That’s disgusting, her cynical part said. But her inner self…was silent. That wasn’t right. Shouldn’t everything in her disagree with subservience? A tiny shiver went through her as she knelt, grateful for the softness of the Oriental rug.

“Very, very pretty, chiquita,” he said softly. “I’d never planned to have a slave in this house”—he hesitated, and his jaw tightened for a second—“so most of the floors are tile and will be uncomfortable for you. If there is no carpet, you may use a pillow.”

Had he owned a slave in a different house? She looked up, almost spoke. “Permission to speak?”

“Good. Add Master onto the end, please.”

“Permission to speak, M-master.”

He leaned forward and cupped her cheek, his brown eyes frighteningly serious. “It pleases me when you call me that, Kimberly. I thought you should know.” He held her gaze, his look reaching deep, deep into her, melting the ice in her center.

She swallowed past a dry throat.

He waited, still touching her, his thumb stroking her jaw.

“Did you have a s-slave before?”

“Mmmhmm. After college, I had a slave for about two years before I moved here. She preferred to stay in that city, so I helped her find a new master.” The movement of his slightly rough thumb stroking her skin lulled her into relaxing…until his expression hardened, the warmth in his eyes disappeared. “The woman I married was my slave as well.”

Kimberly pulled away. “Married? But—”

“I’m divorced, gatita, for almost three years now.”

The bitter twist to his lips made her want to pat his hand in comfort. “What happened?”

He leaned back, putting more distance between them. “The usual things that break up a marriage.” His voice made it clear the subject was off-limits. Pretty unfair considering the way he’d probed her life.

She had one last question. “Did your wife do all right once you let her go? After being a slave, could she still function?”

The humor returned to his face. “Because a woman places her power in my hands doesn’t mean she’ll give it to anyone else. My wife was CEO of her own company. She ripped young executives apart without ever raising her voice.”

Wow. That was… He was screwing with all her preconceptions. Pretty rude. “And your first slave?” Slave—the word sickened her.

“She makes an excellent living as a real estate agent, specializing in million-dollar-and-up properties.”

Not comforting to know he apparently had liked being a master and having a slave. But, oddly enough, it was reassuring that two women had willingly given themselves over to his care…without being kidnapped. Sold. “They cooked and cleaned your house too?”

“No, gatita, that’s what housekeeping services are for. I only assigned you those responsibilities since you have nothing else to do. As it happens, I enjoy cooking and will take a turn on weekends, as I used to do.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “And when I didn’t want to cook, then my slave did, wearing only an apron. As will you.”

Oh boy.

“Now, fetch the book you were reading earlier, and you may join me on the couch.”

When she came back with her book, he didn’t look up, just murmured, “Remove your shirt and bra first, please.”

She stared at him.

He turned a page.

She’d agreed to this. He hadn’t wanted her to do it. But clothes were a…a defense. Her own kind of chain mail. I don’t want to.

He appeared so relaxed, his attention on his reading. Another page turned.

Swallowing down tears, she pulled her T-shirt off, then her bra, and stood waiting.

He looked up then. His gaze ran over her, nothing in his expression except approval at her obedience. “Good, gatita. You took a big step. Now come and sit beside me.” He patted the couch.

She sat gingerly beside him, stiffly upright until he pulled her to his side. Her fingernails dented the cover of the book as she waited for the inevitable groping, the attack…

His heavy arm settled on her shoulders, and his fingers curled around her upper arm. He shifted, settling her against him more comfortably, and then picked his magazine up.

After a minute or two, he sighed. “A slow breath, please, Kimberly. You are not running a race.”

Oh. Her pulse pounded, but she managed to even out her breathing, from racing to maybe a jog. After another minute, she lifted her book. The room was cool enough that where his body touched hers felt…nice, warm against her bare skin. His hand occasionally stroked her arm.

Another minute or two, and she actually read a few of the words in her book.

When the little subbie leaned against him in earnest, her head nodding, Raoul sighed. He’d known this would be difficult for both of them. He hadn’t realized how terrifying it would be as well. He’d dealt with emotional trauma before, since scenes tended to open a submissive to bad memories, and it was a rare human who reached adulthood without picking up a problem or two.

But she’d experienced way too much trauma, too recently. Even worse, much of her turmoil was related to being enslaved, and everything he did would bring back those memories.

This wasn’t going to be easy. During the afternoon while Kimberly napped, Raoul had a conference call with her counselor, Gabi, and Z, the owner of the Shadowlands BDSM club. Since Z was also a psychologist, he knew the emotional problems associated with the lifestyle.

Gabi, Z, and Faith had all had qualms over what might happen, but also some hope. The counselor thought patients with PTSD did better if they learned what caused their panic attacks and had help working through them. Gabi agreed and said that, in her experience, having a purpose—like defeating the slavers—was a strength and spur to confronting fears.

Unfortunately, they also agreed this FBI operation was moving too fast, especially since Kimberly would have to face the Overseer again.

Raoul sighed. He not only couldn’t protect her, but would, in fact, often be the one giving her nightmares. Yet this was what she’d chosen, so they had to make the best of it.

He shook her lightly. “Kimberly, it’s time for bed.”

She jerked away, the blank panic on her face tightening his throat.

“Easy, gatita. You’re safe.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Bed. Right. Okay.”

He cleared his throat.

“I mean, yes, Sir.” She hadn’t cringed this time, and the way she peeked out from under her long black eyelashes made him grin as he helped her to her feet and up the stairs. Resilient little chica, wasn’t she?

Bed. Dios, another problem. He’d have to do this in stages as with everything else. He let her go to her bedroom but waited in the hallway until he heard her return from her bathroom. The bed squeaked. He tapped on the door.

Her sharp inhalation sounded clearly. “Y-yes?”

“Open the door, please.”

“Oh God,” she whispered. The door opened. When he saw the terror in her wide eyes, he almost gave up then and there. But she possessed more courage than he did, and after a hard breath, she lifted her chin. “I bet I’m losing my bedroom, aren’t I?”

The lump in his throat made his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, but I think it best.” She nodded, and her mouth firmed. Her hands fisted with her struggle to step forward.

So brave. He moved close enough to rub his hand over her lower back. Soft cotton pajamas. Comics, no less. Had Gabi chosen them? “I see Wonder Woman looks worried also.”

Kimberly gave him a confused look, so he ran a finger over the graphic at her waist. With her surprised laugh, the tight muscles under his fingers eased. For the moment.

In the master bedroom, he motioned to the bed. “Tonight, you may leave your nightclothes on. Tomorrow, you will wear nothing to bed.” He paused. “What do you say to me?”

She swallowed. “Yes, M-master.” Another hesitation before she jumped up and onto the high bed. Raoul had bought it because it was the perfect height to take a submissive leaning over the bed. Not a fact he’d share with her.

Kimberly buried herself under the covers.

In his bathroom, he cleaned up and donned a loose pair of cotton pants. After flipping the bedroom lights out, he joined her in the bed. Curled into a defensive ball, she was a huddled mass of misery, watching every move he made. She’d never get any sleep that way.

He rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his hand. Would Z’s suggestion work? “On a scale of one to ten, how frightened are you?”

Kim frowned. The moonlight streamed through the balcony doors, a pathway of light, falling over Master R’s face. No lust, no anger. He simply watched her with those quiet, steady eyes. She was grateful for how her loose hair fell forward and screened her face. “When my mom had surgery, they had her rank her pain that way. You want me to use the numbers for how scared I get?”

“You will do so, yes.” He reached out as carefully as if she were a wild animal and, using one finger, pushed her hair out of her face, behind her ear.

So much for her shield. She barely kept from glaring at him.

His firm lips curved slightly. “You will not hide from me, gatita.” He gave her hair a tiny tug. “So. I think you will show me your scale with your fingers. One finger tells me you are fine; all ten fingers extended means you’re going into a panic attack. Use this starting now, so when we…entertain…you will not have to think, and we’ll have worked out the best response.”