Master Z covered her mouth. A second later, he jerked his hand away, and his expression turned to granite. He moved, and Jessica landed hard on her knees. Fisting her hair, he ruthlessly trapped her head against his thigh. Oh boy. She’d actually bit Master Z? God, was she in trouble.

Master Z didn’t look down. Face still frighteningly cold, he spoke to the jerk of a dom. The man took a step back.

“Appears the situation is under control,” the Overseer said. When he glanced at Kim, she closed her eyes, burying her face back against Master R’s neck and tuning everything out except the feeling of strength surrounding her. Breath goes in. Breath goes out.

“It’s been an interesting visit,” the Overseer said. “Especially seeing your slave so obedient. Really, Raoul, you’d net a handsome profit if you sold her back to me.”

Master R laughed lightly. “Not worth the work it would take to start over again.”

A pause, as if Dahmer wanted to keep trying; then he said, “Training is a bitch, isn’t it? I’ve been doing some recently, since I still have one of the slaves you met. The redhead didn’t get bought. Older slaves don’t sell well, so I can only hope training will make her more enticing.”

Linda—going to auction? Oh God. But maybe that was good. When the FBI took them down, she’d be rescued.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Master R said. “I take it the young one got sold?”

“More’s the pity.”

Holly. He’s talking about sweet, hopeful Holly. Kim tried to sit up, and the arms around her contracted until she had trouble breathing.

“Oh?” Master R asked politely. “What happened to her?”

“Far as I can tell, the idiot owner got carried away with seeing blood. He beat her to death.” The Overseer gave an exasperated sigh. “We made a profit, of course, but—”

“Yes, that’s a waste.” Master R sounded as if he didn’t care at all, and Kim hated him. Tears spilled from under her eyelids. How could he be so cold?

She slowly realized his muscles under and around her were rigid. He was holding himself in check, holding her there as well. His anger was almost palpable.

“Until the auction then,” the Overseer said. “I’ll have an area set up to your specifications.” A thump sounded as he set his drink down. “I’ll call you a day or so before to give you the specific date and time. I look forward to seeing how impressed the buyers are with your scene.”

Silence. She tried to hear if he’d moved away, but the room was too noisy. So she kept herself stiff and quiet. Waiting.

A minute later, Master R let loose, cursing long and low in a stream of Spanish.

She’d never heard him sound like that or seen him so furious.

When she moved, he stopped, and the fury faded from his face. “Gatita, I’m sorry about your friend.” He wiped away the tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

The loosening of his grip released the sobs that had piled up inside her like a thunderstorm. Oh God, Holly. Please God, not Holly. She was too young. She’d told stories about the antics in her dorm at college. About her mother who lived in Alaska. She’d been so homesick and scared; she’d cried herself to sleep every night. How could she be dead?

Kim tried to curse like Master R but could only cry. She wanted to leave, to hide somewhere quiet, and he wouldn’t let her go. Anger rose, engulfing her. He hadn’t saved Holly; he was a man. I hate you. Her fists stung as she hit him, harder and harder. She choked on the names she called him. As he muffled her screams against his leather vest, she cried some more.

“What the hell happened?” A man’s voice.

Kim tried to stop crying, to shut up, and couldn’t.

Master R didn’t tell her to be quiet, simply kept holding her. “The bastard told us a slave was whipped to death. The women were friends.”

Kim shook, inside and outside. She knew how a whip felt, the tearing of skin, the slicing agony. How scared Holly must have been, pain and more pain. Better it had been me.

“Hell.” The man paused. “You want to get her out of here?”

“No. I can’t drive and hold her. She needs to be held right now.”

Kim’s crying slowed to hiccups, and she leaned against him, exhausted.

“Be careful, buddy. You look too concerned about a slave, and everyone nearby heard you swearing.” His voice lowered. “Don’t forget we still don’t know who selected our subs for the Harvest Association. He might not be here tonight, but…”

“A good reminder,” Master R said softly. “Thank you, my friend. I did forget.”

Kim pulled a shuddering breath into her lungs and sat up.

The giant dom bartender was frowning down at them, heavy brows drawn together. He tossed Master’s toy bag and her clothing onto a chair, then met her gaze. “Back with us, love? Good. Keep your master from letting his temper loose.”

His conviction that she had that power was like a stepping stone away from her sorrow. She needed to stay in her slave character, and she had to look after her dom. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. As she wiped her eyes, she plainly saw Master R’s rage.

The big dom was right. Master R wasn’t keeping his face under control.

“Master,” she said softly. “We should leave. Will you put my leash on and lead…so I can follow?”

He looked down. His fingers were infinitely gentle as he touched her cheek. “Tesoro mío,” he said under his breath. “Yes, let us go home.”

* * * *

“Did you get my goods back?” Christopher Greville spoke politely into his cell phone. It might be late to call, but he couldn’t rest without knowing if Dahmer had succeeded.

Over the past day, he’d come to realize that he was pleased the cunt was still alive. This way, he could deal with her himself—could give her a very slow, excruciatingly painful death.

“No, the owner isn’t interested in selling.” Dahmer sounded irritated. “I thought he’d jump at making a profit.”

A whip of rage struck. Greville’s pulse throbbed painfully in his temple. Who was this fucking buyer? “In that case, just pick my merchandise up.” Kidnap the bitch. “You’re an expert at that kind of business.”

“I will. But only if I can succeed without causing any…upset.”

“I don’t give a damn about—”

“Management reacts poorly to bad publicity.”

Greville hesitated. Last month, when a naive buyer fell in love with his slave and tried to inform on the association, the Harvest Association’s reaction had been…extreme. Removing them would have been adequate. A bullet. Simple enough. But no. Instead, the buyer and slave had been spread-eagled and restrained on the bed, one on top of the other; then the house was set on fire. Before the fire trucks arrived, the entire neighborhood heard them shrieking as they burned to death.

A bad way to go. He’d thought it funny at the time, but Dahmer’s warning was…perhaps…valid. “Do what you can.”

“I will. If I can’t pick the goods up neatly, I do have another possibility to fall back on, if needed. Be patient, please.”

Patient! Greville stabbed the Off button as fury seared his nerves. The need to hurt something was so strong he tasted it, but he forced himself to stay at his desk. If he started whipping the slave downstairs, he’d not stop until she was dead.

Since he was a premium buyer, the Harvest Association didn’t enforce the delay when he killed a slave, but losing two within a short period wouldn’t be wise.

He waited until his rage had died slightly. Enough, perhaps. Then he rose and headed to the basement. He needed to hurt her, to hear her screams rise to desperation, shriller and shriller.

* * * *

His gatita was exhausted. After carrying her into the house, Raoul tucked her into bed and then changed into regular clothes.

Looking down at the silky black hair surrounding her pale face, he felt the heavy foundations of…something settle slowly into place. He cared for her. Too much. With his history—with hers—this affection could only be a mistake, as foolish as building a bridge without considering the wind. He needed to back away while he still could.

Her eyes opened. She stared at his bedroom, her relief to be home obvious. Hearing about Holly had been too much, like stretching copper wire past the fracture point.

“How do you feel?” he asked, wanting to touch her. Comfort her. Yet hadn’t he just told himself to pull away? Stupid Sandoval. She’d slipped past his defenses so easily.

“Okay.” Her chin rose. “I’m fine.”

As she attempted to appear strong, to lie to him with her body and her words, irritation scraped his already raw nerves. “Do you ever tell me the truth when you’re not feeling well?”

“I—” Her brows drew together even as her arms wrapped around her waist, comforting herself as if she didn’t believe he could do a good job. “I think I know myself.”

“Why do you not trust me enough to be honest?” He set his jaw, knowing—knowing neither of them was thinking clearly—yet after what they’d shared, having her lie to him was like a stab in the back.