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 jumpy.” 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 dark brown eyes, patient. Firm.
“Good. Now take a breath. Yes. Let it out slowly. That’s a good girl.”