NEAR THE far wall of the Shadowlands, the spotter watched Adrienne wipe down the sawhorse. Tears still ran down her face. Quite nice. Even nicer were the welts on her ass and thighs. Red marks over her hips showed where his fingers had dug in as he fucked her. Used and abused, just the way he liked them.
She hadn’t been a bad fuck, considering her youth. And getting off put him in an excellent mood, despite settling for a woman so thin her breasts were almost nonexistent. But the plumper women had already been picked. Perhaps he should speak to Z about getting a wider variety of submissives.
Or perhaps not.
He preferred to avoid the owner of the club, since the psychologist displayed a disconcerting competence at reading people. In fact, it was good that Aaron had joined soon after the Shadowlands opened. Over the years, the club’s application and interview process had grown more rigorous than he’d be willing to risk.
After all, a man who selected submissives to be sold into slavery must exert a modicum of caution.
Adrienne put away the cleaning supplies in the stand and then knelt at his feet.
“Good enough,” he said.
Biting her trembling lower lip, she gazed up at him. Probably hoping he’d hold her and pet her. Did he look like a pathetically weak-willed Dom?
“I told you before we started, I don’t do aftercare. Take yourself off.” Since he’d been clear about his inclinations, she could hardly bitch about the lack. Z couldn’t fault him if the sub knew the deal.
Without speaking, she scooped up her clothing and scurried away, probably to cry over her injured feelings. Or the welts. Given his choice, she’d be bleeding rather than welted, but she’d been about to use her safe word, so he’d throttled back. Because the Shadowlands had rules.
He smiled, remembering the last whore he’d bought. Paying for his fun annoyed him, but at least he wasn’t forced to stop. Not with fucking the slut, not with hurting her.
As he cleaned his toys, he glanced around the room and spotted the ex-slave leaving with Raoul. Yeah, maybe his next prostitute should be a redhead. Soft. Older.
Interesting that she was here. And wearing a mask, no less. He laughed. Did she believe hiding her face would conceal her identity? Hardly. Her hair and breasts were quite memorable. He ran his fingers over the cane he held. Smooth. Flexible. Would mark that pale skin nicely.
Now where had he seen her? He rubbed his finger over his upper lip. On the slave boat. Seems as if she’d been kidnapped a couple of weeks before, and the association had permitted select buyers to preview the merchandise. The redhead had been in one of the kennels, her head turned and eyes closed to shut out the leering buyers.
Strong woman. He’d liked that.
No one had bought her at the first auction—most buyers preferred the young ones—so he’d bided his time, waiting for her to be devalued and then used as a reward for spotters and guards. But the Overseer had insisted on putting her up for sale again, and Feds had raided the auction.
Stinking Feds. His source of cheap, disposable slaves had disappeared that night. With a grunt of annoyance, he tossed the thin cane into his bag.
As he strolled to the bar, he considered asking Cullen for the ex-slave’s name. No, showing interest in her would be unwise, at least until the Harvest Association ceased to be newsworthy.
He’d have to settle for whores. For now.
Chapter Three
Tears prickled in Linda’s eyes as she drove down the cul-de-sac and pulled into her driveway. Home at last. And mercifully alone. She’d have no witnesses if she burst into tears.
At first she’d thought she’d have to spend a mint for a taxi to get to Foggy Shores, but Raoul had arranged for someone to bring her car to his house. Obstinate, overprotective Dom. Bless him.
Linda slid out of the car and regarded the pretty one-story house where she and Frederick had raised their children. Deep inside, she’d harbored fear that it might have been destroyed—like her life had been. Inhaling slowly, she wrapped the peace of the tiny coastal town and her quiet neighborhood around her like a blanket. So familiar. Next door, dolls and cars scattered the sidewalk like a toy explosion. Across the street, the Smiths’ impeccably trimmed yard made the Brendans’ appear even more straggly. Music trickled from Adele’s home where she gave piano lessons.
Not everything stayed the same though. A FOR SALE sign was planted in Myrtle’s front yard. Brenna had mentioned the old woman’s death.
Twenty years ago, the starchy woman had been the first to welcome Linda and Frederick to the street. I didn’t get to say good-bye.
Linda blinked back tears. She’d been in captivity two months and spent another three in California. Almost half a year. She’d changed—oh, she had—but she’d counted on Foggy Shores to stay the same.
But no matter. She was home now, ready to pick up her life. To be the respectable mother of Brenna and Charles, the owner of Foggy Treasures, a good neighbor, a member of the Methodist choir. A normal woman who dated nice normal men.
Not a pervert.
Pulling her suitcase, she entered her house. Here, everything was the same. Brenna and Charles had checked on the place every week.
“I’m home.” She pulled in a shuddering breath as her voice echoed in the silence. She should be grateful her sweet terrier had died a while before her kidnapping, but now there was no excited yapping to welcome her home. No one at all. Maybe she should have let the kids come today, but unsure of the trial’s length, she’d told them to hold off. They both had college classes, after all.
They’d visit next weekend. No reason to feel so…let down. Ignoring the hollowness in her chest, she went to the bedroom to unpack. Time to get back to routines. She’d wallowed in her emotions long enough.
Sunlight filtered through the sand-colored draperies in her bedroom, danced over the cream-and-white, lacy bedspread. Peaceful, lighthearted colors.
So different from the Shadowlands last night. She bit her lip, trying not to remember Sam’s voice. His hands. The pain he’d given her in such a mixture of caring and roughness she’d had no choice but to submit. She closed her eyes, hating herself for wanting more. For wanting a sadist. For not being normal.
The phone’s ring made her jump. She glanced at the display. Unknown number. “Hello.”
A shrill man’s voice said, “This is Italy’s Pizza, calling to confirm your order.”
Linda laughed at the familiar game. “That’s a good one, Charles. Yes, I’m home.”
“Aw, Mom. How come I can fool everyone else?”
“Your friends aren’t singers, sweetie.”
“Guess not. I’m glad you’re back, Mom. I missed you.”
She smiled. Since being freed, she’d talked to him every few days, and he and Brenna had joined her in California for Thanksgiving and Christmas. “I missed you too.” More than I can say.
“Are you going back to work now?”
“I’m going to spend today setting things in order and restocking the refrigerator, and then go in on Monday.”
“Oh good. I was hoping your vacation would be over.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. Vacation? Depression so black that she’d stared at the ceiling, unable to find a reason to get out of bed. Erratic crying fits, throwing up, panic attacks. She was hardly having fun. Charles knew she’d gone to her sister’s to recover from the kidnapping. Well, he was only twenty, and she’d tried very hard to hide her shattered mental state from the children. He wouldn’t know she’d needed all that time to pull the pieces of herself back together. “Not much choice, I’m afraid. My funds are pretty exhausted.”
“Does that mean you don’t have any money to spare?” A long sigh came over the phone. “Fuck.”
She closed her eyes. Exhaustion was setting in, and she sagged against the dresser. “Watch the language, my boy.”
“Sorry. But…I’m broke.”
“I transferred money into your account on the first. That was supposed to last you all month.”
Silence. “Well, it didn’t. Things cost more now. I need some money, Mom.”
She frowned. “For what?”
“To eat, dammit.”
“Your job at the cafeteria pays for your meals.”
“I quit, all right? It was taking too much time and—” He broke off.
And his friends didn’t have to work. She frowned. Frederick’s life insurance paid for the children’s tuition and books, and she took care of their rent and gave them a small allowance. He wasn’t being abused, despite his whining. “I’m sorry, Charles. You’d better get the job back. I don’t have the money to spare.”
“I… Fine.” The silence grew. Then he muttered, “Right.”
She blinked back tears, unable to speak, and after a second heard the brat turn back into the sweetheart she’d raised.
“I’m sorry, Mom. And I really am glad you’re back. See you next weekend.”
“Bye,” she whispered to the dial tone. She listened to the hum for a while, too tired to set the receiver down. Too afraid of starting to cry. Normally she’d have taken his behavior in stride. It was just…now…that everything seemed to abrade her feelings.