Kim grinned. “And you didn’t believe me.”

Linda laughed and looked around. The place was certainly different from the one she’d gone to before. True, her single visit to a BDSM club hardly made her an authority, but she’d spent hours there before doing anything. This place was more expensive. The equipment was padded with leather, the burnished hardwood floors reflected the flickering of the wrought-iron sconces. The general populace was older and quieter, although—she enjoyed the spectacle of a woman in a full catsuit followed by a naked submissive—the costumes were just as outrageous.

“Do you want to wander around or settle somewhere?” Kim glanced over Linda’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. “Uh, let’s just go to the bar.”

Linda turned. The nearest scene was a man on a St. Andrew’s cross with a Mistress putting clamps on his nipples. The spiderweb next to it held a restrained submissive struggling to evade the flick of a crop. Then a spanking scene. Then several people watching a Dom with a flogger.

When the Dom turned slightly, Linda’s lungs felt as if they were being pinched in wickedly tight clamps. Sam. Sam was here. She’d forgotten the dangerous vibe he gave off in dominant mode. Almost half a foot taller than her five-seven, he wore black jeans, black boots, a black belt, and a black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His silvery hair didn’t make him look old—just really, really experienced.

He was using a full-sized, heavy flogger with brown leather strands. No fancy colors for him. The woman on the cross was in tears, her back reddened. As Sam flogged the blonde with a smooth rhythm, Linda wanted to hate him for inflicting such pain.

Yet, as the woman went up on tiptoes, she pushed her bottom back to get more. Her face gleamed with sweat and tears, but her half-agonized, half-blissful expression was that of a masochist getting what she wanted.

I want it too. Linda felt like a shaken soda with the cap screwed on too tightly to let out the increasing pressure. Pain might give her a way to open up and spew everything out. I need that.

Not with Sam though. No no no. And yet… She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself over her silky shirt. Watching him with a woman made her feel odd. Wanting and angry and unsettled. After a minute, she forced herself to turn away. Thank heavens she’d worn a mask.

Raoul was watching her, his dark eyes narrowed. “Shall I find you a Dom to play with?”

How had Kim found someone so sweetly protective? But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—have another person make those choices for her again. “Thank you, but I’d rather choose my own if I decide to…do anything.”

And she’d be very careful. She’d pick a sadist, but not one who was also a Dominant. During her night at the club, the Dom she’d spoken to had told her she was submissive as well as a masochist. As if one perversion wasn’t enough, I’ve got two.

But it had been Sam who had showed her how a powerful Dom could push her limits—could go past her limits. At the auction, she could have handled being whipped, but he’d done…more. Damn him.

“As you wish. Then let us have something to drink while you decide.” After pulling Kim to his side, Raoul guided them to the bar.

Linda glanced longingly at the bottles of tequila, scotch, and rum.

Raoul shook his head. “You may have water or a soda.” He turned to Kim and settled her on a bar stool, kissing her hair lightly.

But I want a drink. Linda sighed but had to admit he was right. Alcohol, in this place, might do as much harm as good. She needed to stay on top of things. In control.

The bartender’s assistant came over to get their orders. As Kim talked with her, Linda looked over her shoulder at Sam. Again.

He’d finished the scene. The blonde with spiky hair who might have looked tough at one time was trying to bury herself in his chest. When he rubbed her undoubtedly tender back and she cried harder, he grinned. Definitely a sadist. But a caring one. And strong. She remembered the steel-like feeling of his arms. He might be in his fifties, but he was all bone and muscle.

A shiver ran up Linda’s spine. Don’t look.

Turning away, she let herself sink into the sounds of the place. The slap of paddles and floggers and canes. Moaning and groaning. A shriek. Low conversation. A half-heard man’s laugh—the sound familiar and horrible—sent memories oozing through her. Caged on a boat. Men talking about—

She shook herself loose, feeling cold sweat trickle down her back. I’m free. At the Shadowlands. And as she listened, she realized the noise was different from the slave auctions. The sobbing was that of a release; the shriek had excitement accompanying the pain. There were none of the hopeless cries, the pleading, and the screams of pain that wouldn’t end. She shuddered.

“Linda. Look at me.” Raoul’s gaze was watchful. Measuring.

“I’m okay.” And she wasn’t lying. His voice, his steady eyes had settled her. She gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you.” Her deep breath calmed her further as she carefully cataloged more differences. She’d thought the downtown BDSM club smelled of leather, sex, pain, and fear. Now she knew fear stank of piss and blood and sour sweat. Nothing like here.

The Shadowlands held laughter, and not only from the male Doms. There were women laughing. To one side, some submissives giggled as one negotiated with a Dom. Linda took a quick survey of the room before turning to Kim. “The percentage of Doms to submissives seems pretty even.”

The bartender’s submissive grinned at her. “Good eye. I’m Andrea, by the way.” She glanced around the room and answered Linda’s unspoken questions. “Master Z keeps the membership balanced, no matter how long the waiting list gets. It’s nice. I’ve visited clubs where I felt like a sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.”

“That’s it,” Linda agreed. “There’s no sense of being stalked.” In fact, the unattached subs were having a good time with each other. More weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d be safe here, if… Could she really do this? Let a sadist hurt her? Her fears and needs seemed to twine together, creating a macramé of self-loathing. Why couldn’t she be normal?

Her gaze fell on a man by a St. Andrew’s cross. Tall. Thin. He was packing up his toy bag after using a cane on a younger woman who’d quickly wimped out. But he hadn’t tried to dominate the woman. As he picked up his bag, he met Linda’s gaze and nodded politely.

She continued to stare at him, and he tilted his head, reassessing her.

Raoul’s hand covered hers. “Are you sure, chiquita? Edward is a sadist but not a Dominant. Sam might be—”

“Not Sam.” When his eyebrows rose, she winced at her bluntness. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize for being honest.” His gaze stayed on her face. “Continue.”

“Just…I don’t want a Dom. Or Sam.”

His jaw tightened. “Did Sam do something that—”

“No. No, it’s nothing. I just like making my own choices.” To escape more questions, she kissed his cheek in a hasty apology, then went to meet the sadist halfway.


AS SAM CLEANED the equipment and kept an eye on Dara, he half listened to the sounds from the adjacent scene. Holt was using a cane on a submissive, pushing her boundaries and heightening her arousal. From the noise the brunette was making, the Dom was doing an excellent job.

After putting the cleaning supplies in the stand, Sam went down on one knee beside Dara. With a blanket around her shoulders, the Goth trainee had eaten her chocolate bites and was sipping the sports drink he’d given her.

“How you doing?” Sam asked, running his knuckles over her cheek.

“I’m good.” Her eyes were clear, skin warm, speech coherent. He’d learned Dara didn’t want much aftercare, didn’t want to be held. She liked moving around and enjoying the buzz. She grinned at him. “That was really fun, Master Sam. Thank you.”

“All right then.” He stood and helped her to her feet. After giving him a quick hug, she trotted off toward the restrooms—undoubtedly to admire the stripes he’d put on her thighs and ass.

Feeling a tad deprived, he headed to the bar. What was the world coming to when a Dom enjoyed aftercare more than the submissive?

“Hey, Davies.”

Sam looked around.

Special Agent Vance Buchanan and his partner, Galen Kouros, were sitting at the bar.

Sam leaned an elbow on the bar and greeted the linebacker-sized agent, “Buchanan,” then nodded at the lean, dark one. “Kouros.” They were both in jeans and white button-up shirts. “Here on Fed business?”

“Not this time,” Kouros said. “Our transfer to Tampa came through, so we’re talking to Z about membership here.”

“You’ll be welcome.” Sam had seen them play a time or two. Although it wasn’t common for two Doms to link up permanently, they’d made topping together into an art. And Kouros had some serious skill with mind-fucking games. “Is the Harvest Association belly-up?” Although the Feds had netted the bastards who’d kidnapped Linda and Kim, the slave-trafficking association’s reach extended across the entire United States.

“Not quite. The northeast is still going strong.” Buchanan scowled. “We think that area has some highly placed contacts.”

“Bad news.”

“A bad crime.” Over the past months, the lines in Kouros’s face had deepened.

The Harvest Association dealt in human trafficking with a twist. They kidnapped intelligent middle- and upper-class submissives, ones already in the lifestyle, and sold them to wealthy buyers who wanted trained slaves or—even worse—toys to be broken. Linda and Kim had been slaves. Other Shadowlands submissives had been targeted. Like Z’s Jessica and a mouthy trainee named Sally.

Sally was cute as a button. He spotted her, hands on hips, apparently giving a newer Dom a lesson in something. Sam chuckled. Although he preferred to scene with masochists, he’d topped the little brunette a few times. She took a bit of work, but then she would surrender beautifully.

All of the Shadowlands Masters worked with the trainees, filling their needs, instructing and evaluating. The goal was to get them matched with suitable Doms, but Sally was too damn smart and independent for her own good. She needed a powerful Dom, and so far Z hadn’t found one who would meet her needs.

Buchanan’s gaze followed Sam’s, and the FBI agent nudged his partner, pointing out the trainee. The girl loved role-play games and today had dressed as a biker chick…probably hoping for someone to take on the cop role. “Want to give her a treat?” Buchanan asked.

Kouros smiled slowly before shaking his head. “Members have more privileges than guests,” he reminded Buchanan. “We’ll wait.”

“Yo.” Wearing his brown “I’m a Dom and don’t need black to prove it” leathers, Cullen looked up from drawing a beer for someone. “You agents plotting something?”

“Not tonight,” Buchanan said.

After giving the Feds’ glasses a bartender’s assessment, Cullen grinned at Sam. “’Bout time you graced us with your presence, buddy. What can I get you?”

Sam considered. Did he want something? Was he finished for the night? His arm was tired; his need to make a woman cry was satisfied. He didn’t want to do a more intense scene—hadn’t wanted to in months. Damn the redhead. “How about a beer?”

“How about not?” Cullen leaned a big arm on the bar top. “Raoul’s here with Kim and a friend of hers. An older redhead. Would she be the Linda I’ve heard rumors about?”

His Linda? Sam straightened. “Where?”

“She’s doing a scene with Edward.” Cullen jerked his chin toward the right.

Sam spotted her easily. Dark red hair. White skin. Despite her mask, she was easily recognizable—at least to a Dom who’d run his hands all over her beautifully curved body. What the hell was she doing? A hard-core sadist, Edward had a good technique with a single-tail, but… “He’s no Dom, and she’s submissive.”

“Yeah? She told Raoul she didn’t want a Dom—or you.”

The words sliced through his flesh like a fillet knife. “Then why the hell did you point her out?”

“All her fire at just hearing your name? You got unresolved business there, buddy.”

Not any revelation, at least on Sam’s side. But she wasn’t going to let him close enough to do anything about it.

Cullen was laughing.

“What’s so goddamned funny?”

“Check out the scene.” Cullen nodded to the cross. “That’s one frustrated subbie.”