Kim swallowed hard.

Sure fingers cupped her chin, lifting her face. The brown eyes that had been so cold at first now held the desire she wasn’t sure she wanted…and something else. Concern? “What is wrong, chiquita?” he asked softly.

The question, the gentleness brought tears to her eyes. She tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened, keeping her face exposed to his scrutiny. To her horror, she realized she was close to crying. No. “Please. Don’t.”

His frown grew. Then he released her and looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were remote, his face like stone, chilling her inside as well as outside. For a moment, he’d almost seemed human.

Haven’t you learned anything, Kim? You really are a dumb slut like Lord Greville said.

“Gentlemen, if you are ready, the dungeon is waiting,” the Overseer announced.

The fat one made a pleased sound, face filling with lust.

The older one snapped, “About time.” He rose and grabbed Holly by her hair, dragging her behind him. She was half-bent over. Crying.

Kim’s wish to kill the cruel man almost…almost outweighed her common sense. But she’d learned. Painfully. Interfering meant the slavers would beat her—and the woman she tried to help as well. The short whip slicing across her back, then the shocking explosion of pain. The screaming of the other slave. Her hands flattened on her thighs. Don’t speak; don’t look.

Master R rose. “Come.”

She started to gather her discarded garments, and he shook his head. “You are dressed appropriately for the dungeon.”

When she was on her feet, he grasped her by the back of her neck, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers calloused. Pushing her in front of him, he followed the others to the dungeon, a converted living area with hardwood floors, chains dangling from the rafters, a couple of St. Andrew’s crosses, sawhorse benches, a bondage table. Implements hung on the dark paneled walls between the bloodred drapes covering the windows. Even in silence, the dimly lit room seemed to echo with the sounds of pain.

“Go ahead and put your prospective slaves through their paces,” the Overseer announced. “Since you have provided medical papers, no condoms are necessary. All three women have birth control implants and are certified disease-free. I remind you not to inflict permanent damage, but anything that’ll heal in a few days is fine: welts, stripes, bruises.”

The pudgy one headed for the St. Andrew’s cross on the right wall, picking up a single-tail on the way. The older man shoved Holly to her knees beside him as he examined the rack of canes.

Kim’s stomach tightened as she remembered her words earlier. “Maybe there’s a nice one out there.” There were no nice ones in this world. Oh Holly, I’m sorry, honey.

“And you, sir?” The Overseer turned to Master R. “I heard you enjoy dispensing a good beating.”

The hand gripping her neck flexed slightly. “I’ll use a flogger.”

Staring at the floor, Kim breathed out, trying to tell herself a flogger wasn’t as bad as other stuff. Like a whip. Or a cane. Unless he picked one of the nastier kinds. Her nerves were jumping with her need to yank away and run, but she wouldn’t even get out of the room. And then she’d pay and pay and pay. I can endure this. It’s only pain.

Somehow she could feel the buyer’s attention on her like a warm breeze. His thumb stroked the side of her neck. “Dahmer, you’ve got a pretty setup here.”

“Thank you,” the Overseer said, his voice with that slick, sharp edge to it. “Although pulling everything down and setting up in a new house becomes tedious.”

“I can imagine. How long have you been in this…line of work?”

“The Harvest Association hired me about seven years ago.” The Overseer’s laugh made Kim’s skin crawl. “The side benefits are great—like training the merchandise.”

“I daresay. Do you choose the women?”

“Our watchers select potential slaves according to what we’re looking for at the time.” The Overseer nodded to Holly. “That one was picked up for our annual ‘Blondes are more fun’ auction. In the Southeast quadrant, I select from the list and contract the appropriate people to make the pickups.”

“Quite a few layers in your group. That’s reassuring.”

Layers upon layers. Drown the bastards and let crabs eat their bodies. Kim bit her tongue until she tasted blood. Early on, the Overseer had explained how long the Association had been in business, and the impossibility of their families ever finding them. One despairing slave had tried to commit suicide that night, but the torn plastic cup couldn’t cut her skin deep enough.

“The safety and anonymity of the association and our buyers is our primary concern.” The Overseer stopped. Kim glanced up to see him gesture toward the floggers on the back wall. “I think you’ll find something there that fits your needs.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Long as you want.” The Overseer’s eyes met Kim’s. “According to her last owner, this piece of goods doesn’t break down quickly.”

Her skin went cold; her hands started to tremble. Lord Greville had never stopped until she’d broken, and then he’d…

Master R snorted and pulled her back against his body, his arm around her waist, one wide palm covering her breast. “Any ham-handed idiot can make a woman scream. I prefer to assess…responsiveness.” His powerful hand caressed her, his touch light. Not somehow repugnant, but still…touching her, as a reminder that her body was no longer her own. She tried to move, but the iron band of his arm held her easily in place.

The Overseer tipped his head. “It’s a pleasure to have an experienced dominant.”

As if he’d recognize experience if it bit him on the butt, Kim thought, but Master R was a dom. She could tell. As the Overseer left at a hail from the fat buyer, Master R turned her around. His face held no expression she could read, and a tremor ran through her. What was he planning to do?

Did she want to try to get him to buy her or not? He hadn’t been cruel—not in the way the other two buyers displayed. Her stomach sank when she saw Holly restrained on a bench, enduring the slash of the cane, whimpering with each blow.

On the St. Andrew’s cross, Linda was silent, but tears streamed down her face as the whip left red stripes on her breasts and stomach. The older woman had admitted she was a masochist—actually liked pain—but not like this. Never like this.

Kim didn’t want either of those sadists, yet this man was…observant. Too smart to get away from. She flinched as Holly’s buyer changed to a leather strap, the sound loud in the room. Should she chance the cruelty in hopes of escape? How badly would she be damaged before she could get free?

“You’re thinking too much, little slave. Keep your eyes only on me.”

Her attention jerked back to him at the soft command. His veil of remoteness had dropped away again. Folding his arms over his chest, he studied her, his dark gaze skimming over her face, her shoulders, her hands, her legs. Under the discomfort of the heavy silence, she shifted her weight as the flutters in her stomach increased. An experienced dominant. She saw the signs in his posture and in the way that sometimes she reacted to him as a dom—not a monster.

He’s a monster. Never forget that.

“What is your real name?” he asked softly.

My name. Part of me. Not answering this. His chin lifted and under his gaze, her defiance that had infuriated Lord Greville bent as inevitably as a palm tree in a tropical storm. “Kimberly. Sir.”

“Thank you.” When his face softened in approval, her muscles relaxed even though she knew—she knew—he was a slaver. And he—he wanted to use a flogger on her.

He grasped her shoulders and turned her so her back was to him. Why wasn’t he being rough with her? As he traced lines down her back, his fingers were warm, the calluses scraping lightly. “You’ve been whipped. Was it before or after your slavery?”

Her throat went tight. Slavery. Why did hearing the word send disbelief through her every time? This can’t be me. Can’t be happening. “After.” Lord Greville’s eyes, crazy mad, the pain, falling to her knees, blood everywhere.

He grunted. “Assholes.”

What? She forced herself to stillness.

“You are not going to escape this evening without some pain, chiquita.” Even as she stiffened, he pulled her back against him again, his body like a brick wall, his arm circling her waist. He fondled her breasts, his gentleness disconcerting. His breath teased the curls at her temple. “Did you enjoy being flogged before all this happened?”

That was a different life, no relation to the one now.

“Kimberly?”

She should never have told him her name—hearing it now, used in a master’s authoritative voice, shook something inside her. My name. I’m real. I’m still me, Kimberly Elizabeth Moore. She swallowed, remembered the question about BDSM clubs and play parties. Before. “I—yes.”

“Good girl.” His resonant voice relaxed her, even as she tried to keep herself defended. “And restraints? Do they bother you?”