Lord Greville laughed, jagged and cold like a saw blade. He turned back to Master R and scowled at how the two men had to hold him up. “Hell, he’s out cold. That’s no fun.” He glanced at the water pitcher, hesitated, then motioned toward the cage. “Toss him in.”
As the guards dragged Master R over, Greville’s eyes met Kim’s. “If he’s still breathing when we get home, you can show me just how far you’ll go to keep him alive.”
She’d do anything, and her stomach tried to empty as she thought of the perversions Greville would demand.
The guards heaved Master R into the cage. She pressed against the wire, feeling the wire sides closing in on her. Just as small as the one in Lord Greville’s basement.
“Get that collar off her,” Lord Greville said.
One man grabbed her hair, yanking her far enough forward to unbuckle the collar with one hand. The feel of air against her bare neck was horrible—not like being stripped, but like seeing her house burn to the ground.
The guard stepped back; the other closed the door and snapped the heavy padlock, removing the key.
“Look, fuckhole.” Lord Greville waggled her collar and threw it out the door.
Kim stared after it, her life tumbling down the stairs with it. Dreams die before people do.
Greville accepted the padlock key from the guard and put it in his pocket. “You’re mine, cunt, for as long as I let you live.”
No matter how many hours or days, it would be too long. Kim couldn’t stop shaking, her chest so tight no air seemed to get through. Red and black wavered in her vision—blood and death—and she wanted it, wanted the oblivion.
Lord Greville pointed to the moaning Overseer. “Haul him downstairs and have someone see to him. I need him able to sign the papers.” He turned to check his bodyguards. One had managed to stand. The other was…was dead.
Kim stared at Master R. He’d killed. And he was dying.
Her hands shook; her body shook. Don’t die. She tried to turn him. Stop the bleeding. No room to move him, no room. Her hands clamped into fists.
“I’ll clear us leaving with the front door attendants,” Greville said to the guard. “Get three more men to carry the crate—and something to cover it.” He laughed. “Good deal. Two slaves for the price of none.”
The door closed behind them with a solid thump.
A hand gripped on Kim’s arm, and she jumped.
“Cariño.” Master R looked up at her, brown eyes completely alert.
“Master R?” she whispered and stared at him. The scum-sucking bottom-feeder… He’d been faking it.
His eyes were filled with laughter. With pride. “So, gatita with sharp claws, what did you do to Dahmer?”
* * * *
Sam knelt beside Linda. He’d released her, lowered her to a sitting position despite her groggy protest.
The scrawny attendant pulled the portable St. Andrews into the aisle and frowned at Sam. “Please step out of the display area, sir.”
“She needs a blanket and some water.” Abandon a sub who was coming out of subspace?
“She’s up for sale, sir. Your time to sample the merchandise is over.”
“I get it.” God blast these bastards. He couldn’t leave her so vulnerable. Sam slapped her face lightly. “Wake up, girl. Now.”
She blinked, eyes focusing on him, then looked around the room, and her fear yanked her out of comfort faster than anything he could do.
“That’s right. Come on back,” he said, smoothing her hair.
She pulled away from his hand, and her expression held…revulsion. Anger. “Damn you,” she whispered and shuddered.
Sam frowned. What—why? “Linda, what—” He saw the attendant signal for a guard and stopped. Can’t draw that kind of attention. Or be forced from the vicinity. He rose to his feet, bent, and patted her shoulder. “Hang in there, girl.”
She cringed away…from him.
He hesitated, then withdrew to outside the display area. That hadn’t been fear she showed, but anger. Disgust. His lips tightened. He’d stay close. She might not want help, but too bad.
Another buyer approached, looking almost mesmerized. No question as to why. The redhead might be older, but after taking what Sam had given, she had a…glow. Her lips were swollen, her face abraded, her breasts marked by his hands. Her eyes were heavy from how intensely she’d come. She looked like a wet dream in chains.
The buyer, middle-aged with a hefty paunch, stared at Linda and started to signal to an attendant. Leaning an elbow on the pedestal, Sam said quietly, “I’m buying that one. You can play, but if I find one mark on her body that I didn’t put there, I’ll take that whip and knot it around your neck.”
The man puffed up, trying to look bigger, and then yellow-dogged out. “Fine. If you’re going to purchase her, no need to waste my time.” He walked away, his attempt at dignity spoiled by a nervous glance over his shoulder.
Sam half-smiled, then looked over at Linda in satisfaction.
She stared back. Coldly.
He winced inside. Dammit, she hadn’t acted like that before he’d whipped her. Or when he’d been getting her off. She begged—he closed his eyes as the pieces started to fit. Dignified. Older. Not letting fear show in her manner. Controlled. Embarrassed by her own needs.
And he’d taken those needs and reduced her to begging—in front of others. The slavers who called her a slut.
Hell. He should have stopped at the whipping. Getting her off had been a fucking major mistake. It had seemed like a gift he could give, to help her escape her awareness of this place for a bit, but…females were odd creatures. Emotional. Rather than a gift, he’d shown her how easily her own body would betray her.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, wanting to swear up a storm. He’d sliced into her defenses with less finesse than a baby dom with a new whip. After a glance at the attendant who still hovered nearby, Sam knew he couldn’t explain to her, to apologize—not here—but when this was over, they’d talk. Damn straight, they would.
* * * *
Raoul struggled to reach down his leg but failed. With both of them stuffed in the cage, there wasn’t enough room. “Chiquita, get the tool out of my right boot. On the outside.”
“But I need to stop the bleeding.”
“Now.”
With her mouth set in protest, she squirmed around and did as he asked, his sweet, sweet sumisa.
She frowned at it. “What is this?”
“Safety tool. I always carry it if I’m doing a scene.” He twisted onto his right side. The pain ripped through him as his weight came onto his stabbed shoulder—that knife-happy cabrón. Sweat broke out on his forehead as tiny lights blurred his vision. “Madre de Dios.”
She examined the tool, opened the handles. “Like scissors?”
“Mini bolt cutter,” he said, taking them from her hand. Good for rope, wire, leather…
“But the lock’s too big.” The hope in her eyes died as she stared at the thickness of the steel padlock.
“It is, yes.” Raoul snipped the wire above the lock. Then the one to the side. She gasped as she understood—the lock need not be open if the wires around the latch were gone.
He clipped the last wire and shoved the door open, then pulled back. She scrambled out. He followed, muffling his groan as his back grazed the door frame. After a second, he pushed to his feet, her hand under his arm lending support.
Slow breath. He brought his body back under his control and then frowned at the unoccupied cage. “I was going to leave you in there for him to see, but I need your help out here. If you would—”
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, you idiot,” she said in a furious low voice. Such a temper, his tesoro. “Don’t move.”
God, he was going to bleed to death in front of her eyes. Swearing under her breath, she used his bolt cutters to cut up her leather harness. Linen napkins made an adequate crappy dressing, and she secured it all in place by knotting a long leather strap tightly around his chest. The wound on his shoulder—she couldn’t figure out how to contrive something for that.
He ignored her, studying the room. “We’re directly across the hall from the top of the stairs. And there’s a chair right outside. I should be able to get rid of one or two that way.”
By sitting in a chair? How much blood had he lost?
“We don’t want to get trapped in here.” He eyed the door, then made Kimberly push and angle the couch so someone entering wouldn’t see the emptiness of the cage until they were well into the room.
“Now what?” she asked. There were going to be too many men for them. She knew it.
He pointed to the heavy ironwork lamp on the end table. “Get that, gatita.”
After she’d unplugged and carried it back, he motioned for her to keep it. “Use it on the first man through the door—unless he’s FBI, of course. Hit him in the head as hard as you can. I’ll go after the others, and we will party.” He waited a beat, then teased her, “This is when you say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”
Master R’s grin made her feel better, and how dumb was that? We’re going to die here. Her chin came up. But she’d do it fighting and not dying little by little in a cage. “I always liked to party.”