To Command and Collar

by Cherise Sinclair

  Sam grinned and glanced at Linda, who was still on her feet. His slave was made of tough material. Mine. She studied Vance—frowned at Sam, who wasn’t moving either—then knelt as well.

  Galen limped up to Sam and gave him an assessing look before asking, “Where’s Raoul and his sub?”

  “Don’t know.” Sam scowled. “The Overseer took them somewhere outside the ballroom.”

  * * * *

  Kim screamed as a guard hit Master R from the side, slamming him into the wall. He grunted in pain, started to fall, then caught himself.

  Another headed for him.

  Kim lurched for the guard, turning at the last minute to kick the side of his knee. Pain shot up her ankle, but as Master R had promised, the guy went down, bellowing curses. She jumped for another—spoiling his blow at Master R—and punched the side of his neck, even as he backhanded her. Her butt hit the floor, her head a second later with a cracking blast of pain. The lights dimmed, turned black. She moaned. No. Can’t.

  “FBI. Freeze!”

  Through unfocused eyes, Kim stared up at the slaver over her, at his furious eyes. She braced for his kick… Then he raised his hands and stepped back.

  She lay for a second, pain ripping through her head with each pulse beat, then managed to sit up. Her stomach lurched, nausea churning, making her swallow and swallow again. The room whirled, a merry-go-round of lights. And finally slowed to a stop.

  Vance was at the top of the stairs, several uniformed police coming up behind him. Unable to stand, Kim watched as two uniforms dealt with the men Master R had knocked down the steps. One was handcuffed and taken away. The other didn’t move. The remaining officer checked for a pulse and left him there.

  Master R. Where was he? Dread clawing at her, Kim turned the other way. Thank you, God.

  Still standing, Master R was propped up by the wall as he gasped for air. The white napkins she’d used on his wound were soaked with blood.

  Kim moaned.

  He glanced at Vance and Dan, then looked around and spotted her. His intent gaze ran over her body, returned to her face, and he actually smiled. “Bueno.”

  “Raoul,” Vance said. “You’re a mess.”

  “And you’re late.” Master R winced and put his hand over the linen napkins.

  “Asshole. Where’re you hurt?”

  “In the back,” Kim said, talking right over her master. “And over his ribs, and he’s been bleeding forever.” She tried to stand, but the world started to disappear halfway up.

  “No, gatita!” Master R took a step toward her. His knees buckled, and he fell back against the wall. He slid down, leaving a bloody trail on the wallpaper.

  Oh God. Kim crawled frantically. “No no no.”

  “Medic!” Vance yelled. He pulled Master R forward, netting himself a foul curse in Spanish. “That’s a knife wound. Thought they couldn’t have weapons,” Vance growled, easing the leather vest off Master R’s shoulders.

  Still alive. He’s alive. “It’s from a dinner tray,” Kim said.

  “Ugly hole,” Vance muttered. He pulled off his black jacket and ripped the sleeve from his white shirt. After shoving it against the bleeding shoulder wound and getting cursed again, he looked at Kim. “You able to keep pressure on this?”

  She nodded, ignoring the pain in her head. Just watch me.

  “Good enough.”

  Galen appeared, leaning heavily on his cane. He had jackets under his arm and tossed one over Kim’s shoulders and another over Master R’s legs. “That might keep you from being dumped into the slammer.”

  “Whoa!” A yell came from nearby. “Looks like this mother’s not going anywhere. His skull’s cracked like an eggshell.”

  A younger deputy at the top of the stairs reversed course, his face green. I know the feeling, Kim thought. Along with the painful throbbing, her head kept replaying that shattering sound. She tried to swallow.

  A firm grip on her knee got her attention. “Cariño? Are you all right?”

  She smiled down into Master R’s worried brown eyes. “I love you.”

  * * * *

  With an FBI jacket over his shoulders, Sam worked his way back into the ballroom, shoving past a cop and the buyer he’d threatened earlier.

  “Hey! Arrest him too. He was whipping a slave,” the asshole shouted.

  The police officer frowned at Sam, then the jacket he wore. “Wait one minute, please.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket, flipped to a set of thumbnail photos. Sam saw his own face, Kim’s, and Raoul’s. The cop nodded politely at him and gave the slaver a push. “Let’s go, you.”

  Sam shook his head. The two feebies had definitely tried to make sure their civilian undercover people were safe. Holding the blanket he’d found, he headed back to Linda. An FBI agent with a bolt cutter had just gotten her unchained from the long cable.

  Sam scowled. That was inefficient at best. “You know,” he told the agent, “if you could locate the asshole called the Overseer or Dahmer, he’d probably have master keys.”

  “You seen him?”

  “Maybe the kitchen or upstairs. He’s not in the ballroom.”

  The feebie motioned for a uniform. “Get a description from this man and find the Overseer guy. Try the kitchen first, then upstairs.”

  Sam filled the cop in and turned to his woman. “Linda.” He kept his eyes on her.

  She stiffened, her gaze on the floor. Embarrassed. Hell.

  He stepped forward and wrapped her in the blanket.

  The agent with the bolt cutters was working on the next woman’s chain. He looked up. “Hey, where’d the blanket come from?”

  “There’s a stack in the closet by the front door.” Sam pulled the blanket more securely around Linda.

  Streaks of red appeared on her cheeks. She stared stubbornly at the floor. Dammit.

  “Look at me,” he growled.

  Her eyes lifted. Pretty, pretty brown, then down again.

  “They’re going to take you all to a ward in the hospital where the docs can check you out. The feebies will be doing interviews. I doubt they’ll let me in to see you.” His jaw hardened when she didn’t answer. Unease tightened his gut, flattened his voice. “Give me a way to contact you.”

  Her chin jerked up, and she gave him a stunned look of revulsion. “No. Never.” She took a step back from him. “I never want to see you again.” Another step back. Her lush mouth had flattened in a tight line.

  He saw her shiver and knew she feared reprisal for the rudeness, but her determination to keep him away had been enough to risk it. He could read her as clearly as if he’d been in her head.

  The agent dealing with the next slave over frowned.

  This wasn’t the time to push. He’d made a hell of a mistake with her, going with the scene dynamics, and not taking into account the rest of the world. “All right. My name is Sam. When… If you want to reach me, ask at the Shadowlands here in Tampa.” He hesitated. “Be well, Linda.”

  She looked away.

  * * * *

  They’d taken Master R from her, said they were airlifting him to a hospital. Kim had watched, still unable to stand, unable to do anything except shiver.

  He was gone. She was alone. The memories of shattering, blood, and screaming kept surging forward in waves, twisting her stomach. If she could manage to get to her feet, maybe she could… Where would she go?

  “Hey, what’re you doing here?” a cop asked brusquely and tried to yank her up. She yelped and grabbed her ribs. The Overseer had gotten in a good punch. He stopped pulling but didn’t let go. “You slaves are supposed to all be in the ballroom

  until—”

  “They’re not slaves, now are they?” A cold, gravelly voice. Kim looked up as Master Sam

  walked over. “Last time I looked, slavery was outlawed in this country.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, sir.” The cop released her and took a step away. “Um—” Sam moved in front of the officer and knelt. “Are you all right, Kim?�
��

  “My master.” Her mind blanked on the name. “My…my Master R. I need to go there.”

  Where he is. “He’s hurt. I need to go there.”

  Sam didn’t answer, just wrapped the blanket he held around her and over the black jacket she wore. When did she get a jacket? Her thoughts stuttered, started forward again. If her head would just stop hurting… She pulled the covering closer. “Thank you.”

  “That’s better.” His hand cupped her chin before she could dodge. After turning her face to each side, he examined the lump at the back of her head. Pain burst behind her eyeballs. He frowned at the blood on his fingers. “You’re banged up, girl.”

  “My master. I need to go to—”

  “Stop.” He made an exasperated sound. “Dan arranged for us to go to the hospital with the first bunch of women. We’ll get you seen by a doc, and you can see Raoul.”

  She nodded, taking it in, although her mind seemed to be awfully slow.

  Maybe he realized, since he didn’t move. “You’re not tracking too good, are you?”

  He’d take her to Master R. “I’m fine.” The floor insisted on moving in waves, upsetting her balance. Wait. Something else. Someone. “Linda?”

  “She’s okay. She’ll get processed with the rest. Galen wouldn’t make an exception in her case.” Sam wrapped an arm around her.

  She tried to jerk away, and he waited, not releasing her. As she saw his pale blue eyes, she remembered. Master R’s friend. “Sorry, Sir.”

  He simply smiled and lifted her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  Halfway down, she saw… She fought from Sam’s grip, bent, and picked up a black collar. And fell forward.

  With a curse, Sam grabbed her and yanked her back upright. “What the hell are you doing, girl?”

  She ran her fingers over the leather, the silver engraving. Her grip tightened when he tried to take it. “Mine.”

  Instead of fighting her, he turned the collar in her hands so he could read the writing. Master Raoul’s gatita. “Yours.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Raoul opened his eyes and frowned. Bed with shiny metal railings, white walls, Marcus sitting in a chair. Auction, fight. As his memory returned, he tried to sit up and grunted at the flare of pain in his shoulder and ribs. He remembered the ER crew checking his back. He’d only cursed once. Then they’d moved to his front. Carajo, he hadn’t liked seeing the white flashes of his rib cage when they’d checked to see how deep it was.

  “When my sister was ten, she got a sewing kit,” Marcus said in his easy Southern drawl. He pulled his chair closer and used the controls to raise the head of Raoul’s bed. “You look like one of the stuffed bears she…mended. Stitches everywhere.”

  Friends were a joy to the heart, Raoul reminded himself. “Thank you.” The auction. Anxiety welled inside him. “Where’s Kimberly?”

  Marcus gave an exaggerated sigh. “She’s in the ER being checked over, but she’s all right. Sam is with her. They should never have doped you up to give you stitches.”

  Raoul relaxed. “Why?”

  “A pleasant dopehead you’re not. Every time your eyes open, you ask about Kim…then try to get down to the ER. You punched an orderly, by the way. The nurses dragged me in here to reassure you she’s alive.” Marcus grinned. “And I’ve been telling you that every five minutes since.”

  “Sorry. And thank you.” Raoul frowned. “Have you checked on her recently?” Sam was good. He’d watch out for her. Wouldn’t he? Scowling, Raoul looked up at the IV bag hanging on a pole, traced the plastic tubing to the needle in the back of his hand. He could yank it out.

  “Don’t try it,” Marcus said, his Southern accent not covering up the steel beneath. “I’d sit on you, and then they’d put it back in. You lost enough blood to worry them. And me.”

  Giving up for the moment, Raoul asked, “Did they catch everyone?”

  “We did,” Galen Kouros said from the doorway. Weariness lined his face as he walked into the room, leaning heavily on his cane. “I am very tired of visiting you pushy bastards in the hospital after you get damaged in my operations.”

  Raoul snorted and had to suck in against the groan. The skin on his ribs felt as if it wanted to split open again. “No jokes,” he gritted out.

  From behind Kouros, Z appeared. He pointed to the pain-control device. “Use that, Raoul.”

  Raoul scowled. “I will wait to see my sumi—see Kimberly.”

  “I’ll have her wake you up if you’re asleep.” Z picked up the remote and pushed the button, smiling at Raoul’s curse. “Don’t get into a pissing contest with me when you’re flat on your back. You’ll just get wet.”

  “Cabrón.”

  Z grinned. “You can stop worrying about her, you know. I stopped in the ER and sent Sam home. Kim is getting X-rays. Then Jessica and Gabi will bring her up.” He glanced at Marcus. “I don’t think the doctors stand a chance against the three of them.”

  The pain medicine hit. It felt as if the bed dropped away a couple of feet, but the burning in his shoulder and ribs eased to a mild smolder. Z was still a bastard. “What else?” he asked Kouros.

  “The upstairs looked like a war zone. One man had his skull smashed in—which Kim said was her work.”

  Raoul winced. He’d glimpsed the end of Greville. She should not have had to do that. “Is she—you made her talk about that?”

  “Since you weren’t available, yes. She held together until she finished…then spent the next ten minutes throwing up. Dammit.” Kouros gave him a level stare. “From what I know of your background, you’ve seen your share of violence. She’ll be all right, but you know it takes a while.”

  Raoul nodded.

  “For you, you caved in one man’s chest, one died going headfirst down the steps, one from a crushed trachea. Most of the rest are in a world of hurt. Nice job.” Kouros thought for a moment. “The Overseer is in surgery right now—and he talked quite a bit while we were waiting for his transport.”

  “I didn’t think he’d change sides so quickly,” Raoul said.

  “If he doesn’t end up completely blinded, he’d have such poor vision that”—Kouros had a grim smile—“he’d make an excellent fucktoy for some big joe in prison. He didn’t like the idea.”

  “I rather do.” Marcus’s eyes were cold. “Gabi still has nightmares from being kidnapped.”

  “And Jessica,” Z said.

  “Yes,” Kouros said heavily. “But on the bright side, the Harvest Association has lost this quadrant. And with the personnel and the buyers, we’ve got enough information to dig out the ringleaders.”

  “And the kidnapped women?” Z asked.

  “Can go home,” Kouros said. “The Association is going to be too busy looking for caves to indulge in any reprisals.”

  Kimberly could return to her family. “That—that is good.” She’d leave. He felt as if someone was ripping out his stitches one by one.

  Women’s laughter came from the hall, warming the sterility of the room. Gabi and Jessica walked in, followed by Kimberly.

  Alive. On her feet. The knot of worry in his chest loosened; the ache of loss didn’t.

  She limped to the bed and smiled down at him. “You look horrible—and so much better than I thought you would.”

  She had a bruised face, split lip. Her leg had been hurt somehow. Her body moved…stiffly, as if to guard from pain. She had lines of strain around her eyes and mouth, but she could smile. Such an indomitable spirit.

  He opened his palm, giving her the choice, and the world turned brighter when her small hand slid into his. “What did the doctor say, gatita?”

  “You have a thousand or so stitches in your—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “About you.” Thinking more clearly, he turned to Jessica, defender of the subbies. “What did her doctor say?”

  Ignoring Kimberly’s glare, Jessica glanced at Z, received a quick smile and nod, and reported, “Aside from the damage to her face, she’s got an u
gly bruise over her ribs—but nothing broken—and a twisted ankle. Nothing broken there either. A concussion, and they want her to spend the night.” Jessica grinned at her friend. “She got out of the wheelchair just outside this room, ’cause you might worry. ’Bout as stubborn as you are.”

  As Jessica finished, Raoul used Kimberly’s arm as a leash to pull her down. He needed her lips, her fragrance, her gentleness, and he savored them all as her soft mouth moved over his. They would have to talk soon but…not yet.

  * * * *

  Right after Z and Jessica left, a nurse showed up for Kim—and Master R ordered her to be an obedient patient. The obstinate blowfish. God, she didn’t want to leave him.

  The hospital staff and FBI had talked about splitting the rescued women into different hospitals and rooms, but Gabi’d taken charge, and they discovered the women preferred to stay together, at least for now. Kim understood completely. Safety in numbers, others who comprehended what had happened, friendships formed in suffering. Until their families arrived, each other was all these women had.

  In the big room filled with ex-slaves, the nurse tucked Kim into a bed next to Linda, took her vital signs, and increased her headache by shining a light in her eyes.

  But she was a nice nurse and showed up a few minutes later with pain medication in repayment for the flashlight torture. For a while, Kim talked with Linda, sharing tears and comfort over Holly’s death, and relief that the slavery nightmare was over.

  Linda told Kim not to be mad at Sam for whipping her, that he’d had no choice. He’d given her a safe word, and she’d agreed. But…then she wouldn’t talk about it anymore. Something was wrong.

  Linda’s eyes were drooping, and she drifted off before Kim could think of a tactful question.

  All around the room, women were sleeping, crying quietly, and talking to the counselors who’d arrived with Gabi. Thanks to the Overseer’s care of the “merchandise,” most weren’t hurt badly—at least not physically. And they’d be able to go home.

  As Kim looked around, her anxiety kept increasing. The shaking had started deep inside while she talked with Linda, slowly expanding. Her hands were quivering like a palm in high winds. Dammit, everyone else can get to sleep. Why not me?