To Command and Collar
Page 49

Raoul handed over his wallet and phone and keys to be sealed away, then suffered a pat down. The multitool in his boot was checked for sharp points and replaced when he mentioned he’d be doing a demonstration.
The light flashed toward Kimberly. She opened her covering, and everyone could see she wasn’t hiding a thing.
As the man jumped out and closed the door, Raoul chose a seat in the back, far from the others. He pulled Kimberly onto his lap, snaked his hand under her cape and over her breast.
Her startled gaze met his, and he kissed her lightly, murmuring into her ear, “If I play with you, I have a reason to hold you on my lap, but if you would prefer to kneel at my feet, you may.”
Her head gave a little shake. At home, she’d have given him a laughing look and shown her pleasure at being in his arms. Not here.
“Stay beside me at all times, Kimberly. We’ll use the leash again, but even so, I want you close enough to feel you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Master.”
He cupped her face in his hand, ran his thumb over her lips. “I am very proud of you, cariño,” he murmured.
She burrowed into his arms in a very unslavelike manner, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to deny her the comfort.
An unknowable time later, they emerged from the dark van and walked up the sidewalk to a mansion blazing with lights. Raoul strained his ears, thought he heard a faint whisper of helicopter blades, and hoped it wasn’t his imagination.
As they approached the door where the guards were matching photos to arriving buyers, Raoul attached his leash to her collar. “Stay beside me now, Kimberly.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Thank you.” In the glare of the outside lights, her face appeared gray.
He lifted her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “You are mine, Kimberly. No one will touch you.”
Under his fingers, the muscles of her jaw loosened. She gave him a jerky nod.
He ran his finger around the edge, touching her soft neck. “I like seeing my collar on you,” he murmured.
Her smile of agreement was followed by confusion. He understood. She didn’t want to be a slave—anyone’s slave.
He stroked her hair once, then strolled arrogantly to the door. She remained to his right and half a pace behind. Closer than normal, but he needed her close for his own peace of mind as well as hers.
The two bulky guards at the door scanned a list of photos and stopped at one. “Master R?”
Raoul nodded.
The guard triggered a house intercom. “Tell the Overseer Master R has arrived.”
A slave hurried over to take Raoul’s coat and Kimberly’s cape as Dahmer strode up.
“Welcome to the auction, Raoul.” When the man turned his gaze on Kimberly, Raoul had to force his muscles to stay relaxed. “Very nice. I like the harness. You’ll probably receive requests for her company tonight.”
“I don’t share.” Raoul buried his hand in Kimberly’s hair, using the rough move to pull her closer to his side. “My mother thought I was quite selfish.”
“Of course.” The Overseer gave him a thin smile. “While your area is being prepared, can I show you the merchandise? We have some lovely showpieces this time. I daresay you’ll find one or two you’d enjoy far more than this damaged one.”
What the hell does that mean? Raoul tugged on Kimberly’s leash and followed Dahmer, thinking of how a bridge would oscillate prior to collapse. Something in Dahmer’s behavior was giving Raoul the same sense of impending disaster. His grip tightened on the leash.
The marble-floored foyer held a wide staircase that looked straight out of Gone with the Wind. Rather than ascending, Dahmer led them into an antebellum ballroom on the right. Textured wallpaper in red and gold warmed the room, and ornate crystal chandeliers attempted to convey a feeling of romance. But there was nothing romantic about the sound of sobbing and screams drowning out the classical music from hidden speakers.
Raoul stopped, too angry to move. This was a slave market, no matter the attempt to render it high class. Small café tables and chairs filled the center of the room. The slaves to be sold lined the walls. A heavy cable ran the perimeter, and each slave wore an ankle cuff and a chain securing her to the cable. Raoul nodded in understanding. According to Buchanan, the slavers changed locations with every auction, and a rental agency would take a dim view of someone putting heavy bolts in the walls to serve as restraints.
Buyers wandered the side aisles between the slaves and the tables, marking the notepads they’d been given. A small pedestal in front of each girl held a large number—the sale item—as well as her biographical and physical information for the buyers to peruse. When Raoul heard the smack of a hand against flesh, he didn’t turn. He was far too close to using his fists on the man beside him. “This is very impressive, Dahmer.”
“Thank you. I have things to do, so go ahead and walk around. Pick out a couple of slaves you like and remember their numbers. You’ll understand why in a bit.”
The hair on the back of Raoul’s neck lifted. Yes, something was definitely going on.
As Dahmer headed out of the ballroom, Raoul glanced at Kimberly. Fast respirations. Hands clenched. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms, hotwire a van, and get her the hell out of this nightmare. Instead he squeezed her shoulder. “You’re doing very well, gatita. I’m proud of the bravery you’re showing.”
A glimmer of tears showed for a second. Then she lifted her chin and gave him a firm nod. “Thank you, Master. Your words mean a lot to this slave.”
This slave? She’d referred to herself in third person, undoubtedly trying to be even more obviously a slave for the evening. She’d gone one step too far.
Kim saw the way anger lit Master R’s face, eroding the control in it.
“I realize you meant that for the best, but do not ever refer to yourself in third person. You are not an object. Try it again.”
She took an involuntary step back at the violence in his voice, yet…the anger was on her behalf. The reassurance that he was the total opposite of the leering buyers dimmed her fears. “Yes, Sir. That’s good to hear, Master.”
His lips curved, making her heart swell.
Pleasing him felt…right. Too right. Flattening her mouth into a line, she turned and stared at the chained women. He wants me to be like that. Only he didn’t. He treated her as someone he cherished, someone he found sexy, but not a nothing. He was more aware of her feelings than she was—and had been pushing her to recover.
But he wanted to take the decisions away from her, make them for her. I’m so confused.
The leash tugged. He’d taken a step and waited for her to pay attention. His eyes were gentle, as if he knew her struggles.
Get out of your head, Kim. Time to do the job. She followed him obediently, eyes on the ground at first and then not. Instead she looked at the women, memorizing their faces. If the operation failed, at least their families would know where to start looking. She met their eyes, willing strength into them. Hang on. The nightmare might be over soon. Let Galen and Vance show up like they’d planned. Oh God, please.
A shrill scream lifted over the rest of the noise, and Kim turned. A woman restrained to a cross. A red mark marred her white back. The buyer swung a short whip. A cracking sound. A terrified, pain-ridden scream. Another bloody stripe.
Kim tried to look away and couldn’t.
An attendant in a red uniform hurried over to the buyer. “You must not mark the merchandise, please, sir,” he scolded with the utmost of deference.
The buyer, an obese man, red-faced from the effort of using a whip, laughed. “I’m done. She’ll do great for what I have in mind.” He checked the number on the metal pedestal. “Slave number eighteen.”
Kim could hear the woman whimper. Farther away, another whip cracked. Sobbing. Men’s voices thick with lust. A shriek of terror. Heat swept over her, then a clammy cold. Even as her breathing increased, she couldn’t seem to get enough air.
“Kimberly?” Master R’s voice sounded over the roaring in her ears.
She opened her fingers, all ten for a panic attack, knowing it wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t show her—
He wrapped her in his arms, surrounding her with his strength, his clean scent. His dark voice murmured in her ears, blocking the other sounds. Anchoring her.
On her first trip to a beach, she’d toddled into the water. A wave knocked her sprawling, and as she tried to stand, another hit, and another. Her world turned to churning sand and water and choking—and then her mother carried her up the beach to safety.
As Master R had done over and over.
She sagged against him, the tight band across her chest easing, her lungs able to draw air again. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“No problema.” He kissed her hair, not releasing her. “But I’m going to paw you a little so it looks better to the cabrones, sí?”
Oh, his temper was definitely up, the way he’d slid into Spanish.
“Sí, Señor,” she whispered back, getting a huffed laugh in return.
His powerful hands closed on her bottom under her tiny skirt. He gripped her bare cheeks, traced the crack, holding her firmly against him. Oh God, she loved his touch, and it didn’t matter where or when. An arm around her, he tipped her back so he could tease her breasts. Her knees wobbled, and his arm tightened. He yanked her hair, pulling her head back, and kissed her, deliberately rough, biting her lips.