Make Me, Sir

feet. She rose and staggered a few steps. How could a damn flogging turn her muscles into limp noodles? Her legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. Could she even stand up long enough to shower? But she had to. Had to wash away the sticky sweat and arousal, to eradicate his touch and scent.

But hot water and soaping after soaping couldn’t remove her memories of his strong hands, the scrape of his shadowed jaw, his warm breath. As her back and butt and legs burned, she felt again the rhythm of the blows, the slow increase in pain…and need.

Oh God.

After toweling dry, she wiped off a clear spot on the steamed-up mirror, then turned. Pink lines remained from the flogger. Light along her back, darker on her bottom and the backs of her thighs. Nothing was welted or raised. The redness would probably have disappeared by tomorrow.

Yet it seemed like Marcus had marked her…had somehow branded her as his own.

Anger sliced through her, the pain sharper than her stinging skin. Yet beneath it was a terrifying sense of satisfaction-an internal voice that said yes to his marks of possession.

* * *

A clusterfuck. Marcus leaned back in his home office chair and stared at the white ceiling. Interesting term. What a shame he couldn’t use it in court. The accused stole an M16 and then… Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was a real clusterfuck.

The evening had definitely been a clusterfuck.

Before he and Cullen had left the Shadowlands, Z said he’d explain to the Masters and ask them to keep the investigation secret. With a stab of pity, Marcus had agreed. Z had looked exhausted.

Apparently Marcus wasn’t the only one feeling like he’d kicked a helpless puppy.

Raoul’s report hadn’t helped. The little sub hadn’t cried or fully recovered, but threatened to call the cops if Raoul didn’t leave. Everything in Marcus wanted to go to her, to make sure she was all right. A dom didn’t put a sub in that kind of shape and abandon her.

Guilt weighed like a heavy hand on his shoulders. Despite the fact that he’d done his best with good intentions, he’d screwed up, damaging where he’d only wanted to help.

Damn Z anyway.

Marcus rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock. Four a.m. But he couldn’t sleep. Instead he booted up his computer.

Realizing Gabi probably used a fake name, he’d demanded her correct name from Z. Renard. He typed Gabrielle Renard into the search engine.

The results appeared on the screen. She worked in the FBI field office in Miami. A victim specialist. A social worker, just as Z had said.

After reading for a while, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. She helped the victims of violence and seemed to mostly work with children and teens. When she’d talked about her murdered friends and her rape, she’d mentioned a man who had-how had she put it?-talked her out of the corner she’d hidden in. Had he been a victim specialist perchance, the one who started her on this path?

“Get a kindness, pass it on.” That was his mother’s motto. Apparently Gabi lived by it. Mama would like her.

After shutting the computer down, he poured himself a brandy. In his backyard, he took a chair and propped his feet up on another. Above the city lights, the stars shone brightly in the black sky, a comforting assurance that the universe continued on, despite the disasters on one tiny planet. As he watched, a meteor streaked across the sky and fell.

Well, he knew some of the little sub’s past now, and from the articles, she exemplified both dedication and compassion. A softhearted woman. Guilt pressed on his chest. Good job there, Atherton. Jesus, could I have screwed up any more badly?

He watched another bright light fall to its doom on Earth. In the club, she acted like a brat for the killer. It explained her idiotic rebellions like the missing fact in a trial. All those times she’d start to submit, then straighten her shoulders and spit out something outrageous-all pretense. His chest tightened as he remembered how many times he’d punished her. God, how could she ever forgive him?

He’d acted appropriately for what she’d allowed him to know-and realizing that didn’t help at all. How the hell would he make this up to her? During his marriage, his wife had demanded presents, jewelry, flowers after a fight. He dry scrubbed his face, his stubble rasping over his palms. Jewelry wouldn’t fix this. Nothing would.

In the distance, an emergency siren wailed. Marcus tipped his head back with a sigh. Hard world. He did his best to try to make it a better place. Now to discover he’d hurt someone he’d come to…come to what? Care for? Maybe.

Probably. She’d appealed to him from the beginning, even with her outrageous behavior. Of course, not all that brattiness was acting. Marcus smiled and took a sip of brandy. No, she had a mouth on her.

She’d hidden much of herself, but everything he did know attracted him. Her laughter. “I felt sorry for myself since my wimpy dom can’t catch a snail crossing the sidewalk.” He wanted that laughter in his life.

“They shot my Danny and Rock. I was so mad, and I wanted to hurt them.” So matter-of-fact when she’d told him, as if her loyalty and courage weren’t remarkable.

He tilted his head back, remembering her wistful voice. “You know, he’d buy me romance novels. We were broke, but somehow he’d still find me books.” Such a little thing to mean so much to her. He wanted to be the one to comfort her. To take care of her. He smiled. To buy her romance novels.

But she’d undoubtedly run from him now. What if she didn’t return to the Shadowlands? She might not want to give him a second chance. His mouth tightened, and determination settled inside him with a weight like gravity.

Such a shame that a sub doesn’t always get what she wants.

* * *

On Monday, Gabi rode the elevator in the Clearwater hotel two flights past the FBI agents’ floor, then took the stairs back down. Her dread of the coming interview increased with each step closer to the room.

She opened the stairwell door, stepped into the hallway, and trudged across the thick carpeting. She and sleep hadn’t been on speaking terms, and her exhausted body felt as if it was wading through water.

At the door, she hesitated. What could she say? She still didn’t understand what had happened to her last Saturday, so how could she explain it to the agents?

Maybe Master Z had called? But all contact was supposed to go through Rhodes. And she already knew his reaction. Her mouth twisted. When she’d finally reached him late Sunday, he’d completely lost it. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re undercover-un-der-co-ver-or doesn’t that mean anything to you? So he fucked you and you decided to spill everything. What is that-pillow talk?” He’d finished his rant with what she’d expected. “I’m going to have your ass for this.”

Even before she’d called him, she’d known her career in the FBI was over. Finished. Termini. No one would understand. They’d simply see she’d exposed an ongoing investigation to a whole lot of people. Yeah, serving as a decoy wasn’t her real job; yes, she’d volunteered to do it; but after destroying a covert operation, it wouldn’t matter.

So. I might as well get this over with and then start seriously job hunting. She tugged her T-shirt down-why dress up to get fired?-straightened her shoulders, and knocked on the door.

The door opened, and the big agent, Vance Buchanan, let her in. He wore faded jeans, a blue T-shirt, and beard stubble. He looked her over slowly as if assessing her condition. “Bad week, eh, Gabrielle?”

At the rough sympathy in his voice, tears burned her eyes. She turned her head away and sucked it up. “I’ve had better.”

“I bet. Z gave us a call yesterday.” He pointed toward the L-shaped couch and chairs where Galen waited. “Go sit.”

As she took a chair across from Galen, Vance took a soda from the small refrigerator, opened it, and set the