He frowned. “Old enough. I should have”— forced Manuel to leave, gotten the cops, fought beside him—“Three of them attacked Manuel.” They seemed huge, knives flashing, yelling curses in Spanish. A knife opened Manuel’s arm, his T-shirt ripping, red running down his wrist. Raoul hit the knife-wielder from behind, knocking the boy to his knees. But another backhanded him like a fly into the garbage. “I tried. Dios, I tried to get them away from him.” Scrambling up, punching, kicking, it was as if he wasn’t even there. They’d surrounded Manuel, cutting him from behind every time he turned to fight one. Raoul yelled, grabbed a gangster’s arm, bit down. “They knocked me away, concentrating on him. Nothing I did helped.”
“You couldn’t have been that big, not at twelve.”
“Skinny. Weak. I liked books. I was useless to him.” He’d crawled back the last time, crying, grabbing one’s leg, and hanging on. Manuel had stabbed that one. Raoul had felt the blow through the gangster’s body, the shudder of pain. When he tried to scramble away, a brutal kick in the gut laid him out. He couldn’t breathe. More came, stepping on him on the way past. He’d heard his brother scream. That high scream—not a man’s voice. So young. Too young. “By the time I got to my feet, Manuel was dead.”
“Oh, that’s horrible. You were only babies. But you tried to help.”
Blood everywhere. So many cuts. He’d failed his brother. Been useless. Weak. Never again. Once his injuries had healed, he’d traded his bike for a set of weights.
Her arms clamped around him, holding him as if she could keep him together, her fears pushed aside. Sweet gatita. He rubbed his cheek in her soft hair and said, “So I know how it feels to be weaker, sumisita, and not able to fight back. When I got my first job, my money went for self-defense lessons. I searched for the nastiest street-fighting teachers I could find.”
“That’s what you’re teaching me.”
“That and getting you strong enough to use it.”
She pulled back, glancing around the weight room. “You work out almost every day. Does that mean you still feel guilty, like you let him down?”
He stiffened at her slicing accuracy. “Maybe.” He hadn’t been able to save, to protect. “Sí.”
“You’re such an idiot!” She shook him, actually shook him. “You were twelve. And outnumbered. Even if you’d been huge, could you really have won?”
Raoul frowned. Looking at the fight from a more experienced viewpoint, he knew there had been too many. No matter what he might have done, they’d have killed Manuel. “No.”
She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “You know, if you’d been older, they’d probably have killed you. Your mom would have lost two sons.”
A clever blow. His mamá—bearing the death of one child had been enough. Raoul sighed. He doubted the guilt would go away completely, but it had lightened. He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Thank you, gatita. For the hug…and the insight.”
She smiled at him. The tears in her eyes were for him and Manuel.
Had he ever known anyone as sweet? However… “You still have to practice for another fifteen minutes.”
Her sigh was expressive.
Trying not to grin, he kissed her pouting lips. “No more stalling.”
Before starting each set of blocks and strikes, Kim visualized her opponent. For the first time, Lord Greville and the Overseer had company, ugly street toughs who’d kicked a little twelve-year-old. Killed his brother. Who’d left him with so much guilt it radiated like heat waves from him. Scum-sucking jerkwads. She worked out silently, furiously, until she had to put her hands on her knees and pant to get her breath back.
A chuckle. Master R pointed to the bare floor around her. “I think they are all dead, gatita. Good job.”
She grinned. “Thank you. I’m ready for a new set of—”
The doorbell rang.
Shaking his head at the way she’d frozen in place, Master R said, “Don’t worry, cariño.
It’s only a special messenger delivering your clothes for this weekend.” He pointed at the shorts and loose top she’d worn for Faith’s visit. “Put those on and come out and meet him.” Him. “You’re sure?” Her voice shook, and she bit her lip.
He didn’t give her trouble over questioning him. “You’ve got two minutes to dress. We’ll be in the great room.” After tugging on her braid, he walked out.
Two minutes? She wiped down with a towel and dragged on her clothing, then hurried down the hall. Master R had taken his usual seat on the big leather sofa. A dark-haired man sat across from him. Expensively tailored black slacks and black silky shirt. A little older, maybe forties. He rose as she entered.
“Z, sit down,” Master R chided. “She’s in training.”
“Indeed, I forgot.” The man smiled and resumed his seat.
Staying well out of the stranger’s reach, Kim sidled over to Master R. She knelt very, very gracefully at his feet and lowered her head. He made the tiny noise he used for approval, and she relaxed.
“Z, this is Kimberly.” Master R stroked her hair. “Gatita, this is Master Z. He owns the Shadowlands and is Jessica’s master.”
Oooh, this was the creative dom who managed to keep feisty Jessica in line. She looked up and had to wonder if the silvering hair at his temples had been caused by his sub.
He studied her in turn, his gray eyes seeming to slide into her soul. She pressed closer to Master R’s legs. “You’re doing very well,” he told Master R, which seemed strange since she hadn’t done anything to elicit his opinion.
“I hear you’re visiting my Shadowlands this weekend, little one. I brought you a present.” With a faint smile, he held a brown paper bag out to her.
A present? She started to reach for it, paused, and glanced at Master R first. He nodded permission, so she rose and brought the package back and then knelt again.
“Open it,” Master R said.
A present. She gave the strange dom a suspicious look. If this is a flogger, I’m heading for the bathroom and locking the door.
It wasn’t a flogger. She pulled out a very short silk satin dress, black with white lace at the bottom and top. A tiny heart-shaped white apron. What the…? Hey, he’d brought her a French maid’s costume. A pricey one.
Master R checked the bag and removed white fishnet stockings. “Nice.” His smile included her as he told Z, “Neither of us was comfortable with her being naked in front of the Overseer. This should work perfectly.”
Her eyes stung, and she hastily lowered her head. She hadn’t told Master R, but the dread of that had made her sick a couple of times. The maid’s outfit was skimpy, but even a small amount of clothing made a difference. Master R had known. He’d felt that way too. A breath. Two. She managed to give her thanks to Master Z.
His gray eyes softened. “You’re very welcome, Kimberly.” He turned his gaze back to Master R. “I brought something else. I understand you might not be comfortable with this, but I believe it’s necessary.” He handed a second bag to Master R.
Master R opened it, and his jaw tightened until she could see the rigid tendon in his cheek. He stared at the other man.
Oh boy. Kim didn’t move a muscle. If he turned that look on her, she’d melt into a terrified puddle on the floor.
Master Z merely chuckled. “It’s just leather, Raoul. And if you’re not going to go with a standard naked slave, you need to make your ownership very clear. Kimberly, what do you think?”
He’d asked her a question? She peeked at Master R.
His fury had disappeared, leaving weariness behind. He upended the bag over the coffee table and a variety of…of slave collars spilled out. Studded dog collars, ones with D-rings and chains, thinner ones with padlocks, a thick silver one that looked horribly uncomfortable, a dark red leather, a black leather with silver decorations.
Never. The thought of one going around her neck made her stomach turn over. Never. Absolutely never would she let… Her thoughts jerked to a halt. “Make your ownership very clear,” Master Z had said. The Overseer would be at the Shadowlands. Looking at her. But no one touched a collared master’s slave.
She swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and faced Master R. “I think I’d like to make it obvious to everyone—to h-him—that you own me.” She laid her fingers on the black leather collar, feeling as if she touched a snake. “This would go best with the outfit.”
Master R watched her for a second, eyes dark and unreadable, then gave Master Z a cold look. “Hijo de puta.”
“I know, Raoul.” Z glanced at his watch and rose. “My time’s up, and I have an appointment.” He smiled at Master R. “As we tell our subs all too often, what you want and what you need aren’t necessarily the same thing.”
Master R walked him out and returned, the cold still in his eyes.
Kimberly tried not to flinch. If he was mad, she wouldn’t be able—
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at her. “My anger is from the past and nothing to do with you. Why don’t you run upstairs and shower? Take some time for yourself.”