“I didn’t think he’d change sides so quickly,” Raoul said.

“If he doesn’t end up completely blinded, he’d have such poor vision that”—Kouros had a grim smile—“he’d make an excellent fucktoy for some big joe in prison. He didn’t like the idea.”

“I rather do.” Marcus’s eyes were cold. “Gabi still has nightmares from being kidnapped.”

“And Jessica,” Z said.

“Yes,” Kouros said heavily. “But on the bright side, the Harvest Association has lost this quadrant. And with the personnel and the buyers, we’ve got enough information to dig out the ringleaders.”

“And the kidnapped women?” Z asked.

“Can go home,” Kouros said. “The Association is going to be too busy looking for caves to indulge in any reprisals.”

Kimberly could return to her family. “That—that is good.” She’d leave. He felt as if someone was ripping out his stitches one by one.

Women’s laughter came from the hall, warming the sterility of the room. Gabi and Jessica walked in, followed by Kimberly.

Alive. On her feet. The knot of worry in his chest loosened; the ache of loss didn’t.

She limped to the bed and smiled down at him. “You look horrible—and so much better than I thought you would.”

She had a bruised face, split lip. Her leg had been hurt somehow. Her body moved…stiffly, as if to guard from pain. She had lines of strain around her eyes and mouth, but she could smile. Such an indomitable spirit.

He opened his palm, giving her the choice, and the world turned brighter when her small hand slid into his. “What did the doctor say, gatita?”

“You have a thousand or so stitches in your—”

He narrowed his eyes. “About you.” Thinking more clearly, he turned to Jessica, defender of the subbies. “What did her doctor say?”

Ignoring Kimberly’s glare, Jessica glanced at Z, received a quick smile and nod, and reported, “Aside from the damage to her face, she’s got an ugly bruise over her ribs—but nothing broken—and a twisted ankle. Nothing broken there either. A concussion, and they want her to spend the night.” Jessica grinned at her friend. “She got out of the wheelchair just outside this room, ’cause you might worry. ’Bout as stubborn as you are.”

As Jessica finished, Raoul used Kimberly’s arm as a leash to pull her down. He needed her lips, her fragrance, her gentleness, and he savored them all as her soft mouth moved over his. They would have to talk soon but…not yet.

* * * *

Right after Z and Jessica left, a nurse showed up for Kim—and Master R ordered her to be an obedient patient. The obstinate blowfish. God, she didn’t want to leave him.

The hospital staff and FBI had talked about splitting the rescued women into different hospitals and rooms, but Gabi’d taken charge, and they discovered the women preferred to stay together, at least for now. Kim understood completely. Safety in numbers, others who comprehended what had happened, friendships formed in suffering. Until their families arrived, each other was all these women had.

In the big room filled with ex-slaves, the nurse tucked Kim into a bed next to Linda, took her vital signs, and increased her headache by shining a light in her eyes.

But she was a nice nurse and showed up a few minutes later with pain medication in repayment for the flashlight torture. For a while, Kim talked with Linda, sharing tears and comfort over Holly’s death, and relief that the slavery nightmare was over.

Linda told Kim not to be mad at Sam for whipping her, that he’d had no choice. He’d given her a safe word, and she’d agreed. But…then she wouldn’t talk about it anymore. Something was wrong.

Linda’s eyes were drooping, and she drifted off before Kim could think of a tactful question.

All around the room, women were sleeping, crying quietly, and talking to the counselors who’d arrived with Gabi. Thanks to the Overseer’s care of the “merchandise,” most weren’t hurt badly—at least not physically. And they’d be able to go home.

As Kim looked around, her anxiety kept increasing. The shaking had started deep inside while she talked with Linda, slowly expanding. Her hands were quivering like a palm in high winds. Dammit, everyone else can get to sleep. Why not me?

Maybe I should have talked to someone. She hadn’t told Linda about Lord Greville or about the fight. She’d fended Gabi off too, saying she wasn’t ready to discuss anything yet. There would be time later since as an FBI victim specialist, Gabi would be here every day until the kidnapped women went home.

Kim wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling hollow. Empty. After this was over, would there be anything left of her? I need to move, to do something. She slid out of the bed, her hospital gown flapping, but at least the ER nurses had given her matching pajama bottoms. She wouldn’t forget their little kindnesses.

Only slightly dizzy, she walked the halls, holding the railing along the walls. The scents varied as she moved past the doors: disinfectant, sickness, excrement. Her muscles tired; her feet started to drag. Go back to bed, she told herself.

But the numbers were familiar, and then she knew. She’d thought she was wandering at random, but…somehow she ended up at Master R’s room.

As she peeked in, her heart did a slow tumble. Not everything inside her was hollow.

He was still awake, scowling at a small dish on the tray table. A middle-of-the-night snack?

“Do you need help eating?” she asked, walking over.

“What kind of a meal is Jell-O? And it’s green. Food shouldn’t be green.” He frowned at her, his eyes turning intent, although his voice stayed easy. “A beer would be more welcome. Come here, gatita.” He held his hand out.

She put her fingers in his, feeling the calluses, the careful strength. But seeing him didn’t help. Nothing would help her, she realized, and tried to pull back. “You need sleep.”

“And you should be in your bed as well.” He smiled at her. “Put the side rail down and sit beside me.”

“No. It’ll hurt you.”

“Now, sumisita.”

God, when he used that tone, sometimes—rarely—she could disobey him. Not today.

As she slid the rail down, he lowered the head of the bed, then took her forearm and pulled her to sit on the edge. She knew moving and being jostled must hurt him, but nothing showed on his face.

“All right, I’m here. Are you happy?” Sitting stiffly upright, she scowled at him.

“Not yet. Galen said you told him what had happened. Did you tell him how you felt as well?”

She tried to rise, and his grip tightened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you will.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “As will I, and then we’ll hold each other.”

“No.”

His chin tilted up slightly, and she discovered she’d used up all the defiance in her soul. Her gaze dropped.

“Bueno. I’ll begin. When you said the person in the room was Greville, I was angry. And scared that we’d been set up.”

He’d never shown any of that. She looked up. “Really?”

“I was very afraid, Kimberly.” His fingers curled around her hand, and his thumb stroked circles on the back. “And you? You didn’t seem angry,” he prompted after a second of silence.

“I-I was so”—her eyes filled as the memory swamped her—“so scared. I knew I’d die.”

His eyes narrowed. “You thought I’d leave you?”

The trembling spread until she could feel the whole bed shake. “I knew he’d make you go. He wouldn’t give you a choice, and…” And she’d be alone and screaming as she died.

He sighed and pulled her down onto him. She struggled. “No, I’ll hurt you.” He huffed a pained laugh. “If you fight me, yes. I feel stitches popping already.” She froze, staring at the white gauze dressings on his bare chest.

“Lie beside me, gatita.” As she complied, he gave a grunt of satisfaction, settling her with her head in the hollow of his unhurt shoulder. Warmth streamed from him like sunlight, and her coldness receded. Her sigh shuddered her whole body.

“Good.” His big hand stroked her hair; his other arm curled around her back, holding her securely against him. “Gatita, don’t you realize I need you in my arms as much as you need to be here.”

She closed her eyes at the reassurance. “Thank you.”

His low baritone laugh was as intimate as being held. “Now we must talk about what happened so our memories process correctly, no?” He’d had a fascination for her counseling sessions, studying PTSD as if he were a researcher. “My turn. I knew it was all going to hell. I wanted you to run—but you came back. I’ve never been so scared.” He inhaled and growled. “I am very proud of you, sumisita mía, but I intend to beat you for disobeying me.”

She giggled into his shoulder, knowing he’d do no such thing. “I’m very proud of you too, but I should smack you for not letting me fight beside you.”

He grunted. “You did well with the Overseer and the guards. And Greville.”