Wrapping an arm around her waist, he bent and swatted her ass. Her body tensed—no, she wasn’t in subspace yet. The beast in him loved this point, when she still felt the pain a moment before the pleasure. She was almost to the shift, after which every blow would feel good.

As guttural Lesiëm chants came from the dungeon’s speakers, Sam spanked her ass in time with the music. Undoubtedly, each swat vibrated that tender little asshole he’d just stretched.

When a few people came into the dungeon to stand by the wall and watch, Linda noticed and flushed.

Sam grasped her chin, turning her head toward him. “Attention on me.”

“Yes, Sir.” Her eyes focused on him. Only him.

“That’s right, girl.” He ran his knuckles gently down her cheek. A submissive’s need to please could often override any other instinct, and Linda was deeply submissive.

And ready for more. Her breasts were puckered nicely, her cheeks flushed, lips reddened. Damn, she was pretty.

He picked up the cane from his bag and started on her ass. Eventually, he’d move around to her breasts for some fun.

SOMETIME LATER, AS Linda slid back into reality, her skin swam with lingering sensations. Her breasts ached with the most delicious burn from the light caning followed by the crop. As if in balance, her back, bottom, and upper thighs felt scalded with sublime pleasure.

Everything had felt so good. Her head sagged against her upraised arm; her mind as hazy as if filled with fragrant smoke that made curling tendrils in the empty space.

Time had passed. Maybe a lot. She’d gotten off twice and still wanted more. More pain, more touches. More, more, more. But Sam had said no—said she’d had enough. And now he flicked the crop up and down her back in mere touches of velvety pleasure rather than a conflagration. He was bringing her up slowly, barely cracking the window to reality. He was so careful of her.

And she loved him so much.

Her body throbbed, but now she could feel how the air was slightly cool against her legs. How her shoulders were starting to ache. The heavy sound of a flogger came from her right. People were talking somewhere in a low hum of conversation. She tried to raise her head and gave it up as a lost effort. Didn’t seem to matter. Everything was so comfortable. Her blood sang through her veins with lovely little surges; air flowed in and out of her lungs. What a nicely working body.

“Linda?”

“Mmmm?”

Sam made that low snorty chuckle. “You’re still off in space.”

She started to close her eyes—realized they’d already closed—and instead tipped her head, hoping he’d make that growly sound—the one that squeezed her spine, hand over hand, right down to her core.

Instead, she heard other voices from the observers. A tenor, a baritone, a woman’s contralto. Then a higher tenor with an odd…scratchy sound.

Goose bumps broke out on her body as her chest tightened. That voice. Her hands fisted as the stench of the slave cages swept over her. Her own body stinking of urine and fear, women sobbing and screaming, and—

“Goddamn.” Hard hands closed on her shoulders, a body pressed against her, and she cringed, shook her head, trying to get the fog to lift. “No. No.” Her lips were numb, her words slurred.

“Open your eyes.”

The rough command swept through her, lifting the pressure on her chest so she could take a breath. Many, many breaths. The air was too heavy to fill her lungs.

“Eyes on me.” Fingers gripped her chin, lifted her head.

Eyes. Hers were scrunched shut. She forced them open and stared into the blazing blue fire of Sam’s gaze. As her knees buckled, her weight dropped painfully onto her restrained arms. She jerked at them, needing to be free. Get away. Run.

“Easy, girl.” His powerful arm closed around her waist, holding her up. With his other hand, he used the quick release to free her left wrist, then the right.

“I’ll get her ankles, Sam.” A woman’s voice. Worried.

Chills ran up Linda’s spine, spreading to fill her until she shuddered. A blast of heat swept over her skin, followed by more ice. She couldn’t stop shaking.

The world spun as Sam lifted her into his arms. “Look at me, Linda. Just at me,” he growled. Lights flickered to the sides as if she were in a car moving through a fog-filled landscape. Lost in a blurry world.

But his arms were around her, his chest solid against her side. A tremor shook her so horribly she moaned, and the fear-filled sound of her own voice shocked her.

Somewhere darker, quieter, he sat down.

He said something incomprehensible, yet the senseless growling smoothed the terrified knots in her head. Something wrapped around her. Warm. Fuzzy. Sam shifted, pulling it securely around her.

Naked. She’d been naked. Now she wasn’t. She blinked, expecting to see a ballroom filled with buyers and slaves. Her gaze focused on a pedestal planter filled with ferns. Another held begonias. The tiny blooms were like stars in the dark foliage. Life in the darkness. No one was screaming. The police had shouted and—no, that wasn’t here.

She wasn’t at the slave auction.

Men were talking. Her brows drew together as she tried to understand the words.

“What happened? She didn’t seem anywhere close to a panic attack.” A voice like the most expensive of dark chocolates. Familiar.

“Hit some trigger, but damned if I know what.” The subterranean rumble through the chest under her ear. She could listen to him forever. “Never had a sub panic at the end of a scene. She’d been totally in subspace, and I was bringing her down.”

“That is odd. May I speak to her?”

“Do it. She’s back with us.”

She felt a brush of something on her hair. Sam was rubbing his chin on the top of her head in the most comforting of gestures, the one that said, I got you.

The other man’s voice lowered. “Linda, I feel you listening. Can you look at me?”

Why did her eyes keep closing? Sam’s arm was across her waist, his fingers holding her hip. She curled her fingers around his forearm—stay here—and forced her eyes open. Saw nothing except skin. Her face was pressed against his chest. Don’t want to move. Don’t want to see.

“C’mon, baby. Head up.” His voice was deeper. Rougher. She’d worried him. Love him. Don’t want to worry him.

She dug her fingernails into his skin so no one could snatch her away, then lifted her head. He held her tighter as if to reinforce she was safe. She turned her head.

Master Z was on one knee, both forearms on his thigh as he waited for her. “That’s a good girl.” His smile was faint, his gaze dark gray. Someone else she’d worried.

“I’m sorry.” Her throat felt as if it had rusted from years of disuse. “It’s your coming-home celebration. I didn’t mean—”

Sam made a gruff sound of disbelief, but his arms didn’t loosen.

As long as he held her, she didn’t care how many noises he made. Her body was waking, starting to feel everything he’d done. The burgeoning fear made her skin feel as if a scrub brush had scraped her raw.

“You’re more important.” Z’s voice was low, patient. He didn’t move. She’d lured a kitten from under her porch in just that way. Fuzzy, soft kitten. “You had a panic attack,” Z said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Did he think Sam had done something wrong? “Not Sam. He didn’t do—”

“Not Samuel,” he agreed. “Or you wouldn’t cling to him like that.” His gaze dropped to where her fingers were clenched around Sam’s arm.

She must be hurting him. She couldn’t make her fingers loosen. A whimper slid out of her.

“Shhh.” Sam’s whisper ruffled her hair. “Hang on all you want, girl.”

“Did you see something that frightened you?” Master Z asked.

“My eyes were closed,” she said as Sam muttered, “Her eyes were closed.”

“Feel something that brought back memories?”

She pulled in a breath. Right before she’d panicked, she’d felt the tiny flickers of the crop, like a light touch after an orgasm, just enough to keep it going. He was good at giving pain. Giving orgasms too. The corners of her lips tilted up as she brought her attention back to Z.

“You’re feeling better.” He was smiling slightly. “So not anything Sam did.”

“Did you smell something?” Sam’s voice was as soft as a gravel truck could get.

Think, Linda. She tilted her head, remembering the feel of the whip, then the smells of the dungeon. A mineral scent along with the fragrance of leather and a hint of the cleanser. “No.”

“That leaves sound,” Z said. “Tell me what you heard, Linda.”

The whip flicking. “Music. Gregorian chants. People talking. They were watching.” She moved her shoulders. “But that didn’t bother me.” Nice voices. Talking. A tenor, a baritone, a woman’s contralto. A higher tenor with an…odd scratchy sound. Her breath caught as if someone had stomped on her chest.

Sam’s arms squeezed the last of the air from her. “Got you, Linda. You’re safe.”

Her eyes had scrunched closed again. I’ve heard that tenor before. She forced her eyes open.