Normal People

Chapter One

Linda grabbed the chair arm of the witness stand, fighting to pull in a breath. Under her silk blouse, sweat dampened her back, and black spots danced at the edge of her vision. As her knees threatened to buckle, she tightened her grip on the curved wood. Will. Not. Show. Weakness. Another breath. She pretended to look around, stalling and hoping she’d be able to walk.

Whispers skittered around the courtroom, but the jurors were silent, watching her with concern. The white-haired grocer’s expression was outraged—for her. The tiny housewife wiped tears from her face.

The prosecuting attorney stepped forward to help, but the jury’s warmth had put strength back into Linda’s body. She straightened, stepped down, and her legs held. Thank you, God. Surely she could walk to the door.

She glanced at the defense attorney and his client—the balding, older man in his European-cut suit and diamond-encrusted watch—who was on trial for the murder of a nineteen-year-old college student.

Holly had been kidnapped. Enslaved like Linda.

Linda swallowed hard. She’d held the sweet-faced girl as she’d cried for her mother. She’d told her it would be all right. She’d lied. When the FBI raided an auction, freeing the slaves, it had been far too late for Holly.

The bastard sitting there so smugly had whipped her to death.

As Linda walked past, his patronizing gaze slid down her body, making her shudder and remember her own screams. Unable to escape, unable to fight. Beaten. Raped. She already felt dirty all the way to her core; his stare added another layer of filth. Ignoring the bile burning her throat, she forced herself to give him a dismissive look. Testifying had required all her strength, but she’d done what she’d come here to do. Chin up, head held high, she strode toward the exit.

The sandy-haired FBI agent, Vance Buchanan, waited there. “Well done,” he said in a low voice. “Only a few steps farther.” He reached out to assist her.

She flinched away.

As his hand dropped and he opened the door, she cursed herself for showing weakness. But she’d been a slave. She didn’t want to be touched.

After the overcrowded courtroom, the fresh air in the hallway was bracing, and then suddenly too cold. Her legs went boneless, and she dropped with a jarring thump onto the wooden bench. When she pushed her hands between her knees to hide the trembling, it only made the shaking of her knees more obvious. The dancing black spots had returned. Lovely.

“You did great, Linda.” Vance’s voice was washed away by her pounding pulse, and she—

“Goddamn fool, she’s shocky.” A voice from her dreams grated across her nerves, snapping her into the present. The bench squeaked a complaint as someone sat beside her. Arms closed around her, trapping her.

No! She shoved at his wide shoulders, panic rising like a flood tide.

“Don’t move, girl. You need to be held. Slap me later.” The rough growl of Sam’s voice was the rumble of an 18-wheeler carrying a truckload of safety.

Not trapped. Sheltered. He was warm—so, so warm. She sagged against him. I hate you.

“That a girl. Take a break for a second. You earned it.”

His chest was a brick wall, his arms iron bands, not comfortable in the least. Her body didn’t care, more secure than in the long, long months since she’d been freed from the slavers. With Sam’s arms around her, nothing would hurt her.

Except him.

“What are you doing here, Davies?” Vance asked.

“Kim told me the asshole who’d killed their friend was being tried. I figured this one would testify.” The silence that followed sounded accusing.

Vance sighed. “Linda didn’t want to see you.”

“Yep. I can see that.” The dryness in the gravelly voice came through loud and clear.

When had she put her arms around his waist? She was gripping him as if he were a lifeline over an abyss. Her arms loosened.

His tightened. “One more minute, missy. Be a shame not to get your strength back before you bust my chops.”

Another minute sounded…just right. As she rested her cheek against his chest, the lazy lub-dub of his heart tried to coax hers into slowing. His soft cotton shirt smelled of the outdoors, of hay and leather and sun. So very different from the stench of fear and sex. Of pain. Her stomach clenched.

He gave a hissing sound of annoyance.

She looked up.

In a face tanned to old leather, his eyes were a startling pale blue. His silvering hair needed a trim. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He curved a hand over her nape and tucked her head back under his chin.

Okay. For a few more seconds, she’d… What in the world was she doing? I hate this man. As her mind cleared, she tried to push away. “Don’t touch me.”

He grunted as if she’d hit him, and released her instantly.

Expecting to see amusement in his gaze, she saw only concern. It didn’t matter. She rose to her feet, rattled when he did the same. But he was the kind of man who’d observe that old-fashioned courtesy. A gentleman sadist. His aura of confidence—and menace—was disconcerting. She took a step away from him.

Distance didn’t help. He trapped her easily with the power of his gaze, his posture, his voice. “I want you to call me.”

“No,” she whispered, unable to give her refusal the strength it deserved. “I don’t want to see you.” The one hour of knowing him had been enough for her. He’d seen right to her core, and she’d learned how deep humiliation could go.

His hard mouth tightened, but he merely tapped her chin with a finger. “Submissives don’t get what they want. They get what they need.” He might as well have said the rest of what he was thinking: And you need me.

But she didn’t. She wouldn’t.

* * * *

Sam left his battered truck in the parking lot and strode across the street to the small city park. Beyond the palms lining the entrance, massive live oak trees cast dark pools of shade. The air was cool with a slight crispness. Almost into February, Tampa still had a few months before the daily rains would send the humidity to sauna-like levels.

He spotted Nolan King on a picnic bench across the green swath of grass. Sam glanced at his watch. Late. Linda’s testimony had lasted longer than he’d planned.

As Sam sidestepped a toddler chasing a beach ball, her mother on a park bench gave him a sharp look. He approved of her vigilance. The world held too many monsters. But Sam wasn’t someone she needed to worry about. He might be a sadist, but he only played consensual games.

Except for one time.

The scene he’d done at the slave auction with Linda hadn’t been what he would call consensual. To lead the FBI to the auction, he’d convinced the slavers he was a buyer and gotten himself an invitation. But the cops had needed time to block the roads, which left Raoul, his sub, and Sam in a nightmare. Wealthy buyers had roamed a ballroom, sampling the “merchandise”—the slaves chained to the walls.

Linda had been up for sale. Since Raoul’s sub knew her, she’d asked Sam to care for Linda. But there was no care to be had in a place like that. Disguised as a buyer, Sam’s only hope was to pretend to check her out prior to buying her. To whip her himself. He couldn’t risk telling her that he was a good guy and help was on the way.

Seeing Kim’s nod of approval, Linda had known Sam wasn’t a complete bastard. But was the scene consensual? Hardly. Not when her only choice had been him or another slaver.

Sam ran his hand through his hair. He was too damned old to play James Bond. He was a farmer, not a spy. He’d done his best by her, and she’d been the sweetest, most responsive submissive-masochist he’d ever met. The chemistry between them had been a bonfire. She’d trusted him, given him what he asked for, and in return, he’d transformed what might have been a nightmare of pain into something wonderful for her.

And then he’d made a mistake; to this day, he wasn’t sure exactly what. He had ideas, but hell, he could be totally off base.

Sam sighed. For the past few months, Linda’d lived out of state with a sister, and this morning, he’d had her in his arms again. She’d trusted him to hold her. The sound of her low voice, her citrus-lavender scent, her yielding body had been even better than his memories. Until she’d pushed him away.

As Sam approached the picnic table, Nolan looked up. From a small cooler, the hard-faced Dom removed a Mountain Dew and handed it over. “Figured you’d need something to wipe the taste out of your mouth. How’d the trial go?”

“The goddamned defense attorney took his questions into the gutter trying to shake her. Bad enough she gets raped by the slavers. To get raped again by a sleazy interrogation?” Sam popped the top as he sat. The icy drink washed the bitterness from his throat. “I wanted to shove a boot in his foul mouth.”

And then rip apart the balding slaver who’d killed the youngster. Holly had only been nineteen—the same age as his little girl. “I’m an adult now, Daddy,” his pretty Nicole often reminded him. He growled under his breath. No matter what the law said, his daughter’s life had barely begun. And because of the slavers, one young woman wouldn’t grow any older. The police had found Holly’s body in a ravine where the killer had dumped her like garbage.

But after Linda’s testimony, Sam had seen the bastard’s conviction in the jurors’ faces. And he wouldn’t live long—not once the other prisoners saw pictures of the sweet-faced college student. “Linda held up like a trouper.”

“May have less muscles, but women got more guts than most men.”

“True.” They’d endure where a man would give up and die.

As a light breeze swept the park with the scent of brine, Sam listened to the children on the swing set.

“Push me.”

“Look how high I can go.”

He relaxed. He’d needed the reminder of happiness. “Why the park?”

Nolan jerked his chin to the left. “Great scenery.”

Sam followed his gaze. Beth, Nolan’s submissive, knelt nearby, planting bright yellow flowers in a newly tilled garden. The glint of her red hair reminded him how Linda’s thick mane had brushed his fingers when he held her shoulders. Her hair had grown.

Nolan’s contented, possessive smile sent envy through Sam. He’d never had that kind of happiness with a woman. Probably never would since just the thought of his ex-wife drove ice shards into his gut. But he had a good life now. Wanting more would be stupid. “Beth ignoring you?”

“No. I brought her lunch and made her take a break. She just went back to work.” Nolan glanced at Sam. “You going to go after that submissive? Linda, right?”

“She’s not interested.” But dammit, the way she’d clung to him said otherwise.

“Want to tell me why not?”

Nolan’s sub had been abused. He might have advice. Didn’t matter. “No.”

“And they say I’m closemouthed.”

Sam shrugged. Nolan didn’t like to talk. Period. Sam just didn’t talk about personal shit. Too risky. Back in ’Nam, trails often held trip wires and mines. He’d seen friends blown to bits. Then when he married, he’d learned booby traps could be made of confidences. Could kill the spirit instead.

And wasn’t he a bitter fool on a sunny day? He nodded at the rolled-up sheaf of paper sitting on the table. “The plans?”

“Yep. If they suit you, I can have the concrete guys start in another week.” Nolan spread the paper out on the rough wood. “I think you’ll like the suggestions the architect made.”

Sam rose to take a better look. Good timing for this. Construction of a new stable would keep him busy for a while. Give Linda a chance to settle back into her life.

Then he’d see what was what.

* * * *

As the breeze off the Gulf toyed with her hair, Linda wiggled her toes in the sand and listened to the hissing of the waves on the shore. Compared to the energetic Pacific Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico was wonderfully peaceful. Yet she felt distant, as if she were watching life through a frosted window in a frigid alpine castle. “Nice place.”

Kim was settled in a weathered Adirondack chair with her German shepherd sprawled at her feet. “It is. I love Raoul’s house, but his beach here is what saved my sanity.” Her black hair spilled down her back as she tipped her face up to the sun. “Sooo, was Sam at the courthouse?”

Odd how even her anger felt bottled up. “I should wallop you for telling him.” But how could she be mad? She and Kim had been slaves together, and then Kim had risked her life to free Linda. “Yes, he was at the courthouse.”

And he’d been more overwhelming than she remembered. Heavens, if she had to see him again, couldn’t he have been…less? Less strong, less commanding. In the last few months, couldn’t he have picked up a potbelly and sagging chest?

Or at least been a jerk? Instead, he’d simply held her. He’d shown up just to be there for her, and how was she supposed to deal with that?

“I’m surprised he made it. Over the winter, he got grumpy.” Kim dug her toes into the sand and flicked some at Linda. “Okay, more grumpy than normal. Raoul says he hardly leaves his place except for business.”

“Place?”

“Bunch of acres. A ranch or farm or something.”

A rancher. She might have guessed. When several gulls started bickering in loud screeches over a washed-up fish, the dog raised his head, ears pricked, his whole body tensing. He gave Kim an entreating look.

“Oh, fine. Go chase the birds.” As the dog launched into action, Kim smiled at Linda. “We don’t let Ari chase the other shorebirds, but gulls are fair game.”

As the dog ran up the beach, gulls flapped into the air with annoyed squawks, and Linda relaxed. Thank you, Ari, for changing the subject. Even with someone as understanding as Kim, she didn’t want to discuss Sam. She sighed. If he’d simply whipped her at the slave auction, she’d have no problems sharing with Kim, but the damage he’d caused hadn’t been from his whipping her. It hadn’t been physical.

That night, when Sam had stepped up to her, she’d trusted Kim’s approving nod. He’d told Linda she could have him or another buyer. If she chose him, he would hurt her, and he’d known she was a masochist. He’d driven everything out of her mind except him, the sensations he gave her, and the sound of his growling voice.

The Overseer had called her a slut and whore. Sam had made her feel like one in an emotional rape far worse than the physical ones.

Earlier today—although months had passed—her body had still reacted to his voice, craving the safety he offered. The rest of her had wanted to hide in a cave.

With a happy bark, Ari ran back and shook, sending water and sand over them both. Kim gave a token grumble. “Stupid dog.”

Panting, Ari dropped down over her feet. His wagging tail thumped on Linda’s ankle like a metronome.

After ruffling the dog’s fur, Kim gave Linda an irrepressible grin. “So about Master Sam. Do you suppose he got so good at a whip because he’s a rancher, or did the sadist come first?”

Linda choked. She remembered all too well how competent the man had been. “You know, a few months ago, you’d never have made a joke about a whip.”

“I’m better. Not all fixed, but better. Raoul made a huge difference.” She tugged at her shepherd’s ear. “Ari helped too.”

“Nice to have a four-footed counselor.” Kim had been kidnapped off the street, and afterward she’d panic if outside alone. Raoul had bought her a doggy escort.

Kim gave her a worried frown. “I figured you’d come back all tan and happy after being at your sister’s in California, but you look exhausted. Not sleeping?”

“Not much, no.” Linda managed to smile. “Maybe I should buy a dog. At least I’d have something to keep the bed warm.” But no pet would solve her problems.

“Well, maybe that guy you were dating last fall will want to heat up your sheets.”

The thought made her skin crawl. “Not going to happen.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised. I felt like that too. Did you get counseling in California?”

“Um-hmm. It helped.” At least at first. But now the ice encased her more each day, no matter what she did. Over the past few weeks, she’d tried journaling, talking. Screaming.

Needing something to do with her hands, she pulled some grasses up, weaving them together in patterns she’d learned as a teen. Basketry had given her an escape from rigid, fanatical parents, given her a world she could control and a way to make beauty. Later, in college, she’d discovered running and how the throbbing of exhausted muscles could break through her stress and help her reconnect with her own feelings.

She’d needed that help then. Occasionally since.

Because I’m a masochist. What an ugly label, though, with its implication of perversion. Last fall, when she’d realized she needed something more in her life, she’d wanted to experiment. Why not? She was a widow. Her children grown. No real partner.

But she should never have taken that first step, never have visited a downtown kink club to learn if her fantasies and needs had any basis in reality. They did; they did. She stared down at her hands, remembering the wonder of that discovery. Even as part of her was horrified that she’d actually asked to be flogged, she’d embraced the pain. Had flown with it, and for a brief period she’d felt…whole. Alive.

Her throat tightened. Then she’d walked out of the club. Night air, so clean and salty, so quiet after the sounds of the club. In the parking lot, a low cry. Racing over. A woman, unconscious, being tossed into a van. Linda had run, screaming, and everything had gone black.

She’d been kidnapped herself. Right into slavery, rape, and abuse.

Now she wanted to feel whole again. To feel alive. She knew one way to accomplish that, but no matter how wonderful that brief experience of pain had been in the BDSM club, how could she let anyone hurt her again? She’d panic…wouldn’t she?

Yet how could she go home like this? So different from who she really was, with as much emotion in her as a wooden post. Her children would be horrified. And Lee, the man she’d dated off and on? What would he think?

Every day was growing worse. Recently, she had trouble even laughing. She couldn’t continue like this. With a shuddering breath, she rubbed her hands over her face. She knew what she had to do.

That night at the slave auction, she’d been more closed off than now, yet Sam had blown her walls wide open, as if his cruel whip had cut fissures to relieve the pressure.

Maybe if I…if I could get help one more time, then I’d be all right. Back home, with life returned to normal, I’d never need it again.

She couldn’t allow herself to need it again. When she returned to Foggy Shores, she would need to go back to being normal. To pick up her life and habits and keep everything quiet. Sane.

But she wasn’t home yet.

If she could just find someone to…hurt her. Just one time. If she could endure it. Her stomach turned over as she thought of returning to the Tampa club, the one where she’d been kidnapped.

She realized her hands had clenched into tight balls. Finger by finger, she opened them. Earlier, Kim had mentioned that she and Raoul belonged to a BDSM club. A private one.

No one would know her there. And she wouldn’t be alone. If Kim was there—and Raoul—maybe she’d feel secure enough to…do something.

Slowly she turned to face Kim. To meet her compassionate eyes. To force out the request. “Would you and Raoul take me to the Shadowlands?”

Chapter Two

Flanked by Raoul and Kim, Linda walked into the exclusive BDSM club known as the Shadowlands. Light from wrought-iron sconces flickered ominously over the dungeon equipment lining the walls. The overwhelming scents of leather, sweat, and sex slapped into her and stole her breath. The sounds of pain were like a kick to her stomach. Even the music held a savage bite.

At least no one would see her reactions—or who she was. The black mask she wore concealed her face, leaving only her lips and eyes revealed. Now, if she could only get her feet to move. The little voice inside her screaming get me out of here grew louder.

When Raoul put his hand on her shoulder, she jumped. “Chiquita.” His dark brown eyes were worried. “You would be safe in the Shadowlands, no matter what. But you’re also with me.”

“Thank you.” Considering the man had more muscles than the beach had sand, he was a reassuring presence.

“Linda, let’s go home,” Kim said. “We don’t have to stay.” Her blue corset matched her eyes, and her black collar held a silver engraving: Master Raoul’s gatita. Of all the women in captivity, Kim had seemed the least likely to want to be a slave. But the love between her and Raoul was so strong it almost shimmered. Somehow, Kim had moved on and found happiness.

Linda hadn’t. Even worse, she was unraveling as emotions ripped through her. She cringed at the sound of a paddle against flesh. A woman’s screams made her hands turn cold and numb. As the trembling in her belly worked outward, her knees started to shake. She couldn’t escape the memories of horrors. This was the stupidest thing she’d ever done.

“Raoul.” A gray-eyed man blocked their way, and his gaze swept over her face, her shoulders, her hands. “What are you doing? She’s terrified.”

Well, sheesh. She could have sworn she’d hidden her fear fairly well.

“She wanted to come,” Kim protested, then closed her mouth when Raoul tugged her collar.

The stranger was lean and graceful, wearing all black as a Dom would—only he had no need to wear black to establish his authority. Power surrounded him like the scent of aftershave. “You must be Linda. Little one, you should go home.”

Raoul squeezed her shoulder. “Linda, this is Master Z. He agreed to give you a temporary membership, and he’s the reason you are safe here.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Master Z.” So this was the infamous Master Z who owned the Shadowlands. She swallowed. Kim hadn’t come close to describing how intimidating the man was. “Kim’s right. I wanted to come.”

He lifted an eyebrow in an unspoken command to continue. In just one night at that other club, she’d discovered how a Dom in full command mode could turn her spine into jelly.

“I wanted…” Why had it been easier to explain to Raoul, even if she hadn’t explained everything? “Wanted to remind myself that people do this for fun. Consensually.”

“You want to replace the images in your head with better ones,” he said gently.

“That’s it.” And maybe find someone to hurt me. God, that sounded so sick.

He held his hand out, and her fingers were in his grip before she realized she’d moved. He studied her for a minute, then nodded. “All right, Linda. I think you have the strength, but don’t push yourself into a panic attack.” He arched a brow at Kim. “Your companions are quite familiar with the symptoms.”

Kim actually giggled. The beautiful sound showed that healing could happen, even after horrors.

“I’ll be careful,” Linda said.

“Very good.” He released her hand and moved off with the lethal grace of a big cat.

Linda blew out a breath and glanced at Kim. “Well. You tried to warn me.” If nothing else, Master Z had broken into her nightmare and got her moving again.

Kim grinned. “And you didn’t believe me.”

Linda laughed and looked around. The place was certainly different from the one she’d gone to before. True, her single visit to a BDSM club hardly made her an authority, but she’d spent hours there before doing anything. This place was more expensive. The equipment was padded with leather, the burnished hardwood floors reflected the flickering of the wrought-iron sconces. The general populace was older and quieter, although—she enjoyed the spectacle of a woman in a full catsuit followed by a naked submissive—the costumes were just as outrageous.

“Do you want to wander around or settle somewhere?” Kim glanced over Linda’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. “Uh, let’s just go to the bar.”

Linda turned. The nearest scene was a man on a St. Andrew’s cross with a Mistress putting clamps on his nipples. The spiderweb next to it held a restrained submissive struggling to evade the flick of a crop. Then a spanking scene. Then several people watching a Dom with a flogger.

When the Dom turned slightly, Linda’s lungs felt as if they were being pinched in wickedly tight clamps. Sam. Sam was here. She’d forgotten the dangerous vibe he gave off in dominant mode. Almost half a foot taller than her five-seven, he wore black jeans, black boots, a black belt, and a black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His silvery hair didn’t make him look old—just really, really experienced.

He was using a full-sized, heavy flogger with brown leather strands. No fancy colors for him. The woman on the cross was in tears, her back reddened. As Sam flogged the blonde with a smooth rhythm, Linda wanted to hate him for inflicting such pain.

Yet, as the woman went up on tiptoes, she pushed her bottom back to get more. Her face gleamed with sweat and tears, but her half-agonized, half-blissful expression was that of a masochist getting what she wanted.

I want it too. Linda felt like a shaken soda with the cap screwed on too tightly to let out the increasing pressure. Pain might give her a way to open up and spew everything out. I need that.

Not with Sam though. No no no. And yet… She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself over her silky shirt. Watching him with a woman made her feel odd. Wanting and angry and unsettled. After a minute, she forced herself to turn away. Thank heavens she’d worn a mask.

Raoul was watching her, his dark eyes narrowed. “Shall I find you a Dom to play with?”

How had Kim found someone so sweetly protective? But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—have another person make those choices for her again. “Thank you, but I’d rather choose my own if I decide to…do anything.”

And she’d be very careful. She’d pick a sadist, but not one who was also a Dominant. During her night at the club, the Dom she’d spoken to had told her she was submissive as well as a masochist. As if one perversion wasn’t enough, I’ve got two.

But it had been Sam who had showed her how a powerful Dom could push her limits—could go past her limits. At the auction, she could have handled being whipped, but he’d done…more. Damn him.

“As you wish. Then let us have something to drink while you decide.” After pulling Kim to his side, Raoul guided them to the bar.

Linda glanced longingly at the bottles of tequila, scotch, and rum.

Raoul shook his head. “You may have water or a soda.” He turned to Kim and settled her on a bar stool, kissing her hair lightly.

But I want a drink. Linda sighed but had to admit he was right. Alcohol, in this place, might do as much harm as good. She needed to stay on top of things. In control.

The bartender’s assistant came over to get their orders. As Kim talked with her, Linda looked over her shoulder at Sam. Again.

He’d finished the scene. The blonde with spiky hair who might have looked tough at one time was trying to bury herself in his chest. When he rubbed her undoubtedly tender back and she cried harder, he grinned. Definitely a sadist. But a caring one. And strong. She remembered the steel-like feeling of his arms. He might be in his fifties, but he was all bone and muscle.

A shiver ran up Linda’s spine. Don’t look.

Turning away, she let herself sink into the sounds of the place. The slap of paddles and floggers and canes. Moaning and groaning. A shriek. Low conversation. A half-heard man’s laugh—the sound familiar and horrible—sent memories oozing through her. Caged on a boat. Men talking about—

She shook herself loose, feeling cold sweat trickle down her back. I’m free. At the Shadowlands. And as she listened, she realized the noise was different from the slave auctions. The sobbing was that of a release; the shriek had excitement accompanying the pain. There were none of the hopeless cries, the pleading, and the screams of pain that wouldn’t end. She shuddered.

“Linda. Look at me.” Raoul’s gaze was watchful. Measuring.

“I’m okay.” And she wasn’t lying. His voice, his steady eyes had settled her. She gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you.” Her deep breath calmed her further as she carefully cataloged more differences. She’d thought the downtown BDSM club smelled of leather, sex, pain, and fear. Now she knew fear stank of piss and blood and sour sweat. Nothing like here.

The Shadowlands held laughter, and not only from the male Doms. There were women laughing. To one side, some submissives giggled as one negotiated with a Dom. Linda took a quick survey of the room before turning to Kim. “The percentage of Doms to submissives seems pretty even.”

The bartender’s submissive grinned at her. “Good eye. I’m Andrea, by the way.” She glanced around the room and answered Linda’s unspoken questions. “Master Z keeps the membership balanced, no matter how long the waiting list gets. It’s nice. I’ve visited clubs where I felt like a sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.”

“That’s it,” Linda agreed. “There’s no sense of being stalked.” In fact, the unattached subs were having a good time with each other. More weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d be safe here, if… Could she really do this? Let a sadist hurt her? Her fears and needs seemed to twine together, creating a macramé of self-loathing. Why couldn’t she be normal?

Her gaze fell on a man by a St. Andrew’s cross. Tall. Thin. He was packing up his toy bag after using a cane on a younger woman who’d quickly wimped out. But he hadn’t tried to dominate the woman. As he picked up his bag, he met Linda’s gaze and nodded politely.

She continued to stare at him, and he tilted his head, reassessing her.

Raoul’s hand covered hers. “Are you sure, chiquita? Edward is a sadist but not a Dominant. Sam might be—”

“Not Sam.” When his eyebrows rose, she winced at her bluntness. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize for being honest.” His gaze stayed on her face. “Continue.”

“Just…I don’t want a Dom. Or Sam.”

His jaw tightened. “Did Sam do something that—”

“No. No, it’s nothing. I just like making my own choices.” To escape more questions, she kissed his cheek in a hasty apology, then went to meet the sadist halfway.

AS SAM CLEANED the equipment and kept an eye on Dara, he half listened to the sounds from the adjacent scene. Holt was using a cane on a submissive, pushing her boundaries and heightening her arousal. From the noise the brunette was making, the Dom was doing an excellent job.

After putting the cleaning supplies in the stand, Sam went down on one knee beside Dara. With a blanket around her shoulders, the Goth trainee had eaten her chocolate bites and was sipping the sports drink he’d given her.

“How you doing?” Sam asked, running his knuckles over her cheek.

“I’m good.” Her eyes were clear, skin warm, speech coherent. He’d learned Dara didn’t want much aftercare, didn’t want to be held. She liked moving around and enjoying the buzz. She grinned at him. “That was really fun, Master Sam. Thank you.”

“All right then.” He stood and helped her to her feet. After giving him a quick hug, she trotted off toward the restrooms—undoubtedly to admire the stripes he’d put on her thighs and ass.

Feeling a tad deprived, he headed to the bar. What was the world coming to when a Dom enjoyed aftercare more than the submissive?

“Hey, Davies.”

Sam looked around.

Special Agent Vance Buchanan and his partner, Galen Kouros, were sitting at the bar.

Sam leaned an elbow on the bar and greeted the linebacker-sized agent, “Buchanan,” then nodded at the lean, dark one. “Kouros.” They were both in jeans and white button-up shirts. “Here on Fed business?”

“Not this time,” Kouros said. “Our transfer to Tampa came through, so we’re talking to Z about membership here.”

“You’ll be welcome.” Sam had seen them play a time or two. Although it wasn’t common for two Doms to link up permanently, they’d made topping together into an art. And Kouros had some serious skill with mind-fucking games. “Is the Harvest Association belly-up?” Although the Feds had netted the bastards who’d kidnapped Linda and Kim, the slave-trafficking association’s reach extended across the entire United States.

“Not quite. The northeast is still going strong.” Buchanan scowled. “We think that area has some highly placed contacts.”

“Bad news.”

“A bad crime.” Over the past months, the lines in Kouros’s face had deepened.

The Harvest Association dealt in human trafficking with a twist. They kidnapped intelligent middle- and upper-class submissives, ones already in the lifestyle, and sold them to wealthy buyers who wanted trained slaves or—even worse—toys to be broken. Linda and Kim had been slaves. Other Shadowlands submissives had been targeted. Like Z’s Jessica and a mouthy trainee named Sally.

Sally was cute as a button. He spotted her, hands on hips, apparently giving a newer Dom a lesson in something. Sam chuckled. Although he preferred to scene with masochists, he’d topped the little brunette a few times. She took a bit of work, but then she would surrender beautifully.

All of the Shadowlands Masters worked with the trainees, filling their needs, instructing and evaluating. The goal was to get them matched with suitable Doms, but Sally was too damn smart and independent for her own good. She needed a powerful Dom, and so far Z hadn’t found one who would meet her needs.

Buchanan’s gaze followed Sam’s, and the FBI agent nudged his partner, pointing out the trainee. The girl loved role-play games and today had dressed as a biker chick…probably hoping for someone to take on the cop role. “Want to give her a treat?” Buchanan asked.

Kouros smiled slowly before shaking his head. “Members have more privileges than guests,” he reminded Buchanan. “We’ll wait.”

“Yo.” Wearing his brown “I’m a Dom and don’t need black to prove it” leathers, Cullen looked up from drawing a beer for someone. “You agents plotting something?”

“Not tonight,” Buchanan said.

After giving the Feds’ glasses a bartender’s assessment, Cullen grinned at Sam. “’Bout time you graced us with your presence, buddy. What can I get you?”

Sam considered. Did he want something? Was he finished for the night? His arm was tired; his need to make a woman cry was satisfied. He didn’t want to do a more intense scene—hadn’t wanted to in months. Damn the redhead. “How about a beer?”

“How about not?” Cullen leaned a big arm on the bar top. “Raoul’s here with Kim and a friend of hers. An older redhead. Would she be the Linda I’ve heard rumors about?”

His Linda? Sam straightened. “Where?”

“She’s doing a scene with Edward.” Cullen jerked his chin toward the right.

Sam spotted her easily. Dark red hair. White skin. Despite her mask, she was easily recognizable—at least to a Dom who’d run his hands all over her beautifully curved body. What the hell was she doing? A hard-core sadist, Edward had a good technique with a single-tail, but… “He’s no Dom, and she’s submissive.”

“Yeah? She told Raoul she didn’t want a Dom—or you.”

The words sliced through his flesh like a fillet knife. “Then why the hell did you point her out?”

“All her fire at just hearing your name? You got unresolved business there, buddy.”

Not any revelation, at least on Sam’s side. But she wasn’t going to let him close enough to do anything about it.

Cullen was laughing.

“What’s so goddamned funny?”

“Check out the scene.” Cullen nodded to the cross. “That’s one frustrated subbie.”

Sam looked again. Linda’s back was to the room as Edward used a cane on her jeans-covered ass. Gorgeous body. Maybe not to the fools who wanted their women young and tight and bland. No, Linda’s body was past prime. Soft. The highlighted streaks in her hair were probably there to cover up the gray. He remembered she had fine wrinkles beside her mouth, on her neck. And he wanted her with every cell in his body.

With a grunt of annoyance, he shut his dick down and studied her. Cullen’s comment held truth. She was flinching from the blows. Not welcoming them. In the way a woman might be unable to have an orgasm, the sweet masochist wasn’t hitting the place that would let her ride the pain. Why? Sam watched awhile longer, and his jaw tightened. “She doesn’t trust him enough to go with it. And he’s not dominant enough to break through to her.”

“That’s my take.”

Sam saw Z approaching the scene. The owner of the Shadowlands rarely interrupted a session…unless he felt the play was harmful to the submissive. And that scene certainly wasn’t doing Linda any favors.

Sam pushed away from the bar and strode over to intercept him.

Z gave him a level look. “Samuel.”

He didn’t need to hear Z state what he already knew. “No, she doesn’t want to see me. But I’m the one she needs right now.”

“You have a history between you. I’ve heard it’s not a happy one.”

Submissives loved to gossip, and Z’s Jessica would be at the heart of it. “I screwed up, but there was a connection between us. It’s still there.”

Z’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he considered. “You may offer. If she accepts, you will emphasize she has a safe word. And I intend to monitor.”

“Considering what she’s been through, I’m good with a backup.” Sam turned. Butting into another Dom’s scene wasn’t done, but…she needed him. His protective instincts pushed him closer.

Edward wasn’t into the scene at all, or he wouldn’t have noticed Sam stand one foot too close to the roped-off area. He walked over. “Friend of yours?”

He’d give his left nut to be able to say yes. “Not quite. But I might be able to get through to her. She’s submissive.”

“No fucking way. She said she wasn’t.”

“She lied.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Edward scowled. “I should have spotted it. But she was so insistent.”

“The truth isn’t always comfortable. May I?”

“Go for it. I’m fucking tired of being lied to.” Edward tossed his cane in his bag, picked it up, and stalked away.

Well, that was easy. Sam moved slowly as if approaching a wild mare. They had a connection from before, and she needed what he had to give. Was it enough to get past her anger? To let her trust him? His shoulder muscles knotted as he approached from the side where she could see him. If she’d open her eyes.

He took a minute to enjoy the sight of her. She still wore her jeans and an ugly black mask but had removed her shirt and bra, leaving her lightly freckled back bare. In the courthouse, she’d been dead white, but now he saw she had a fading tan. Kim had mentioned she’d been in California to recuperate and escape the asshole newspeople. Welcome home, girl. His mouth tightened when he saw the faint white lines—scars—on her back, left from her trauma.

He gripped her chin gently but firmly enough that she’d recognize the touch of a Master. “Linda. Look at me.”

Her eyes popped open, and her body went rigid. “No. Not you.”

Dammit, he’d had submissives fearful of him, especially nonmasochists, but at the auction, he’d given Linda only as much pain as she’d needed. Anger might be warranted, not fear. “Goddammit, I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t ask me to.”

She closed her eyes as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him, but restrained on the cross, she had no choice except to hear his apology.

“I’m not sure what I did.” Where were all the arguments he’d come up with over the past months? “But I did something wrong. I’m sorry, girl.”

Her body shuddered as if trying to throw off his words. Her eyes opened. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

The anger and shame in her gaze was far more honest than her words. Her forgiveness wasn’t even close. “Yes, it does. I hope you’ll forgive me. But for right now”—with her chin cupped in his palm, he stroked his thumb over her jawline below the mask—“you need to hurt. And you need someone to push you hard enough that you can relax into it.”

She bit back an obvious denial, and her eyebrows drew together.

He held himself immobile, not touching the bright strands dancing on her shoulders, not tracing the ridge of her spine with his fingers. He permitted only one touch; she needed the dominance of his hand controlling her face. Nothing more. Not yet. “Tell me I’m wrong, girl.”

Tiny puffs of air hit his palm as her breathing went shallow and fast. And then…she shook her head.

He wasn’t wrong. The surge of satisfaction held him frozen for another moment. “All right then. Here’s how it will be. Your safe word is red. Say it.”

She swallowed and then whispered, “Red.”

“Good.” This time he ran his thumb over her puffy lips, seeing her pupils dilate until her eyes were as dark as the cross on which she was bound. “I’m going to touch you, but your jeans will stay up. Your pussy will be out of bounds.” This time. “I’ll leave your mask on.” Although it annoyed the hell out of him. “I won’t try to get you off. Agreed?”

“What about my…breasts?”

“Those are mine to play with.” He leaned in closer until all she’d be able to see was his face. “To hurt.”

A flush swept upward from her chest to her face. She was aroused.

The knowledge gave him a finer satisfaction than coming after a long fucking. The connection they’d had before was intact. Working with her this time would be like sliding a new hickory handle into the eye of an ax head. Knowing it was a perfect fit. Then hammering in the wedge to prevent their bond from coming apart again. That’s what she’d lacked with Edward. She needed dominance as much as she needed pain.

He’d give her both before he was done.

“Your mouth is mine as well,” he growled before taking her lips. Soft, plump lips, and he wouldn’t enjoy them in anything but a kiss. Even if tonight was all she’d give him, he wouldn’t betray her trust.

After a moment, her lips moved under his. He took but stepped away before she was satisfied. Next time he kissed her, she’d offer him more and sooner. He needed to keep her off balance and slowly gather in each tiny piece of her until he had it all. And then, reins in hand, he’d use the spurs.

MIND SPINNING AS a disconcerting arousal swelled within her, Linda tried to look at Sam, but he’d moved behind her. As he gathered her hair, which brushed her shoulders, his grip was firm, pulling hard enough that she felt each hair follicle waken and protest. God, what had she agreed to?

She’d agreed to more. When Edward had caned her, the hurt had done nothing for her. She couldn’t understand why. Yet somehow Sam knew what was wrong. His gaze reached right to where her soul hid from the outside world.

Just his voice and the way he’d gripped her face had dissolved the floor beneath her, leaving her sinking in quicksand. “Sam.”

“Yes. That’s my name.” His deep voice sounded at one with the bass of the techno music. He pushed her hair forward so the strands tickled her collarbone with each breath. When Edward had done the same, she’d felt nothing. Now her skin was in a shivery, anticipating state, feeling the coolness of the air, the brush of his arm.

As he ran his calloused fingers down her spine, the abrasive sensation started to melt the ice inside her. When his touch moved over her jeans to where the cane had left sore areas, heat pooled low in her belly. How did he do this to her? She shook her head and craned her neck, trying to see over her shoulder.

He’d obviously been waiting for her to do just that, and the shock of his intent gaze was like a blow to her chest. “Those big eyes won’t help you, missy. You’re where I want you. We both know you’ll be crying before I’m through.”

His harsh words compressed her ribs until she had to struggle for her next breath.

“I’m going to take a look at you first though.” As his hands slid over her wide hips, delight lit his gaze like sunlight through a stained glass window. “You got a beautiful body, missy.”

The compliment shoved her off balance, as if she’d missed a step.

His grip on her hips tightened, holding her immobile, and the strength in his fingers was terrifying. Arousing. He could hold her…down. She’d been afraid to think about that when coming in here, and now she wanted it? Not logical. She shook her head, wanting—

The whapping sound was simultaneous with the shocking sting on her bottom. He’d swatted her hard. “You don’t think unless I tell you to think,” he growled before slapping her other ass cheek.

The burn spread out from her bottom. Her brain blanked as if he’d shut off a switch.

Before she could reorder her thoughts, she heard him say, “Good girl.” Leaning against her from behind, he rubbed his chest over the strips of hot flesh on her back, sending fitful sparks of pain through her like a malfunctioning lighter. The ground dropped another foot.

He reached around to cup her breasts in his big hands, and the caress shook areas deep inside her, places that had dried up and died. “Sam.” It sounded like a protest, but she heard the plea beneath.

His teeth closed on her shoulder, biting the muscle, holding her as he moved his hands in a milking pattern, increasing the blood flow to her nipples. When his fingers closed on the engorged peaks, the exquisite sensation buckled her knees. He gave a rough laugh. “I’ve dreamed about your breasts.” His voice was low, his breath warm on her ear. He pinched harder, continuing the pressure until every molecule inside her liquefied. She moaned, losing herself as the burn wrapped around her nerves.

He growled in enjoyment, then moved away, leaving her breasts throbbing. After taking a flogger from his bag—a heavier one than what he’d used on the other woman—he tickled it over her back. The scent of leather swept through her, the smell reminding her of the other BDSM club. Where the pain had been good. Her eyes closed as she took a bigger breath.

When he gave her a couple of experimental flicks over her shoulders and ass, the light thudding was wonderful.

“Edward warmed you up well. Let’s get some red going on those shoulders.”

Her husband’d had that matter-of-fact tone. “Looks like it’s going to rain.” But Frederick would never have talked about hurting her. “That’s not something nice people do, Linda.” She wasn’t a nice person. She was perverted and—

The nasty swat on her bottom made her gasp and fragmented her thoughts. “Don’t listen well, do you, little girl?” Sam said. He drew his hand back, and three more hard slaps followed.

Tears burned Linda’s eyes, and as the stinging warped into intense pleasure, the feeling that swept through her was glorious. Her nerves drank in the hurting like flowers in a drought, and her body started to shake. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t take this. She’d break. But Sam…Sam would keep her safe as she fell apart.

A hard hand caught her chin and examined her face. “There we go. You’re ready to cry now.”

He ran his hand down her back, and she had a moment of panic when nothing touched her, and then the flogger whapped against her bottom. Where the strands hit the places he’d spanked, her skin seemed to inhale the impact, breathing in the sensation like air.

Left-right, left-right. The flogger moved in an easy rhythm up her butt, skipping over the area below her ribs to avoid the kidneys, then her upper back—harder, increasing slowly from thumping to something heavier. Each strike hurt enough that she’d tense before feeling the bite. Each sear of pain expanded deeper inward and settled low in her belly. Then her muscles would tighten again in anticipation. A few fast blows removed her ability to tense between them.

The sound of the flogger on flesh turned harsher when it hit her jeans. The dance-floor music had changed, the bass turned up to reverberate against her bones. The strands moved down to her ass, upping the deep burn as if the sadist took glee in seeing her hips move. Whap; pain; pleasure. Whap; pain; pleasure. She started to settle into the rhythm. Her head felt light, her body heavy.

“You have the prettiest round ass. Let’s see it dance, girl.”

The strikes came harder as he drove her out of her comfort zone, harder until her hips were trying to evade yet tilting up for more of the sharp-edged sweetness. Tears rolled down her cheeks as a massive glacier of agony dug deep, pushing everything before it as it carved out its passageway. A wail of distress escaped her.

He laughed. “Nice. Give me more.”

The strands moved lower, sending fire across the backs and sides of her thighs. Wonderful hurting. She heard low crying, and it was hers. Then she was choking on sobs as everything inside her bubbled up and out. He didn’t stop, keeping up a steady rhythm she could depend on as the rest of her dissolved.

Sometime later, she realized the flogger was only caressing her lightly with a whisper of sweet pain, enough to keep her connected. She lifted her head, amazed at how difficult it was. Tears still streamed from her eyes as she sank into the sensation, the heat. She could feel her body, every inch of her skin aware and sensitive in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Slowly she gathered her senses, sliding back into reality.

So, so wonderfully relaxed.

The flogger dropped onto the floor with a thump, and Sam leaned against her again. His body warmth and the abrasion of his shirt set her back to a happy burn even as he pulled her tighter. His erection pressed against her backside, but he didn’t rub it on her or even seem to notice as he teased her nipples into hard points. One hand opened, flattened on her waist, just above her jeans. “You’re a wonderful armful,” he growled in her ear.

Her body shook, urgent with arousal. Her clit throbbed, needing his hand to move lower. Her body remembered exactly how his experienced fingers had felt when he brought her to orgasm.

In front of a room of slavers.

No. When she stiffened, his hand stilled. She wanted more. No, I don’t. No. Not ever again. What was she even doing here? This was sick. Unnatural. “Let me go, Sam,” she whispered, wanting, wanting.

He fisted her hair and tilted her face to study her. The firmness of his grip said he knew she was fleeing from herself. The liquid warmth inside her said he could stop her. Please her. His ice-blue gaze swept over her. “All right.”

She realized the horrible feeling inside had disappeared. The pressure and the shadows were gone from her spirit, washed away with her tears and pain.

What kind of a perv was she that she needed to hurt to be able to empty her emotions?

His hand tightened on her jaw. “Don’t think. Not now. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He reached up and unsnapped her cuffs, then helped her away from the cross. Her back burned where his arm around her waist rubbed the tender skin. Her legs shook as if she had been sick for a year, and she sagged against him.

He walked her to the edge of the scene area. “Kneel here.”

Her whole body went stiff as nausea surged. The Overseer had made her kneel for everything. Always. Or crawl. Would he— “I’m not your slave,” she hissed.

He gave her a look, and his tone was firm but mild. “I don’t need or want a slave.”

Slave. Just the sound made her sicker until his words registered. “Don’t need or want a slave.” Her spine found strength, and her shoulders straightened. “Then why make me kneel?” Her mouth was so dry that her voice came out in a whisper.

“You can’t stand by yourself, baby. You need to be close to the floor.” His rough voice held an odd tenderness. “And I want you where I can keep an eye on you as I clean up.”

Oh. “I’m sorry.” She let him help her down, her right knee, as always, stiffer than the other. To her surprise, when he returned with a bottled water and blanket, he squatted down to wrap the fuzzy fabric around her. Warm. Wonderfully concealing. “Thank you.”

“Right.” His hand stayed on her shoulder, holding her firmly.

She frowned and looked up.

“You’re kneeling for one more reason, girl, and you might as well learn to deal. You’re submissive. That’s part of what you need…and kneeling is an acknowledgment of that. Submission isn’t slavery.”

Her chin tightened. Yes, it is.

He breathed out, then opened the water and wrapped her fingers around the bottle. “We’ll talk later.”

As he cleaned the equipment, she watched. Not young at all, older than her. But he moved with a rancher’s strength and a strong man’s confidence.

She didn’t have that kind of confidence. Not anymore. Hard to believe she’d run her household and a business. Now she was in a BDSM club. Asking to be beaten. She really was the pervert that a lover had called her. Or the dirty slut that the slavers had named her.

Her hands started to shake. She’d done what she’d set out to do. Broken through all the walls. Could feel again. But now she needed to leave. This wasn’t what she wanted in her life. With an effort, she looked around for Kim and Raoul.

They stood just beyond the rope beside Master Z. They’d all been watching.

A flush warmed Linda’s face. Kim might be submissive, but she wasn’t a…masochist. A pain slut. Humiliation swept through her as she set down the water and struggled to her feet. “Raoul, please. Can we go home now?”

A moment of confusion showed on Raoul’s face, and then he nodded. “If you want.” He gripped her arm, steadying her, as Kim went to get her shirt and bra.

Sam saw them and returned. “Raoul.” The anger in Sam’s voice was suppressed but present.

The way Raoul tensed showed that even a weight lifter didn’t want to take on an angry Sam.

Guilt made her shoulders hunch. She was causing a problem between friends. “It’s not his fault, Sam. I asked them to take me home.”

When he reached for her, she flinched back. His arm lowered. “You’re not ready to leave. You can barely walk…and we need to talk.”

“I’m…sorry.” She pulled on her bra, feeling the sweet tenderness of her back. Wanting more. “What you did helped,” she admitted. He’d earned her thanks. In a way, an ugly way, she’d used him. Except…he liked what he’d done, hadn’t he? Had he received as much pleasure from seeing her pain as she had from receiving it? “But I-I don’t do this…stuff. I was just here to learn to put it behind me.”

“Put it behind you?”

“Yes. This isn’t who I am.” She forced her chin up, her spine straight, even though she’d felt so, so much better on her knees. “Thank you for”— for hurting me. For making me cry, making me feel—“for your time.”

He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. But was that hurt she saw in his face for a moment? Surely not from this harsh man who’d called her “baby” and wrapped a blanket around her. Her eyes burned. Why had she ever wanted to feel? Her heart hurt, throbbing as if it had taken the beating instead of her back.

He shot Raoul an unreadable look. “Take care of her.”

Raoul’s fighting stance relaxed. “As if she were my own.”

I’m no one’s. The knowledge didn’t sound independent—just lonely. Linda pulled on her shirt and led the way to the exit to show Sam she didn’t need help. As his gaze burned into her back, she forced herself not to look over her shoulder, not to run and kneel at his feet. Why couldn’t she just have been a…normal person and him a normal person? Then, maybe…

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.

Saying no was the right thing to do. Even if she’d been rich, she’d make him work for part of his college expenses. People didn’t value anything unless they themselves put some effort into getting it. Which meant if she handed him all the money, he’d actually be more liable to flunk out.

Logic didn’t help. She’d disappointed her baby. Welcome home, Linda.

* * * *

At the end of that week, Linda stood behind the counter in her beachfront store, ringing up the sale of a canvas, hand-stitched beach tote. Her feet were screaming at being forced back into her favorite high-heeled sandals, her legs ached from standing so much, and her shoulders were knotted from evenings spent on the accounting backlog. Yet it was wonderful to be home. Her life was returning to normal.

“You have a lovely store.” The customer signed the charge slip.

“Thank you.” Linda beamed as she handed over the receipt. “Have a wonderful day on the beach.”

After growing up in a tiny Florida town, she’d thought she’d simply be a teacher. Or maybe a preacher’s wife like her mother had been. Who knew that she’d love running her own business, love the interactions with customers? And after the slavers had tried to convince her she was nothing more than a slut, she needed the reassurance that she was good at what she did.

The store door was latched open, letting customers on the boardwalk flow in and out. Inside, a young couple, hand in hand, were checking out the etched coffee cups. A trio of older women studied the wall of Florida shore paintings. On the right, her clerk was restocking the glass case holding the handcrafted jewelry.

Linda inhaled, enjoying how the sand candles’ scents mingled with the salty air off the Gulf. Her tiny store specialized in handcrafted items for tourists. It held no shot glasses or T-shirts made overseas by the thousands. Instead, everything was created by Florida artisans. She even commissioned some of the more popular items. To her delight, the baskets she made also sold well.

She’d never make a fortune but had enough to pay bills and help the children with their expenses—although not working for five months had come close to being a disaster. Thank goodness that after Frederick’s death, she’d set up her affairs so the children and business would be handled in case of her death or disability.

But even though the accounting firm had handled the bills and payroll, everything else was behind. In fact, she’d only managed to join Lee for lunch once. Seeing the guy she’d dated off and on before her kidnapping had been…awkward. But Lee was a nice man. He hadn’t pushed her and had turned their conversation to local affairs, letting her fill in as she wanted. Although he’d asked her out, she’d put him off for another week. She really did have too much to do.

In fact… She frowned at the window display, which needed to be redone as well.

By the open door, two townspeople slowed to look inside. As their voices dropped to whispers, Linda stiffened.

Her four part-time clerks had been overjoyed to have her back. She’d needed that reassurance since her kidnapping and return had created ripples through the town. The beachfront shop owners and clerks formed a small community of their own, and her acceptance there and elsewhere had changed. She heard ugly whispers everywhere, even with customers in her own store, and the sound was wearing her down.

She’d started to feel like the prostitute in Pretty Woman—the one who had discovered that a respectable appearance didn’t mean she could ever belong.

“All done.” At the jewelry case, Maribelle straightened, patting her short gray hair into place. “I might have to buy my granddaughter those pretty shell earrings. What do you want done now?”

The store suddenly felt confining, and Linda wanted out. “If you’ll watch the store, I need to make a coffee run. Want one?”

“No. I’ve had too much caffeine already.” Maribelle took up position behind the counter as Linda stepped into the back to grab a few dollars from her purse.

The small coffee shop was a few stores down, and Linda had always enjoyed the short walk. Even in late January, the sounds of the beach were heartening. Children’s shrieks of joy as the gulls dipped down to look for food, a small dog’s high yapping, the thump and yells of the young men playing volleyball. Under it all, the shushing sound of the waves. She stopped to simply savor the cloudless blue sky over the blue-gray ocean and the white sand bedecked with brightly dressed tourists.

Could anyone who hadn’t been imprisoned truly appreciate the glory of just being outside?

When she entered the coffee shop, the scent of newly brewed coffee zinged across her senses.

Waiting at the pickup counter for her order, the toy-store manager nodded at her. “Good to have you back, hon.”

Linda smiled. She didn’t like the reminder of her ordeal, but the warmth of friendship was never unwelcome. “Thank you, Sandy.”

Behind the counter, the coffee-shop owner handed Sandy her drink before looking over. “Linda, what can I make you? The peppermint drinks are on sale today.”

“Um.” Be virtuous or go for indulgence? She considered. Her body hurt and not in the happy way Sam had given her. Don’t think of that. “Peppermint white chocolate mocha.” Caffeine, fat, sugar, and chocolate—all the essential food groups except salt. “Thanks, Betty.”

“Coming right up.”

As Linda wavered over buying a scone, she heard whispers from a threesome at a table. Lawrence, who managed the upmarket art gallery, an older woman, and a woman from Linda’s church.

Keen hearing was sometimes a curse, she thought. And hating herself for the weakness, she listened anyway.

“That’s right. They kept her as a slave.” The older woman.

The churchwoman said, “A sex slave.”

Linda felt as if her legs would give out.

“Really?” Lawrence leaned forward. “You think she—”

Tears prickled in her eyes as Linda fought the urge to flee. To simply walk away from the coffee shop, her store, everything. To hide in her house and never come out. But what would that achieve except losing her business? The gossip would certainly continue. Tough it out, girl. Eventually, some new, ground-shaking scandal would replace hers.

She unclenched her hands and moved to the other end of the counter, close to their table, to wait for her drink.

The table went silent as the two women concentrated on their doughnuts. Lawrence gave her a slow perusal that made her skin crawl. “Hi, Linda. Taking a break?”

“Just a coffee run.” She forced her lips into a smile, then accepted her cup from Betty. Turning her back to the room to hide her trembling hands, she added extra sugar and eventually managed to get the plastic lid snapped on.

When she turned, the two women gawked at her as if she’d worn pasties and a thong rather than her cream-colored, button-up shirt and tan slacks. When she stared back, their attention turned to their food.

She headed for the door.

“Nice to see you again,” Lawrence said.

She glanced over and nodded. “And you.”

“We should get together sometime.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, and he licked his lips.

Her anger flared. I’m not a slut. Not. Taking a sip of coffee, she let her gaze slide down his body. After deliberately checking out his crotch area, she gave a dismissive sniff—way too small—and left the room.

Well, way to make yourself an enemy. She didn’t care. At one time, she might have ignored Lawrence’s sleazy stare. But the constant verbal abuse she’d suffered as a slave had erased her tolerance.

“Slut, that’s all you are. Nothing else.” The Overseer’s voice, like putrid oil, still oozed through her memories. “Just a convenient hole to use.” She shuddered.

Then she recalled a different voice. “Linda, I don’t see you as a slave.” The memory of Sam’s rough words was like an afternoon downpour, washing the gutters clean of debris. His intent blue eyes had been hot, but he’d shown respect as well. He’d given her a safe word, mapped out what he’d do, how far he’d go.

The need to have his arms around her, his sandpapery voice in her ears, shook her so hard she stopped on the boardwalk. Breathe. Get it together. She drank her coffee, letting the burn settle her. How annoying for that sadist’s voice to be so darned calming. What Sam sought from her might not be enslavement, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Her life was normal now. She needed to keep it that way.

The comfort of her store wrapped around her as she entered. Since Maribelle was handling the customers, Linda picked up a wide basket and headed for the display window. Florida winter. What would look appropriately seasonal?

“Linda? Hey, Linda!” The man who walked in wore dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt with garish red and purple stripes. His brown hair needed a trim.

“Hi, Dwayne.” Before she met Lee, they’d dated a few times until their one time in bed had shown her that they didn’t suit. He made love as badly as he reported the news.

“You haven’t returned my phone calls.” He halted a step too close.

She retreated a pace. “I’ve been busy. How are you?”

“I watched your testimony about being a sex slave.”

Her mind blanked. Sex slave. She had never, ever called herself that.

“I want an interview. You tell me what it was like, what they did to you, and I’ll make you famous.”

Startled at his insinuating tone and unwholesome interest, she couldn’t speak. Did he really think she’d give him a Penthouse-worthy report of the horrors she’d suffered? “I don’t do interviews.”

“How about the other slave—the blonde college kid? Were you close with Holly?”

The name was a hammer blow to her heart. Her inability to protect the girl had been far more devastating than her powerlessness to protect herself. Holly had been so terrified, had pleaded with the Overseer to let her go home. She’d been sold and died under the lash instead.

Linda blinked hard. “I’m busy. Please leave.” As customers turned to look, she set her face into an expressionless mask.

Dwayne swept his gaze down her body. His voice dropped. “I gave it to you good, so why’d you dump me? Cuz you’d wanna be tied up when you’re fucked? Did you have a better time with them than with me?”

Her stomach twisted. “Get out of my store!”

“Did you—”

Swallowing against the nausea, she yanked her cell phone out, punched two numbers, and turned it so he could see the display. Nine. One.

He made an ugly sound and walked away, turning in the door to snarl, “Welcome back, slave.”

You bastard. Her skin had turned cold and clammy, and as she filled the basket with the contents of the display window, her chest grew tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. Abandoning the pretense, she hurried toward the back of the store. As she passed, the two gray-haired customers looked at her as if they smelled week-old garbage.

At the counter, Maribelle was oblivious as she bantered with two children.

The back room was cool. Dark. It didn’t help. Oh God, oh God, oh God. The tears started. Then her stomach heaved, and she ran for the bathroom.

Crying. Shaking. Throwing up.

Finally she rested her face against the wall. Get up, Linda. Her body wouldn’t move. She watched a tiny spider in the corner. Working so hard on its web. The cleaning lady would probably destroy all its work.

That made her cry again.

Chapter Four

Sunday finally arrived. Linda had given herself the whole day off to enjoy. A day for bare feet, ripped jeans, and a Queen Latifah T-shirt. She hadn’t been ready to face church, so she and the children had rescheduled their traditional after-church dinner for the evening. In the meantime, she planned to ignore the outside world and just…settle.

As she finished putting her lunch dishes into the dishwasher, she realized she was singing along with an old Carpenters’ song on the radio, “I Need To Be in Love.” She snorted. Wouldn’t that just be a disaster, considering everything that had happened to her? Added to her past, she also had her strange desires…

Her jaw clenched. That horrible Dwayne. At least Lee had been polite, although the memory was still uncomfortable. Last fall after a couple of drinks, they’d gone to bed, and she’d asked for…more…trying to get him to bite, to spank. He’d been appalled.

Her mouth turned down. The mortification she’d felt with him had been the spur that sent her to a BDSM club. Like beads on a necklace, each event had led to the next and the next, until here she was. Postkidnapped. Kind of a mess. Trying to be normal.

She huffed a laugh, remembering the sting of Sam’s hand hitting her bottom. Not exactly normal. Well, at least she was alive to whine about all her weird problems. And she was home, at last.

Sunlight streamed in through the big kitchen window, setting dust motes to dancing. Spirits lifting again, she sang the last line of the song into a pretend mic and finished with a quick spin before dropping the spatula into the rack. Yesterday at work had gone well. Her nightmares had decreased. She’d had a big bacon, tomato, and lettuce sandwich for lunch. Yummy. Slavery had taught her how important the tiny things in life were. A smile instead of a frown. Comfort foods rather than slop. Kind words. A warm hug could be more satisfying than the most intense orgasm—not that she’d gotten off recently.

Not since the night of the auction with Sam. A flush heated her cheeks. Damn the man.

Then again, maybe she should thank him. If it hadn’t been for that night, she’d think nothing would ever arouse her again.

She shook her head. Somehow he’d simply overwhelmed her until all she’d been able to see or hear was him. His voice. His touch. The pain. And he’d driven her right to where he wanted her. Then humiliated her by making her orgasm. Her stomach clenched as she remembered the sleazy buyers leering at her. The slave next to her had stared, her face turning hard with a “how could you?” expression.

And Sam—she hadn’t been able to read him at all. She sighed. She still couldn’t. Considering the way she’d reacted to him at the Shadowlands, he hadn’t lost his touch.

She wished she could say she responded sexually to any Dom, but that wouldn’t be true. Sam had said they had chemistry between them. Then again, maybe it was just his lean, muscular body, sharp blue eyes, and aura of power that sparked her synapses into overdrive.

Or the way he talked… She put her hand over the flutter in her stomach. The man should have a license to kill for that voice. So deep and rough, like a gravel truck churning at the bottom of a chasm, with a flintlike edge that indicated he didn’t take crap from anyone, especially a submissive.

She snorted. She’d normally have a fit if some guy called her “girl,” but when Sam said it, every molecule in her body turned liquid. Damn him.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she tried to consider what her next task should be. Having her thoughts fall into a Sam rut couldn’t be permitted. She couldn’t afford anything…warped…in her life. In her children’s lives.

Brenna and Charles had told her about the horrible time they’d suffered after she’d been kidnapped. How they’d panicked when no one could find her. They’d been terrified for her. And then reporters had hounded them, playing on their fears, coming up with all the worst scenarios.

How much worse would it be if the newspeople—or her children—learned she’d gone to a kink club?

But everything was returning to normal. The trials for the slavers were almost over. Her coworkers would forget her past. Her children could relax. She’d never, ever do anything to cause a sensation again.

She’d been Miss Boring and Respectable all her life, and being different had really not gone well.

After tossing the soiled towel in the laundry basket, she walked out the front door into the fresh air. She did that a lot—just to prove she could go outside when she wanted to. Typical ex-prisoner behavior.

In her yard, she inhaled slowly. Nothing smelled as good as the breeze off the ocean. The sky was a deep blue with puffy clouds white enough for a bleach commercial. Spring was coming, but this was the prettiest time of the year. The St. Augustine grass was crisp and bright. In a garish flash of color, a flock of feral parakeets settled onto the next-door lawn. She grinned at them.

The counselor had said her emotions would go up and down, but duh—that wasn’t exactly news to anyone over twenty. One moment, a person celebrates a pregnancy, and the next, a father dies. A windfall of cash might be followed by a broken arm. Learn to stand up. Learn to fall down. Life’s lessons didn’t stop; they continued to the day of death.

And I’m alive. That was the important thing. Alive and free and… She stared at her house. To the right of the door, black words had been spray-painted over the pale blue wall: BURN IN HELL WHORE OF SATAN.

No. No no no. Her stomach roiled. Hand over her mouth, she ran for the house.

* * * *

Almost two hours later, she had sung every war song she knew as she scrubbed off the graffiti. Once finished, she frowned at the areas of lighter blue. Why in the world would someone do something like that? Whore of Satan. Excuse me?

Now that the words were gone, she could almost see the humor. It sounded like what her father—may he rest in peace—would roar during his pulpit-thumping sermons. “And if you do not repent of your evil ways, then you will—”

He’d considered the road to salvation to be extremely narrow. A good person needed faith, to do charitable works, to wear modest clothing, use respectful language, and observe proper behavior. Her sister, Wendy, had been cynical enough to ignore their parents’ lectures, but Linda had never stopped trying to please them.

Her husband had been much like her father, but despite his conservative nature, at least Frederick had possessed a sense of humor.

A car door thudded, and as Linda turned, she heard, “Mom.”

Her daughter was early. She plastered on a smile and dropped the brush behind the bushes. Thank goodness she’d finished eradicating the words from the wall. “Brenna!”

In a denim skirt and white tank top, Brenna ran across the lawn to give Linda a long hug. “Oh, Mom, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, honey.” Needing to stay strong for her baby, Linda blinked away tears and curved an arm around the girl. “Let’s go have some tea. I made cookies for you and Charles.”

Brenna grimaced. “Mo-om. As if I’m not fat enough.”

“You certainly are not. You’re lovely.”

“As if.” Hands waving in the air, Brenna led the way to the kitchen. “My ass is too big, my tits are like watermelons, and—”

Linda shook her head. Although an inch shorter than Linda’s five feet seven, Brenna was at least thirty pounds lighter and nowhere near Linda’s full figure. But over the years, Linda had learned to like having a curvy body. Brenna hadn’t yet. “Sweetie, you have a beautiful figure, but you’re never going to be tall and slender. It’s not in our genes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shoving her light brown hair behind her ears, she scowled. “Why couldn’t I have inherited Dad’s tall and skinny genes like Charles did?”

“Sorry. I didn’t have a choice in that one.” Linda spoke lightly, ignoring the feeling of rejection. “Have you seen Charles lately?”

“Not since we came over to make sure the house was okay.”

“I appreciated you doing that.”

Brenna shrugged away her mother’s thanks. “You look good. Tan and like you’ve been living the high life at Aunt Wendy’s.”

Was that a hint of accusation in her words? Guilt tensed the muscles in Linda’s chest. “I spent a lot of time in Wendy’s garden.” Yanking out the stubborn quack grass ferociously as if to kill the monsters that’d destroyed her life. Crying when the scent of blooming roses reminded her of her mother. Shaking and vomiting. The oddest things had affected her, like when her shovel had cut a worm in half. She’d gone into hysterics for half the day. “But it wasn’t the high life.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Tears welled in her daughter’s eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back, but sometimes I just… I don’t know why I said that.”

“Oh, baby.” Linda hugged her girl, trying to work past the hurt. Brenna wasn’t cruel. “Do you remember when you ran away because I wouldn’t let you go to a sleepover? You took your wagon with all your dolls in it.”

Brenna choked on a laugh. “When I was in kindergarten?”

“Yes. For hours, we searched for you. You turned up at Myrtle’s, playing with her grandchildren. We were so relieved. We hugged you and kissed you. But then—”

Brenna pulled away. “Daddy yelled at me. So did you. You guys never yelled, but…”

“That’s right. But when you’ve been so scared, sometimes you react all over the person who scared you.”

“Oh.” After a moment’s silence, she nodded. “Okay. I get it. I’ll try not to take it out on you.” Brenna wiped the tears from her eyes and attempted a frown. “But if I see you packing your dolls in the car, I’m going to yell.”

“Fair enough.” Heavens, how did we make such beautiful children, Frederick? “Want to help me get food on for supper? Charles should be here in a couple of hours, and I have the makings for a pot roast.”

“Well, duh. Does a bear sh—” She caught her mother’s warning look and adroitly substituted, “Poop in the woods? Can we add those little potatoes?”

“Well, duh.”

There are limited chapters to put here, click the button below to continue reading "Normal People"

(It will automatically jump to the book when you open the app).

❤️Click to read more exciting content❤️