To Command And Collar

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 cabron 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.

He tried to call Gabrielle. The thought of telling the sweet submissive that her best friend was freed lightened his heart. But no one answered at the house she shared with her dom, and Marcus didn’t answer his cell phone. Was this the weekend the two planned to go sailing? Growling, he texted them also, telling them to come to his house tomorrow morning.

Raoul scowled. Apparently he had himself a slave for the night.

Slave. The word sandpapered his nerves. He rubbed his face. Even after three years, the remnants of the ugly fight with his mother and sister still echoed in his memory. “You kept a woman as a slave? You’re a monster, Raoul.” His fun-loving sister’s voice had been so cold. Distant, as if she’d already cut him from her life. His mother’s lined face had grown more careworn, and the brown eyes which matched his own had filled with tears as she whispered, “How could you, my son?”

They should meet Dahmer and see what real monsters look like.

Now what? He frowned at the little slave on his couch. At least she wasn’t really his, even if he was stuck with her longer than he wanted.

Pretty little slave, somehow both innocent and sensual in the pink sweat pants and tank top the Overseer had provided for her. She slept heavily. Her thick black lashes lay against her pale cheeks, her breathing slow. Even if he managed to wake her, she wouldn’t be capable of understanding any explanations.

He sighed. His body ached as if he’d been the one to be flogged, and he was exhausted in a way he’d never felt after doing a scene at the Shadowlands. He needed sleep, or he’d be incoherent when Buchanan or Kouros arrived, expecting a detailed report.

Sleep it was.

In the upstairs hallway with Kimberly in his arms, he started toward the guest room and then remembered the fury in her eyes. If she woke, she’d try to run, no doubt about it. As much as the thought disgusted him, she’d have to be secured against escape…but he never left a restrained sub unattended.

He turned and headed for his own room.

When he laid her down on his bed, her eyes popped open, and she hit at him.

He caught her small fist. “Shhh, Kimberly, no one is going to hurt you here.”

Even drugged as she was, the twist of her lips showed her disbelief, but she couldn’t maintain her anger. Her eyes slowly drooped, then closed.

He stroked her hair back from her face, wishing Gabi had been available to take her friend home. Kimberly shouldn’t have to live in fear a moment longer. What a mess.

No choice. He glanced at the ankle and wrist cuffs she still wore-freebies from the slavers-and ones she’d stay in for tonight. At least the master bedroom was already set up for bondage with chains on the heavy ironwork. He secured the lower bedpost chain to her right ankle cuff. No escape for you, little slave. Not tonight.

After setting the multitool from his boot sheath and the padlock key the Overseer had given him on the bedside table, he moved them out of Kimberly’s reach.

His shower didn’t wash away the sensation of filth, but it helped. He rummaged in the dresser for a pair of loose cotton pants and pulled them on. She didn’t wake as he rolled her over and checked her back. The attendants had put bandages over the places where he’d cut her skin and ointment on the welts. Everything looked clean. He’d seen-even done-much worse, but never to someone who wasn’t willing.

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.