Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

Her jaw firmed. She’d teach that man to talk to her instead of shutting himself away.

She started to stand, then sat down slowly. Before she could begin the battle to win Sam, she had another issue to deal with. And she was in a pissy enough mood to want to kick some butt. Time for a quick change and then a drive.

* * *

Half an hour later, after a call to Gabi’s Master Marcus, she parked in front of the small brick newspaper building. Crossing the parking lot, she realized she was singing “Eye of the Tiger” under her breath. Yeah, just you wait. I’m on my way. The air coming off the Gulf was sharp and salty, like a brisk slap in the face.

She tugged her suit jacket straight. One severely cut black suit, one dark, dark red—aggressive—silk shirt. No cleavage. Hair pulled back. Gold stud earrings and watch.

The look obviously worked, since when she strode into the building, the receptionist took her right into the owner/editor’s office. Curtis Bentley rose as she entered and shook her hand.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Madison? Are you here about the secretarial opening?”

“No.” As they both sat, she gave him a small smile. “I’m not sure if you recognize my name. My house has been spray-painted several times with foul language. Your paper has run at least three articles about the problem. More articles about my history. Quite sensational articles.”

His eyes widened, and he straightened. “Ah, I’m sure the facts were correctly reported.”

“Oh, the facts were correct. However, the sexual innuendoes could be construed as libelous, especially since I’d broken off dating the reporter and he resented the fact.”

Mr. Bentley’s back got straighter. “I’m sure that wasn’t rele—”

“I believe the law frowns upon a newspaper that commits a crime in order to increase sales.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Of course not. Dwayne had been the one who checked the police blotter for arrests. Probably no one had since. “Your reporter, Dwayne Cowper, has been spray-painting my home with words like ‘Filthy slut, Burn in hell.’ Both for revenge and for a good story.”

Mr. Bentley rose. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

She rose as well. “Believe it. He was caught in the act. And told us his motivation. ‘Us’ includes the police.” She fixed the man with a cold, cold look. “I’m afraid a jury would find it appalling that a victim of a crime is victimized by a newspaper trying to increase sales.”

“Now wait. I had no idea the man—”

“Perhaps. My lawyer will be happy to discuss both criminal and civil charges with you, I’m sure.” She marched out of the office, imagining Dwayne’s career squishing to mush with each click of her heel.

If only her battle for Sam could be won as easily.

The night was dark and cold as Sam strode past the few cars in the parking lot toward the Shadowlands. The black wrought-iron sconces on the stone mansion walls gave off an ominous, flickering light that matched his grim mood.

For the last few days, all he could think about was the hurt in Linda’s eyes. Dammit, he wanted her back, but how could he put her through this kind of crap again? Any reminders of Nancy—let alone visits—had an adverse effect on his mood, but he sure as hell hadn’t realized how that mood could affect others.

And every time he thought about trying to explain, his throat turned dry as Death Valley.

He couldn’t tell her. Wasn’t good for her. Best to leave things the way they were or he’d end up hurting her over and over.

Being in the Shadowlands wasn’t going to be easy. He scowled. Damn Z for calling at the last minute to tell Sam that he needed to supervise the trainees tonight.

They’d probably already be lining up.

* * *

Linda knelt in the cold entryway in the line of trainees. The subs knew why she was here, and she could feel their silent support.

Sally leaned her shoulder against Linda’s and whispered, “I changed my mind. This is totally not a good idea. What if the watcher guy figures out you’re trying to ID him?”

Wow, way to bring her worst fear right out into the open. “Guess I better not jump up and yell, ‘Here he is! It’s the bad guy.’”

Sally sputtered, then said, “We’ll all be here for you. But don’t you go anywhere isolated.”

In the clubroom? Fat chance. “You’re quite the mother hen, aren’t you?”

“Jessica’s not here, so I figure it’s my job.”

I always thought that was my job. It was nice to be worried about. “Thank you. So what happens now with the trainees?”

“Master Cullen inspects us and gives us our assignments. Half of us are barmaids, and the other half are free to play. Then we switch off.” She lowered her voice. “As long as you’re polite, Master Cullen isn’t too fussy. Not like some of the others who care about what we wear too.”

“What—”

Sam walked into the entry.

The air clogged in Linda’s throat. She hadn’t seen him since he’d handed Dwayne over to the police. Since he’d said she’d be better off without him.

I want him to be here. Remember? But her resolve drained away, right into the wood floor. Not wanting him to see her nervousness, she dropped her gaze, but the glimpse of him was burned into her brain.

He always looked bigger in his Shadowlands gear. Rather than a vest, he wore a black suede shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his darkly tanned, powerful arms. His black leather pants fit like skin over his muscular thighs.

His boots stopped in front of the line. “I’m the trainer tonight,” he said. His sandpapery voice sent a zing of need down her spine. Darn the man.

“As soon as I—goddammit.”

One quick glance told her exactly whose presence had drawn that growl out of him. Apparently Master Z hadn’t mentioned that she’d joined the trainees.

That darn owner. He could have warned her that Sam would be supervising tonight. Anxiety made quivers in her chest as she stared at the floor. He’d be her trainer. She gripped her thighs to hide the trembling of her fingers.

After an interminable time, he walked around the trainees. He stopped in front of one. “Dara, did Ben approve your boots?”

Linda looked up through her eyelashes. She knew the big security guard decided if a submissive’s footwear was seductive enough. Otherwise the sub had to go barefoot.

“No.” Dara’s voice was resentful. Understandable, since her red and black boots were perfect for her Goth outfit of a shredded red T-shirt, a tiny red vinyl skirt, a studded black belt, black jewelry, and thick black eyeliner. “I just… I need the boots for this look.”

Linda glanced at Ben. The guard’s battered face held only worry.

“Is that your choice to make, girl?” Sam didn’t look angry, just stern. Why did that expression always make her limbs go weak?

Tough Dara actually bowed her head. “No, Sir.” When the trainee had been dressing, Linda had seen she was a female whose happiness depended on wearing the perfect outfit with the right accessories. Was Sam going to ruin her night?

Sam studied her for a minute. “After you apologize to Ben, you have a choice. Take the boots off or take ten from his belt and wear the boots.”

Linda looked down, trying not to grin. For one of the others trainees, Sam’s offer might have been a make-or-break deal. But Dara liked a fair amount of pain.

“The belt, please, Sir.”

Sam nodded toward Ben. Dara scrambled to the guard and knelt. Poor Ben. He looked torn between laughter and embarrassment. The guy was good to everyone, especially the submissives, but he wasn’t into kink at all.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Dara said with obvious remorse.

“It’s all right, Dara.” He glanced at Sam. “An apology’s good enough for me.”

Dara started to rise.

“Not good enough for me,” Sam growled. “Stay there, girl, pull up your skirt, and present your ass. Ben, give me your belt.”

Both of them looked shocked. Then Ben yanked his belt from his jeans, handed it to Sam, and pushed his chair away. Dara assumed the position.

A couple of Doms stopped at the desk, waiting for Ben to check them off the attendance list…and to enjoy the show.

Without speaking, Sam doubled over the belt and struck. No wrist action, just a flat slap of the leather against Dara’s bottom without any warm-up.

Dara flinched, and her hands clenched as Sam continued. Slap, slap, slap. Linda counted silently. At nine, Dara squeaked. At an even ten, Sam straightened. “Up.”

Dara knelt up, tears in her eyes.

“Do you like getting punished in the entry?” Sam asked.

Dara shook her head.

“You figure Ben enjoyed watching you being hurt?”

Linda’s jaw dropped. Everyone’s attention turned to the guard.

Ben’s face was pale, his jaw tight.

Dara looked horrified. “I’m sorry, Ben.” Her voice shook.

Before Ben could speak, Sam said, “You’re serving drinks first shift, Dara, in the dungeon. You got off easy, girl, because the boots are cute.” His lips quirked before he gave her a flat stare. “Don’t push your luck a second time.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the door, and she fled.

Taking a baby wipe from the basket on Ben’s desk, Sam cleaned off the man’s belt and handed it back. He gave the younger man the same harsh stare. “The trainees are here to hook up with a Dom, Ben. You do them no favors if you let them get away with crap.”

Ben nodded.

Linda realized her hands were wrapped around her waist. The way Sam had punished Dara was frightening; nonetheless…I want that. Wanted it and didn’t. Her stomach felt fluttery, her chest tight. The punishment had been too similar to that of the slavers yet…different. Sam had given Dara a choice, taking into account not only what she owed to Ben, but also her need to wear her cute boots.

His dry sense of humor popped up at the oddest times.

Sam checked over the others, assigned them, and dismissed them, until only Linda was left. Lovely.

He motioned with his fingers for her to stand. She rose, keeping her gaze on the floor.

When he lifted her chin, his calloused hand was warm and familiar, as if the feel of him was lodged in her soul. “I don’t want you to do this, Linda.”

She saw the crease between his brows, the tenseness in his face. Oh, he cared, the stubborn, closed-off cretin. “Nobody tells me what I can do. Not now.”

After studying her for a long moment, he repeated, “Not now?”

He really didn’t understand. “When I was younger, if I’d known about any of this, I might have wanted a full-time D/s relationship—maybe—but that changed when I was kidnapped.” His hand smelled of soap with the faintest trace of horses. She wanted to kiss his palm. She forced herself to stand still.

His face had grown cold and remote, the moment of concern gone as if it had never happened, and the loss hurt her.

Her words spilled out. “You look at me now like they did—like I’m not human. God, they probably showed more feeling to their dogs.”

Sam stiffened as if she’d struck him. His hand dropped.

Oh, she hadn’t meant to say that. To attack him. “I’m sorry. That’s how I feel, but that wasn’t what I meant to say.”

“Try again, then,” he said evenly.

She swallowed and chose her words carefully. “You and I talked about this before. It’s about taking orders. The slavers dictated everything—shower, grooming, food, even bathroom times. Knowing we were…programmed…to obey scares me.” She pulled in a breath and met his gaze. “I like being submissive. But I need to choose when I hand over control. And the rest of the time, I have to own myself. Make my own choices. Especially decisions on what risks I’ll take. I’m not merchandise.”

Of course he’d have a problem with seeing her in danger. Had she ever met anyone more protective? His face wasn’t expressionless now; she could actually see his need to keep her safe warring with his desire to give her what she required for herself.

Finally he stepped back. “First shift, you barmaid in the main room. We’ll discuss the second shift when the time comes.”

Her eyes closed briefly in relief, even as her fingers chilled and fear started to rise. “Thank you, Sam.”

His chin lifted toward the door, silently telling her to go.

She headed for the door, forcing her feet forward rather than running back to him, throwing herself into his arms, and begging him to keep her safe.