto the long balcony overlooking the gulf. Master R had an interesting place in a beach-house-meets-hacienda way. It was two-story stucco except for a small third story, like a tower, and curved in a C shape around the patio up from the sandy shore. With huge arched windows and balconies everywhere, the inside seemed to merge into the outdoors.
She squinted against the bright sunlight that reflected on the water. Almost noon. She’d hidden in the bedroom since breakfast.
With a sigh, she dropped onto the dark red cushioned chair. Bare feet on the iron railing, she leaned her head back, immersing herself in the feeling of the moisture forming on her skin, the ocean breeze, the heat of the sun. Waves lapped quietly on the sand, the gentle gulf surf nothing like that of her energetic Atlantic. A gull circled, screeching.
Oh, she’d missed the ocean. The rhythm of her life had been marked by the tides, starting on her father’s fishing trawler to her work as a marine biologist. But slaves were shut inside, never to see the sun or hear the surf. Worse than any drug addict, she’d craved the sound and smell of the shore.
She’d probably scared Master R with her reaction last night, but apparently he’d understood. He’d laughed.
He can laugh . He had a great laugh. Braced by the knowledge, she’d made it through yesterday evening without panicking. She’d been quite proud of herself.
A noise came from the room behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Sitting with her back to a door felt as if she asked to be attacked, but she forced herself to stay. To try to relax. To ignore the certainty a stranger would come out of nowhere and grab her. Knowing Master R was in the house helped…at least with the stranger-abduction fear.
It sucked to have so many fears she had to name them.
Would Master R create more terror than he eased? A tremor ran through her. I don’t know him at all. Aside from insisting she eat supper with him, he’d left her alone last evening, letting her get used to his house, to losing Gabi’s support…although Gabi had called about every half hour to check on her. Kim smiled. Sweet Gabi.
But Master R apparently realized how terrifying his presence was—not for anything he’d done, but because he was male. A dom.
He was even more careful with her than Marcus had been. Like last night when she’d had a nightmare. Nothing new. Usually Gabi would hear her screams and wake her up. This time it had been Master R.
“Kimberly.” His voice had entered her dream, where she was pinned down, unspeakable things…pain… “Kimberly!” Such a smooth voice. The horrors reverberated through her in the slaps, the burning. “Wake up, chica!” A sharp command. A master’s voice. Her eyes had snapped open. A man in the doorway. Another scream, awake now, but the lights were on, and she saw—after a minute—the man who had bought her. Freed her. Master R.
He’d waited until she said his name before entering, then fetched her a glass of water from the bathroom. Pulled up a chair. Let her drink and shake. He hadn’t touched her once, and his presence had turned comforting. Did he know if he’d loomed over her, she’d have gone into hysterics? That she couldn’t stand being touched right then, not after the nightmare of so many men?
He’d watched her, patient and quiet, then picked up the book she had on the bedside table and simply read to her in that voice, dark with a twist of accent. No nightmare could compete with Raoul Sandoval reading Huckleberry Finn.
So she really was better. Maybe the spark of her very self hadn’t gone out. Maybe she wasn’t filthy inside, deserving of everything done to her and more. Only she felt dirty. Ugly and ruined. She blinked against the welling tears. Would “filthy slut” echo in her mind forever?
The psychologist hadn’t made much progress with her feelings of self-loathing. Or with helping her to figure out what came next, after this was over. How could she go back to her job, knowing someone might grab her again? That—
She heard a footstep and jerked around, heart jackhammering against her ribs.
“Easy, gatita.” Master R stopped. Waited, his eyes steady on hers.
“Sorry.”
“You have the right to be ju
mpy.” He squatted beside her chair, tilting her chin up to wipe her cheeks with his fingers. “And to cry. No matter how strong you are, I think you will be in tears often for a while.”
“Are we going to start…?” She couldn’t finish, hated how pitiful she sounded.
“When you are ready, Kimberly, come downstairs and we’ll talk.”
“Kim. Everyone calls me Kim.”
He smiled, and for a second, she saw the dom he was. Self-confident. Powerful. He would do what he wanted.
A shiver ran through her. “You really are a dom, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” He released her chin and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “But you’re safe, chiquita. The only slave I want is one whose dearest wish is to be mine.”
He wanted to own a slave? A chill settled deep in her bones.
* * * *
An hour later, Raoul pushed his keyboard to one side and rested his forearms on the massive oak desk. The design for a new waterfront area in Belize couldn’t keep his attention.
Could Kimberly tolerate being a slave? He wasn’t a harsh master, but he wasn’t a pushover either, and since he’d acted like a cold bastard for the Overseer, turning into a hearts-and-flowers master wouldn’t cut it. Honesty would serve both him and Kimberly best. After all the upheavals in her life, she’d need the stability—the reassurance—of consistency.
He looked up at a sound from the door.
She stood there, her face pale, but chin up and standing straight. Brave little subbie. Satisfaction welled in him as he noted her cheeks had started to round out. Gabi’s cooking and pampering had put some weight on her.
“I’m ready to talk,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”
“This is fine.” He rose and saw her force herself to stand still.
In the doorway, he put his hand on her back, touching her as he’d avoided doing before. He felt her tremble. His brows drew together as he realized he was seeing her in two ways: as a hurt woman and as a willing sub. How had his mind ever received the impression she was willing? Yet there had been times in the slaver’s dungeon, when their rhythms had come together, and she’d unconsciously accepted him as dominant.
He paused, then turned toward the stairs, steering her up past the second floor to the third and into the tower room. Their discussion should be in a private place. Intimate. Not his office. And the great room was for guests.
Here, the steeply angled roof formed two sides of the square room, but the front and back walls were all glass, giving a breathtaking view of the sea to the west and his gardens to the east. The floor was a rich brown pile, the off-white sectional soft and welcoming. The toys for bondage and play stayed hidden inside the sturdy ottoman and bombé chest by the wall.
“This is beautiful,” she said, walking to the window with the ocean view.
So are you, little submissive. The light of the afternoon sun glinted off her straight black hair, bringing out brown tints, and silhouetted her slim figure. Under the loose-fitting clothing, she had a pretty body, he recalled. So thin, yet still graceful with nicely curved hips. He pointed to the sofa, saw her hesitation, and patiently waited for her to take a seat.
What should have been eagerness to obey—and probably had been once—was fear instead. His heart ached that anyone could treat a woman so harshly. He sat on the sturdy square ottoman, knee to knee with her, the sofa back keeping her from retreating farther. “We’re going to talk about what I expect and what you will do. And we’ll get to know each other, gatita.”
“What’s gatita mean?”
“Little cat. Kitten.” He tugged on her black hair. “Baby cats often have blue eyes, and when I was young, I had a black kitten with big blue eyes.”
She smiled. “You called me chiquita.”
“Little girl.”
She didn’t like that. “You said pobre-something means poor little baby.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s an awful lot of littles, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps.” He displayed his hand. “Big.” He set hers next to his, so small and delicate contrasted with his thick, blunt fingers. Why did holding her fragile hand raise every protective instinct he had? “Little.”
When she huffed in exasperation, he captured her other hand and leaned forward. “Now, tell me what happened when you were a slave.”
His unexpected question felt like a kick to the stomach. Talk about it? No way. Kim attempted to withdraw, and his fingers tightened. “Excuse me?” Her mind shifted, trying to detach from her body.
“You heard me, Kimberly. Until this is over, I will be your dom—your master. I will expect you to follow orders. Your body will be available to me—”
She froze.
“No, not for sex,” he added with a sigh. “But my hands will be on you at times. You need to become accustomed to my touch so you’re not jumping.”
She managed a nod. I knew this. I did. Why did it seem much more intimidating when she was looking at those powerful hands?
“I expect you to tell me when something bothers you—and things will. I need to know what to avoid, and I can’t help you if you can’t share what happened.”
Go into it? Talk about it? With him? His fingers were hot against her skin as the ice crept into her hands.
“Share with me, Kimberly.” His voice was a grave baritone, the slight Spanish accent softening it. “When did they kidnap you?”
“A-about maybe seven weeks ago.” The pain, horrible pain from the Taser, then a sting. The world going fuzzy, then she awoke to terror. A nasty kick when she threw up, a slap when she cried too loudly.
“I’d forgotten it was so long. Did they hold you for a while before they auctioned you off? What happened during that period?”
“They…didn’t do much. I was penned up with the others for…I think almost two weeks?” The time was blurry, crying women, leering men, nothing to do. The days ran together. “Our ‘rebelliousness’ was a selling point, so we got no training.” She swallowed, remembering how scared she’d been. If she’d known what would come after, she’d have jumped overboard right then. “I didn’t go to the big auction though. Lord Greville bought me a while before.”
“The owner who sent you back to the Overseer?”
She nodded, blinking furiously. I won’t cry.
Master R’s hands squeezed her fingers. “Tell it all.”
He needed the information. But it was hard. “He took me to his house.” Cold with white walls and furniture, no comfort anywhere. “He had his servants hold me down, and h-he raped me.” She forced the word out. After a week of talking with Gabi and Faith, she could say it now—say it without vomiting. “I fought them. He beat me until I passed out. And raped me again.” And again and again.
“Was he the one who used a whip on you?” Master R asked, his voice even.
She nodded, looking at their entwined hands. “Each time, each day. The pain—” So much pain that every breath had hurt, until it billowed in her head, made her vision waver. Until all she could think was, Make it stop. “I couldn’t quit fighting, even…even though…” Blood in her mouth, on the floor, the stink of sweat and sex.
“It’s why the bastard wanted you—because you’d fight back.” His fingers massaged hers. “So you’ve had both physical and sexual abuse. How about mental? Did he call you names?”
“Yeah.” Slut, cunt, dirty whore. Did the filth inside her show? Could Master R see the darkness? She tried to laugh. “Even some words I’d never heard of before. He said I deserved everything I got because I was a slut. Bad. Filthy. He locked me in a cage during the day—put my water and food in bowls because I was an animal.” She dared to look up, had to, and saw his black frown. “That’s why he gave me to his friends.” Her throat clogged as her stomach turned over.
He cursed under his breath and gripped her chin with those strong fingers, pulling her head up. “Look at me, chiquita.”
Her gaze came up to meet his dar
k brown eyes, patient. Firm.
“Good. Now take a breath. Yes. Let it out slowly. That’s a good girl.”
The memories retreated, pushed away by his anger…for her. Her nausea eased.
After she’d managed a few breaths, he sat back, taking her hand again. “Others used you. And?”
“I stabbed him afterwards.”
He stared at her, then burst out laughing, and with the sound of his hearty laughter, open and pleased, the darkness in her head shrank. He kissed her fingers. “Good for you. But…I think this is why you were hurt so badly?”
Badly. She couldn’t answer, just started to shake.
A growl came from him. He plucked her up like a dandelion and sat down with her in his arms. Warmth and strength enfolded her, not frightening her. Somehow. How did being ordered to talk make her blurt things out like that?
He waited, simply holding her, one hand running up and down her arm. As her trembling slowed, he said, “I know something of trauma. I have friends who were in war. Others survived the gangs. You will continue with the counselor—she and Gabi can come here—but even so, things will set you off. Panic you or make you cry. I expect that.”
Gabi? And Faith? Not alone, not abandoned. “Thank you.”
“But if simply talking does this to you, then I need to know the rest, so I can help you through it. Or avoid it. Do you understand?”
She felt dirty. Weak and useless and ruined. But he was right. She bit her lip and nodded.
“How did you manage to stab Lord Greville, and what did he do afterward?”
“As the…men…were leaving, I hid a knife in my dancing scarves.” Crawling to the veils, pulling them around her, knotting one over the blade. Her blood staining the delicate fabric. Trying to stand. Falling. Pushing to her feet. Blood trickling down her legs like warm water. “When he returned for me, I stabbed him.” She swallowed. The blade punching through his shirt, then his skin, his flesh resisting. “He jerked away as I did. Enough that I got his shoulder and not his heart. He hit me.” Knocked her across the room.
“I’m sorry you were not more accurate,” Master R said mildly. “And then?”