They should meet Dahmer and see what real monsters look like.

Now what? He frowned at the little slave on his couch. At least she wasn’t really his, even if he was stuck with her longer than he wanted.

Pretty little slave, somehow both innocent and sensual in the pink sweat pants and tank top the Overseer had provided for her. She slept heavily. Her thick black lashes lay against her pale cheeks, her breathing slow. Even if he managed to wake her, she wouldn’t be capable of understanding any explanations.

He sighed. His body ached as if he’d been the one to be flogged, and he was exhausted in a way he’d never felt after doing a scene at the Shadowlands. He needed sleep, or he’d be incoherent when Buchanan or Kouros arrived, expecting a detailed report.

Sleep it was.

In the upstairs hallway with Kimberly in his arms, he started toward the guest room and then remembered the fury in her eyes. If she woke, she’d try to run, no doubt about it. As much as the thought disgusted him, she’d have to be secured against escape…but he never left a restrained sub unattended.

He turned and headed for his own room.

When he laid her down on his bed, her eyes popped open, and she hit at him.

He caught her small fist. “Shhh, Kimberly, no one is going to hurt you here.”

Even drugged as she was, the twist of her lips showed her disbelief, but she couldn’t maintain her anger. Her eyes slowly drooped, then closed.

He stroked her hair back from her face, wishing Gabi had been available to take her friend home. Kimberly shouldn’t have to live in fear a moment longer. What a mess.

No choice. He glanced at the ankle and wrist cuffs she still wore—freebies from the slavers—and ones she’d stay in for tonight. At least the master bedroom was already set up for bondage with chains on the heavy ironwork. He secured the lower bedpost chain to her right ankle cuff. No escape for you, little slave. Not tonight.

After setting the multitool from his boot sheath and the padlock key the Overseer had given him on the bedside table, he moved them out of Kimberly’s reach.

His shower didn’t wash away the sensation of filth, but it helped. He rummaged in the dresser for a pair of loose cotton pants and pulled them on. She didn’t wake as he rolled her over and checked her back. The attendants had put bandages over the places where he’d cut her skin and ointment on the welts. Everything looked clean. He’d seen—even done—much worse, but never to someone who wasn’t willing.

Unhappiness stewing in his chest, he slid under the covers. Propped up on an elbow, he studied her, a little shocked at how different she was from Rachel, the healthy, enthusiastic woman he’d had in his bed last week. Kimberly had dark circles under her eyes, yellowing bruises here and there, and hollowed cheeks that made him want to feed her. Pamper her. But he doubted she’d agree or say two words to him, even after she learned she was safe.

She’d only remember that he’d flogged her bloody. Guilt stabbed through him again.

Well, he’d done the best he could. He sighed. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a pleasant day. Special Agents Kouros and Buchanan would be furious. He was to have rejected all the slaves, essentially forcing the Overseer to invite him to the auction. Instead, he’d bought a slave.

One who had a wealth of anger simmering in her soul. One who undoubtedly hated the buyer who’d lashed her. He might wake to a fist in the face.

Better safe than sorry, he decided, and pulled her against his chest so he’d know if she moved. Her body was just the right size to fit within the curve of his, and when he slid his arm under her head for a pillow, her soft ass pressed on his groin. Ignoring the way he hardened, he kissed her silky hair and followed her into sleep.

* * * *

Pain woke Kim. Her back burned and throbbed. Her mouth tasted like putrid metal and was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Her head pounded, and even her eyelids felt lethargic. Obviously, she’d been drugged. Again. The Overseer did it every time they moved the slaves. Said it decreased the chances of anyone causing trouble.

Where am I ? Lying on her side, she squinted at the painfully bright morning sunlight streaming in through French doors. Wake up, brain. The sale last night. Kneeling in front of a man. Dancing. The dungeon. Pain.

She stiffened. A heavy weight rested on her waist—not covers, but a darkly tanned, very muscular arm. A man lay behind her, his legs tangled with hers. The Hispanic master had bought her. The one who’d flogged her so cruelly her entire back still hurt like heck. His hard chest pressed against her, making the pain almost worse than the roiling nausea from the drugs and what she knew would come next.

And she needed to pee.

She must have moved, for his slow breathing stopped. His arm tightened around her for a second, and then he sat up.

Before she could react, he rolled her onto her back.

She tried to move and felt the drag of a restraint on her right ankle. She closed her eyes. Welcome to your new owner. Time for a morning fuck. Her hands fisted as she froze, waiting for him to start pulling her clothing off.

Nothing happened.

After a minute, she opened her eyes. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, studying her, much as he’d watched her last night in the dungeon.

She swallowed. What does he want?

He sighed. “I’m not going to jump on you, Kimberly. We need to talk.”

“Talk about what? Master.” How he likes his blowjobs? How he—

“If I told you that I bought you to free you, would you believe me?”

She gave a mental snort. He was into mind-fucking like Lord Greville had been. “If Master wishes me to.”

His dark brown eyes were unexpectedly soft. “That’s what I thought. We’ll wait then.”

Wait for what? “Yes, Master.”

“Call me Raoul.”

Now that was strange. She’d never heard of a master welcoming such informality. And even if he did, she had no intention of calling him by his first name as if they were buddies or something. Never.

He undid the chain on her leg and helped her out of the bed. Her stomach twisted as she rose, her head spun, and she staggered sideways. His powerful hands closed around her waist, holding her up easily. Why did she have to get an owner who was so strong? How could she possibly escape him?

She would though. Probably not today—he’d be watching for an attempt.

And he did. Master R accompanied her into the bath. Dark wood, swirly tan marble, arched ceiling. Another rich bastard with the money to buy a slave. He pointed her to the walled-off toilet while he remained at the sink. She hid her scowl and studied the leaded glass window. She could fit. No problem.

She heard the water running, the sounds of him brushing his teeth, giving her the illusion of privacy at least. After peeing—major relief—she reluctantly joined him and washed her hands. Turning to hang up the hand towel, she winced when the movements pulled on her sore back.

“Carajo,” he said under his breath. “Put your hands on the counter and hold still, Kimberly.”

Yeah, here it comes. The fucking. From my friend, Raoul. Her insides curled up in a tight ball as she followed his order. He pulled her tank top all the way to her neck, and she closed her eyes. Why didn’t it ever get easier?

A pause. Then he sighed. “I’m not planning to rape you, chiquita. I need to tend to the damage I did.” He met her gaze in the mirror, his sympathy obvious. “This won’t feel good, but it will help you heal. As will time.”

When he touched her back, she flinched. God, it hurts.

His left hand tightened on her shoulder, keeping her in place as he tugged off the bandages, going far more slowly than she’d expected. Rather than scrubbing her roughly, he gently washed her back. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t flog you lightly and still be believable.” From a jar on the counter, he spread the ointment over her back.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

When he pushed her pants down, she stiffened, expecting—but he simply washed and lotioned, pinning her against the counter to prevent her involuntary attempts to evade him.

“All done.” He pulled her shirt down and her pants up.

She couldn’t move as the pain filled her vision with red streaks.

When she raised her head, he rubbed his finger on her wet cheek. “Pobrecita,” he murmured and added at her confused expression, “Poor little one.” After handing her a washcloth, he stepped out of the bathroom.

As she washed the tears from her face, as the pain died, she had to wonder: Why is he being so nice to me? The only answers she found were…ugly. She checked the window again. Too high to squirm through fast and… She glanced over her right shoulder at where he stood in the bedroom and met his knowing eyes.

He shook his head at her. “Come. Let’s have breakfast before people arrive.”

Everything inside her shriveled. Other men. He wanted to show off his new slave. Maybe share.

Before they reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock and grumbled, “No breakfast for either of us.” He headed for the front door, his hand securely around her arm. “Prepare yourself, Kimberly. You’re in for a pleasant surprise.”

Pleasant. Get real. She managed to keep the sneer from her face but heard his amused snort.

Her owner opened the door. And let go of her, stepping back.