Raoul shook his head and half-blindly punched back, feeling the impact and crunch as his fist hit a nose. A bellow. Hot spray of blood. He twisted to check the other.
And then something punched him from behind, high on the right shoulder. He jerked around to see the Greville bastard jump away.
The skinhead swung. When Raoul blocked with his right arm, pain sheeted into him like all of hell had opened. He grunted and continued, but his block held no power, and the man knocked him into the wall. As he hit, fire ripped through his shoulder. His knees gave, dropping him to the floor.
“You knifed him good, Lord Greville.” Scarface stepped sideways as Raoul pushed to his feet.
Greville. He’d attacked from behind like a feral cur.
The two guards had him bracketed, his back to the wall. He could feel the knife, still stuck in his shoulder. Pain shot through him with every movement.
As the two glanced at each other, trying to synchronize their attack, Raoul darted a look across the room. Dammit, Kimberly hadn’t run, and Dahmer had grabbed her.
Still looking, he faked a grin, and Skinhead fell for it, glancing over his shoulder at Kimberly. Raoul stabbed rigid fingers straight into the bastard’s throat and felt the cartilage break.
Scarface yelled and lunged. Raoul tried to block, but his right arm failed—fucking knife— and a roundhouse knocked him sideways. He staggered, fell onto his hands and knees.
“Use the knife and just kill him, you incompetent turd,” Greville said coldly. “I’ve got better things to do.”
When two more men ran into the room, Raoul knew his—and Kimberly’s—chances of survival had just died. Run, gatita, dammit, run.
Scarface jumped forward and ripped the knife from Raoul’s shoulder. Pain burst like fireworks. Before the guard could step back, Raoul slammed his fist straight up into his balls.
With a choking gasp, Scarface fell to his knees, grabbing his groin. The knife clattered to the floor. A fucking steak knife from the dinner tray.
Raoul tried to snatch it and got kicked in the ribs. New guards. His hand skidded on the blood on the floor.
Heart battering at the inside of her ribs, Kim stared across the room at the group of men. Lord Greville’s bodyguards were down, one on his knees moaning. Between two new men, Master R pushed partway up and dived at Greville, hitting him in the stomach, knocking him down.
Swearing, the new men grabbed his arms, tearing him off Greville, holding him between them.
Face dark with rage, Greville staggered to his feet. Using a handkerchief, he wiped blood from his mouth, looked at it. He bent and picked the knife up. “Hold him good—I’m going to gut him like a trout.”
“Nooo!” Her shriek stopped everything.
Lord Greville turned, taking his time, Kim could tell. Playing her. He glanced at the Overseer who lay a few feet away, moaning, hands over his face. “Worthless bastard.”
She didn’t look, wouldn’t look at the Overseer or her bloody fingers. Could only think of Master R. He’d die because of her, because he’d tried to save her. My fault. “Please, don’t kill him. Please!”
Lord Greville tilted his head. “You care for him?” A cruel smile twisted his lips. “Oh, I like that. Yes.” He pointed his knife at her, then the cage in the corner. “In.”
A cage. Her breath stopped. Darkness, no light at all, the scent of a basement, excrement, urine, blood. Wire under her fingers, around her, she couldn’t stand, couldn’t straighten her legs. An ocean pressed on her chest, flattening her lungs. Air gone. No… She felt a breeze from the open doorway behind her—she could run. Run.
She edged toward the opening.
Master R was fighting madly, drawing everyone’s attention. His gaze caught hers, and he jerked his head toward the door. An order matching the one that every nerve in her body was screaming. Run.
“Hold him, dammit.” Lord Greville sliced at Master R with the knife—the blade scraped over the leather vest on the left, then cut viciously over his right ribs. A huge, long gash.
He made no sound, but Kim saw him jerk. A trickle of red spilled over the edge of the gaping flesh; then blood flowed.
Sobs choked her; tears blinded her. He’d die; he was dying. “No, no please, oh God, no. Please.”
Lord Greville glanced over his shoulder. “The cage or I cut him into little pieces in front of you. Crawl, fuckhole.”
She did, her hands numb, her heart hammering too violently. None of it mattered. The cage surrounded her.
Lord Greville laughed, jagged and cold like a saw blade. He turned back to Master R and scowled at how the two men had to hold him up. “Hell, he’s out cold. That’s no fun.” He glanced at the water pitcher, hesitated, then motioned toward the cage. “Toss him in.”
As the guards dragged Master R over, Greville’s eyes met Kim’s. “If he’s still breathing when we get home, you can show me just how far you’ll go to keep him alive.”
She’d do anything, and her stomach tried to empty as she thought of the perversions Greville would demand.
The guards heaved Master R into the cage. She pressed against the wire, feeling the wire sides closing in on her. Just as small as the one in Lord Greville’s basement.
“Get that collar off her,” Lord Greville said.
One man grabbed her hair, yanking her far enough forward to unbuckle the collar with one hand. The feel of air against her bare neck was horrible—not like being stripped, but like seeing her house burn to the ground.
The guard stepped back; the other closed the door and snapped the heavy padlock, removing the key.
“Look, fuckhole.” Lord Greville waggled her collar and threw it out the door.
Kim stared after it, her life tumbling down the stairs with it. Dreams die before people do.
Greville accepted the padlock key from the guard and put it in his pocket. “You’re mine, cunt, for as long as I let you live.”
No matter how many hours or days, it would be too long. Kim couldn’t stop shaking, her chest so tight no air seemed to get through. Red and black wavered in her vision—blood and death—and she wanted it, wanted the oblivion.
Lord Greville pointed to the moaning Overseer. “Haul him downstairs and have someone see to him. I need him able to sign the papers.” He turned to check his bodyguards. One had managed to stand. The other was…was dead.
Kim stared at Master R. He’d killed. And he was dying.
Her hands shook; her body shook. Don’t die. She tried to turn him. Stop the bleeding. No room to move him, no room. Her hands clamped into fists.
“I’ll clear us leaving with the front door attendants,” Greville said to the guard. “Get three more men to carry the crate—and something to cover it.” He laughed. “Good deal. Two slaves for the price of none.”
The door closed behind them with a solid thump.
A hand gripped on Kim’s arm, and she jumped.
“Cariño.” Master R looked up at her, brown eyes completely alert.
“Master R?” she whispered and stared at him. The scum-sucking bottom-feeder… He’d been faking it.
His eyes were filled with laughter. With pride. “So, gatita with sharp claws, what did you do to Dahmer?”
* * * *
Sam knelt beside Linda. He’d released her, lowered her to a sitting position despite her groggy protest.
The scrawny attendant pulled the portable St. Andrews into the aisle and frowned at Sam. “Please step out of the display area, sir.”
“She needs a blanket and some water.” Abandon a sub who was coming out of subspace?
“She’s up for sale, sir. Your time to sample the merchandise is over.”
“I get it.” God blast these bastards. He couldn’t leave her so vulnerable. Sam slapped her face lightly. “Wake up, girl. Now.”
She blinked, eyes focusing on him, then looked around the room, and her fear yanked her out of comfort faster than anything he could do.
“That’s right. Come on back,” he said, smoo
thing her hair.
She pulled away from his hand, and her expression held…revulsion. Anger. “Damn you,” she whispered and shuddered.
Sam frowned. What—why? “Linda, what—” He saw the attendant signal for a guard and stopped. Can’t draw that kind of attention. Or be forced from the vicinity. He rose to his feet, bent, and patted her shoulder. “Hang in there, girl.”
She cringed away…from him.
He hesitated, then withdrew to outside the display area. That hadn’t been fear she showed, but anger. Disgust. His lips tightened. He’d stay close. She might not want help, but too bad.
Another buyer approached, looking almost mesmerized. No question as to why. The redhead might be older, but after taking what Sam had given, she had a…glow. Her lips were swollen, her face abraded, her breasts marked by his hands. Her eyes were heavy from how intensely she’d come. She looked like a wet dream in chains.
The buyer, middle-aged with a hefty paunch, stared at Linda and started to signal to an attendant. Leaning an elbow on the pedestal, Sam said quietly, “I’m buying that one. You can play, but if I find one mark on her body that I didn’t put there, I’ll take that whip and knot it around your neck.”
The man puffed up, trying to look bigger, and then yellow-dogged out. “Fine. If you’re going to purchase her, no need to waste my time.” He walked away, his attempt at dignity spoiled by a nervous glance over his shoulder.
Sam half-smiled, then looked over at Linda in satisfaction.
She stared back. Coldly.
He winced inside. Dammit, she hadn’t acted like that before he’d whipped her. Or when he’d been getting her off. She begged—he closed his eyes as the pieces started to fit. Dignified. Older. Not letting fear show in her manner. Controlled. Embarrassed by her own needs.
And he’d taken those needs and reduced her to begging—in front of others. The slavers who called her a slut.
Hell. He should have stopped at the whipping. Getting her off had been a fucking major mistake. It had seemed like a gift he could give, to help her escape her awareness of this place for a bit, but…females were odd creatures. Emotional. Rather than a gift, he’d shown her how easily her own body would betray her.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, wanting to swear up a storm. He’d sliced into her defenses with less finesse than a baby dom with a new whip. After a glance at the attendant who still hovered nearby, Sam knew he couldn’t explain to her, to apologize—not here—but when this was over, they’d talk. Damn straight, they would.
* * * *
Raoul struggled to reach down his leg but failed. With both of them stuffed in the cage, there wasn’t enough room. “Chiquita, get the tool out of my right boot. On the outside.”
“But I need to stop the bleeding.”
“Now.”
With her mouth set in protest, she squirmed around and did as he asked, his sweet, sweet sumisa.
She frowned at it. “What is this?”
“Safety tool. I always carry it if I’m doing a scene.” He twisted onto his right side. The pain ripped through him as his weight came onto his stabbed shoulder—that knife-happy cabrón. Sweat broke out on his forehead as tiny lights blurred his vision. “Madre de Dios.”
She examined the tool, opened the handles. “Like scissors?”
“Mini bolt cutter,” he said, taking them from her hand. Good for rope, wire, leather…
“But the lock’s too big.” The hope in her eyes died as she stared at the thickness of the steel padlock.
“It is, yes.” Raoul snipped the wire above the lock. Then the one to the side. She gasped as she understood—the lock need not be open if the wires around the latch were gone.
He clipped the last wire and shoved the door open, then pulled back. She scrambled out. He followed, muffling his groan as his back grazed the door frame. After a second, he pushed to his feet, her hand under his arm lending support.
Slow breath. He brought his body back under his control and then frowned at the unoccupied cage. “I was going to leave you in there for him to see, but I need your help out here. If you would—”
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, you idiot,” she said in a furious low voice. Such a temper, his tesoro. “Don’t move.”
God, he was going to bleed to death in front of her eyes. Swearing under her breath, she used his bolt cutters to cut up her leather harness. Linen napkins made an adequate crappy dressing, and she secured it all in place by knotting a long leather strap tightly around his chest. The wound on his shoulder—she couldn’t figure out how to contrive something for that.
He ignored her, studying the room. “We’re directly across the hall from the top of the stairs. And there’s a chair right outside. I should be able to get rid of one or two that way.”
By sitting in a chair? How much blood had he lost?
“We don’t want to get trapped in here.” He eyed the door, then made Kimberly push and angle the couch so someone entering wouldn’t see the emptiness of the cage until they were well into the room.
“Now what?” she asked. There were going to be too many men for them. She knew it.
He pointed to the heavy ironwork lamp on the end table. “Get that, gatita.”
After she’d unplugged and carried it back, he motioned for her to keep it. “Use it on the first man through the door—unless he’s FBI, of course. Hit him in the head as hard as you can. I’ll go after the others, and we will party.” He waited a beat, then teased her, “This is when you say, ‘It will be my pleasure, Master.’”
Master R’s grin made her feel better, and how dumb was that? We’re going to die here. Her chin came up. But she’d do it fighting and not dying little by little in a cage. “I always liked to party.”
“Tesoro mío,” he murmured. Andrea had said the words meant “my treasure.” The approval in his eyes made her insides tremble—and strengthened her legs. He needed her to be strong; she’d give him anything he needed.
He tilted his head to listen, then pointed for her to stand behind the door and took the other side for himself.
Footsteps. Many. Men’s voices. The horrible sharpness of Lord Greville’s voice. No. She lifted the lamp over her head and braced her legs. Her hands shook, almost dislodging her grip, and she growled and steadied them. Master R nodded approval, increasing her determination. She’d hold up her part. See if she didn’t.
The door opened. “Cover the cage—I don’t want extra witnesses,” Lord Greville said.
Her heart was hammering, pounding, hitting her lungs. She couldn’t—couldn’t move.
Someone walked into the room, the open door hiding him from her. “Yes, sir,” the man said. One step past the door’s edge, he spotted the empty cage.
She saw—actually saw—his mouth open, but the buzzing in her ears drowned out his yell. With a death grip on the base, she swung the heavily decorated solid iron lamp down onto his head. He fell like a rock.
She almost dropped the lamp. Blood streaked the back of his head. She stared, waited. His chest rose—he was breathing, thank heavens.
As she started around him, the smooth iron base of the lamp slipped from her sweaty hands. My only weapon. She snatched it up, curling her fingers into the fancy ironwork on the top. The balance was poor, but at least she wouldn’t drop it.
She heard grunts and shouts outside the door. Master R. Fighting all the rest. By himself. Damn you, Kim. Move! She lurched into the hall and almost tripped on a man on the floor. Eyes open, chest caved in. A buzzing started in her ears. She edged past him and stopped, trying to see. So many men.
With a roar, Master R swung the chair that had been outside the door and knocked a man down the wide, steep stairs. Then he spun, bending forward, kicking backward to catch another in the groin. The man staggered, lost his footing, and yelled as he went over and down the stairs.
Off balance, Master R dropped the chair, staggering a few steps until he caught himself on the banister. Two more guards moved in.
And Lord Greville. Kim’s blood turned cold. He’d grabbed the chair. Master R’s back was to him as he pulled the chair back like a bat.
“No!” Kim yelled.
Greville’s head turned. His cold gaze stopped her…held her…
No. Screaming her fear, her fury, she swung the lamp with all her strength. The heavy base hit Greville in the side of the head, and she felt something break as if the light bulb had shattered.
He fell, and his head… His head. The lamp dropped from numb fingers. The floor whirled under her feet: red carpet, red blood, red carpet…
She was on her hands and knees, choking, trying not to throw up. Cold sweat ran down her face. God, God, God.
Don’t look. As the ringing in her ears subsided, she heard a low groan. Master R. She pushed up on trembling legs and turned. Still alive. Fighting. A man at his feet. More men ran up the stairs.
* * * *
Raoul and Kim had disappeared to an unknown location, and Sam was ready to kill someone. No buyer was allowed outside of the ballroom unescorted, so he couldn’t wander through the place, yelling for his pal. As the auction continued, less than a third of the buyers and slaves remained.
The FBI hadn’t shown up. What did they do, stop for a beer first?
Finally, he spotted a dark jacket, another; then a steady flow of them streamed in under the arched ballroom door. About time. Vance followed. He exchanged glances with Sam and stopped nearby as his men moved up the aisle. Their presence was masked by the screaming and sobbing of slaves, the auctioneer’s sick humor, and the perverted display on the stage.
In the front of the room, a door opened, revealing more men. Sam would give odds that they also surrounded the house. He wished he could see the Overseer’s face right now…and where was he, anyway?
A buyer jumped to his feet. “Cops!”
“So observant.” Vance lifted a bullhorn. “This is the FBI. You will kneel on the floor, hands laced behind your heads. Any resistance will be met with deadly force.” He lowered the bullhorn and added under his breath, “You fucking assholes.”
No one moved.
Vance put the bullhorn to his lips again. “Sit!” His voice whipped across the room with the authority of a hardened cop—and a dom. Most of the slaves dropped instinctively to their knees, and a lot of buyers did as well.
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