Not a rape fantasy, just a children’s game. Her mouth still felt too dry, her heart too fast. “But only you?”

His eyes held complete understanding. “Me. I am the only one who will chase you. No one else.”

She nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll she’d won at a carnival years before. “Yes.”

Chapter Nine

Marcus tucked Gabrielle behind the bar where Cullen could keep an eye on her and went to change out of his suit.

When he returned, he stood off to one side for few minutes, amusement trickling through him. Apparently she’d recovered enough to sass Cullen; he’d gagged her with a ball gag, which not only silenced her but added the humiliation of making her drool around the rubber ball.

Cullen occasionally stopped mixing drinks to wipe her chin and—from the way her color came and went—give her hell. New submissives often misread the sociable bartender, figuring him easygoing. They rarely made the mistake twice.

Marcus strolled over, pausing to exchange greetings with the various members around the bar.

Cullen glanced at Marcus’s black jeans and sleeveless T-shirt. “Nice to see you in real clothes for a change. By the way, I found your trainee too mouthy to tolerate.”

Marcus looked at Gabrielle.

She stared at his clothing as if she’d never seen a dom in jeans.

Suppressing his amusement, he waited until her gaze rose to meet his, then looked at the gag in her mouth and let his disappointment in her behavior show.

To his surprise, her eyes reddened with tears before she turned her head away.

Something twisted inside him. The bond between them continued to develop. She not only trusted him, but she wanted—needed—to please him. So there was hope for her after all. But the connection went two ways, being balanced by his need to protect and nurture. And possess. He found he didn’t like seeing her under someone else’s restraints. “Release her, please, sir,” he said to Cullen.

Cullen unsnapped her arms and handed her a cloth before undoing the ball gag. She wiped her face, scrubbed the spit away, and glared at Cullen.

When the bartender looked at her in disbelief, Marcus clenched his jaw to keep from laughing.

“Here I thought Andrea was bad.” Cullen grasped her hair in his big fist and growled at her, “Apologize, sub, and thank me for the lesson.” The sheer power he put into the words had her stammering out an apology and thank-you before she could get her sassy attitude back.

The people seated at the bar laughed.

Marcus regarded her carefully. Although flushed, she displayed no pleasure at acquiring an audience with her behavior. Whatever reason she had to misbehave, it wasn’t to attract attention the way his ex-wife had done. Thank God. “Come, Gabrielle, before you get in more trouble than you can survive,” he ordered.

When Cullen turned his back, she stuck out her tongue. As laughter rippled around the bar, she hurried to Marcus’s side, her eyes dancing with mischief.

In the dim bar, her smooth, pale skin almost glowed. He ran his knuckles over the sweet curve of her cheek and tucked a silky curl behind her ear. “Little brat,” he murmured.

She grinned at him.

Unable to resist, he bent to take her soft lips, pinning her between him and the bar so her body plastered against his. High breasts, lush ass. And when her arms circled his neck, he simply let everything go and savored kissing a yielding sub. This sub—Gabrielle—who made every other submissive seem bland. He nipped her bottom lip to tease her mouth open, then swept inside her mouth. She kissed him back with a hungry urgency. His arms tightened as he lost himself, plunging deeply and taking everything she offered so generously. When he hardened, she moaned and rubbed against him.

He stepped back reluctantly, pleased at the pink flush in her cheeks, the heat in her eyes. Slowly he ran a finger over her damp lips, wishing he could justify taking her upstairs to one of the private rooms.

But no. You’re her trainer, Atherton. She needs help, not a good fucking, although she might enjoy… No. He stepped back.

Cullen shook his head. “Another one bites the dust. You want your toy bag, Marcus?”

“No, thank you.” He set a hand in the hollow of her back, guiding her across the room to the side door and into the prep area for the Capture Gardens.

The potential participants stood in a line for Z’s mandatory check. A psychologist, the Shadowlands owner spoke with any couple or group wanting to play the games, and occasionally denied admittance for reasons no one else could see. The other Masters insisted Z read minds. Delusional idiots.

Gabrielle had turned quiet when they entered, her muscles tightening. He pulled her closer, wanting to reassure her it would be all right. But she needed to be nervous to make this work. And it might not be all right. Her nestling against his side gave him perhaps as much comfort as it did her.

When they reached the head of the line, Master Z touched Gabrielle’s cheek with his fingertips, and his dark brows drew together. “Are you certain you want to participate, little one?” he asked, sounding more like an overprotective father than a dom.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

“All right.” He stepped aside to let her pass, then frowned at Marcus. “You realize she’s as scared as she is excited? There’s something in—” He paused and smiled slightly. “Indeed, you’re on top of it. Have a nice game, Marcus.”

“Thank you, sir.” After Marcus moved past, he glanced back over his shoulder. That was…odd.

The hum of excited conversation echoed off the dark-paneled walls. Heart pounding, Gabi scraped her toes on the cool roughness of the stone floor and watched the club members waiting to enter the garden. To play scary games.

She’d almost backed out when Master Z had questioned her. No I’m not certain. Still…she couldn’t leave herself with such an idiotic vulnerability. And how would she ever find someone she’d trust as she did Master Marcus? But she was scared. Oh yeah.

The line filed forward, with submissives going out to the gardens while their doms gathered on one side of the room. Eventually she and Marcus stood a few feet from the outside door. Beside a table piled with unlit glow sticks, Master Sam wished the preceding couple a good time, then turned to Master Marcus.

“Marcus, I didn’t know you planned to play tonight.” The silver-haired dom smiled. His pale blue eyes examined Gabi. “That’s a pretty yellow outfit. Might as well match it.” He picked up three yellow plastic sticks and flexed them until they glowed. “Give me your arm, girl.”

She held her hand out. He fastened one around her wrist, one on her ankle, and the last on Marcus’s wrist. “The colors are a safeguard so the dungeon monitors can check that a dom grabs the right sub. In other words, only Master Marcus may claim you, Gabrielle. Clear so far?”

“Yes, Sir.” Only Marcus. I can do this.

Marcus put his arm around her. “Remember the club safe word is red, sugar. Dungeon monitors will be in the gardens to make sure people follow the rules.”

She answered the concern in his eyes with a firm nod and smiled at Master Sam. “Thank you, Sir.”

He winked at her and turned to the next group, three men—two subs, one dom. Did the poor dom have to chase them both down?

Marcus guided her to where a Hispanic Master stood beside the door. Gabi winced. He’d been the dom who’d had her paddled for mouthing off.

He grinned at Marcus. “Do you want her prepared?”

Marcus regarded her. “No, I believe this is enough excitement for one little subbie. Thank you, Raoul.”

Whatever prepared meant, Gabi thought she was glad to have avoided it.

“However, Gabrielle, I do want you in a slave dress,” Marcus said.

“A what?” She followed his gaze to a bunch of faded, raggedy dresses hanging on hooks.

“Hang your clothing up and put on one of those, please.”

His polite words didn’t cover up the steely tone. She automatically took a step and then heard a man laughing behind her. People. Audience. How could she have forgotten her task here? Guilt washed through her as well as a chill at thinking the perp might be in the room. She couldn’t relax, mustn’t relax, must do her job. “I’d rather wear my own clothing, thank you very much,” she said insolently.

“You’re starting this again?” Marcus asked gently. “Now?” He contemplated her as if she posed a perplexing chess puzzle.

“Hey, it’s not much to ask.” She set her hands on her hips. “Those rags are ugly.”

“They are indeed, but I thought you’d prefer them to the alternative.” He glanced at the other man. “Master Raoul, a full prep please. I would ask that you be verbally polite.”

Master Raoul looked as affronted as if Marcus had hit him. “Have I ever—”

“No, I’m sorry, my friend. I said that poorly,” Marcus apologized in his rich southern drawl. He caressed Gabi’s cheek. “We recently found that verbal abuse brings back a traumatic experience, so I’m making that a hard limit for her.”

“I see.” Dark brown eyes studied her for a minute. Then Master Raoul smiled slightly. “Well as long as I can abuse her physically, I’m sure we’ll get along fine. Gabrielle, strip completely, including your cuffs, hang your clothing on a hook, and return to me here.”