But her shaking was his fault. Marcus"s fault. The back of her thighs and her bottom stung as if she"d acquired a horrible sunburn and made her even angrier.
She lifted her chin. “I"m fine. You did your job, and I thank you.”
But for what he"d helped with, she might never forgive him.
As if he heard her thought, he winced. “Gabrielle, you realize Marcus only wanted—”
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“If you don"t leave right now, I"m calling the cops.” She managed to pick up the phone without dropping it.
He set a business card on an end table, smart enough not to hand it to her.
“Gabrielle, if you need someone—a friend—please call me.” His dark brown eyes held only concern when he added, “Just to talk or for a shoulder to cry on. You don"t have to be the strong one all the time.”
Oh, yes, I do. “Thanks for the offer.” She nodded toward the door.
He left quietly. She locked the door behind him and leaned against it.
What have I done? Brought back, escorted into the apartment, no chance for the kidnapper to get her. Oh, Kim, I’m sorry…
She"d blown her cover. Rhodes would never understand why she"d blurted it all out.
I don’t understand either.
But Marcus had known exactly what he was doing. He"d deliberately worked her into such a wreck she couldn"t control her thoughts, let alone her words. And questioned her. In front of others. His betrayal felt like a gash in her soul, spilling blood with every beat of her heart.
Her knees buckled, and she dropped down onto the thin carpet. Horatio and Hamlet crept out from behind the couch to rub against her legs. “I trusted him,” she told them. Horatio broke into a low purr and set a paw on Gabi"s knee.
Her eyes prickled with tears. “I did. I trusted him. God, I"m stupid.” Even though she"d pretended not to care, inside she"d been sliding deeper and deeper under his spell.
Well, the spell had broken. Wake up, Cinderella. Your glass slippers have shattered and cut your feet. She rose and staggered a few steps. How could a damn flogging turn her muscles into limp noodles? Her legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. Could she even stand up long enough to shower? But she had to. Had to wash away the sticky sweat and arousal, to eradicate his touch and scent.
But hot water and soaping after soaping couldn"t remove her memories of his strong hands, the scrape of his shadowed jaw, his warm breath. As her back and butt and legs burned, she felt again the rhythm of the blows, the slow increase in pain…and need.
Oh God.
After toweling dry, she wiped off a clear spot on the steamed-up mirror, then turned. Pink lines remained from the flogger. Light along her back, darker on her bottom and the backs of her thighs. Nothing was welted or raised. The redness would probably have disappeared by tomorrow.
Yet it seemed like Marcus had marked her…had somehow branded her as his own.
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Anger sliced through her, the pain sharper than her stinging skin. Yet beneath it was a terrifying sense of satisfaction—an internal voice that said yes to his marks of possession.
* * *
A clusterfuck. Marcus leaned back in his home office chair and stared at the white ceiling. Interesting term. What a shame he couldn"t use it in court. The accused stole an M16 and then… Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was a real clusterfuck. The evening had definitely been a clusterfuck.
Before he and Cullen had left the Shadowlands, Z said he"d explain to the Masters and ask them to keep the investigation secret. With a stab of pity, Marcus had agreed. Z had looked exhausted.
Apparently Marcus wasn"t the only one feeling like he"d kicked a helpless puppy.
Raoul"s report hadn"t helped. The little sub hadn"t cried or fully recovered, but threatened to call the cops if Raoul didn"t leave. Everything in Marcus wanted to go to her, to make sure she was all right. A dom didn"t put a sub in that kind of shape and abandon her.
Guilt weighed like a heavy hand on his shoulders. Despite the fact that he"d done his best with good intentions, he"d screwed up, damaging where he"d only wanted to help.
Damn Z anyway.
Marcus rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock. Four a.m. But he couldn"t sleep. Instead he booted up his computer.
Realizing Gabi probably used a fake name, he"d demanded her correct name from Z. Renard. He typed Gabrielle Renard into the search engine.
The results appeared on the screen. She worked in the FBI field office in Miami. A victim specialist. A social worker, just as Z had said.
After reading for a while, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
She helped the victims of violence and seemed to mostly work with children and teens. When she"d talked about her murdered friends and her rape, she"d mentioned a man who had—how had she put it?—talked her out of the corner she"d hidden in.
Had he been a victim specialist perchance, the one who started her on this path?
“Get a kindness, pass it on.” That was his mother"s motto. Apparently Gabi lived by it. Mama would like her.
After shutting the computer down, he poured himself a brandy. In his backyard, he took a chair and propped his feet up on another. Above the city lights, the stars shone brightly in the black sky, a comforting assurance that the universe continued on, despite the disasters on one tiny planet. As he watched, a meteor streaked across the sky and fell.
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Well, he knew some of the little sub"s past now, and from the articles, she exemplified both dedication and compassion. A softhearted woman. Guilt pressed on his chest. Good job there, Atherton. Jesus, could I have screwed up any more badly?
He watched another bright light fall to its doom on Earth. In the club, she acted like a brat for the killer. It explained her idiotic rebellions like the missing fact in a trial. All those times she"d start to submit, then straighten her shoulders and spit out something outrageous—all pretense. His chest tightened as he remembered how many times he"d punished her. God, how could she ever forgive him?
He"d acted appropriately for what she"d allowed him to know—and realizing that didn"t help at all. How the hell would he make this up to her? During his marriage, his wife had demanded presents, jewelry, flowers after a fight. He dry scrubbed his face, his stubble rasping over his palms. Jewelry wouldn"t fix this.
Nothing would.
In the distance, an emergency siren wailed. Marcus tipped his head back with a sigh. Hard world. He did his best to try to make it a better place. Now to discover he"d hurt someone he"d come to…come to what? Care for? Maybe.
Probably. She"d appealed to him from the beginning, even with her outrageous behavior. Of course, not all that brattiness was acting. Marcus smiled and took a sip of brandy. No, she had a mouth on her.
She"d hidden much of herself, but everything he did know attracted him. Her laughter. “I felt sorry for myself since my wimpy dom can’t catch a snail crossing the sidewalk.” He wanted that laughter in his life.
“They shot my Danny and Rock. I was so mad, and I wanted to hurt them.” So matter-of-fact when she"d told him, as if her loyalty and courage weren"t remarkable.
He tilted his head back, remembering her wistful voice. “You know, he’d buy me romance novels. We were broke, but somehow he’d still find me books.” Such a little thing to mean so much to her. He wanted to be the one to comfort her. To take care of her. He smiled. To buy her romance novels.
But she"d undoubtedly run from him now. What if she didn"t return to the Shadowlands? She might not want to give him a second chance. His mouth tightened, and determination settled inside him with a weight like gravity.
Such a shame that a sub doesn"t always get what she wants.
* * *
On Monday, Gabi rode the elevator in the Clearwater hotel two flights past the FBI agents" floor, then took the stairs back down. Her dr
ead of the coming interview increased with each step closer to the room. She opened the stairwell door, stepped into the hallway, and trudged across the thick carpeting. She and sleep hadn"t been on speaking terms, and her exhausted body felt as if it was wading through water.
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At the door, she hesitated. What could she say? She still didn"t understand what had happened to her last Saturday, so how could she explain it to the agents?
Maybe Master Z had called? But all contact was supposed to go through Rhodes. And she already knew his reaction. Her mouth twisted. When she"d finally reached him late Sunday, he"d completely lost it. “What the hell is wrong with you?
You’re undercover—un-der-co-ver— or doesn’t that mean anything to you? So he fucked you and you decided to spill everything. What is that—pillow talk?” He"d finished his rant with what she"d expected. “I’m going to have your ass for this.”
Even before she"d called him, she"d known her career in the FBI was over.
Finished. Termini. No one would understand. They"d simply see she"d exposed an ongoing investigation to a whole lot of people. Yeah, serving as a decoy wasn"t her real job; yes, she"d volunteered to do it; but after destroying a covert operation, it wouldn"t matter.
So. I might as well get this over with and then start seriously job hunting. She tugged her T-shirt down—why dress up to get fired?—straightened her shoulders, and knocked on the door.
The door opened, and the big agent, Vance Buchanan, let her in. He wore faded jeans, a blue T-shirt, and beard stubble. He looked her over slowly as if assessing her condition. “Bad week, eh, Gabrielle?”
At the rough sympathy in his voice, tears burned her eyes. She turned her head away and sucked it up. “I"ve had better.”
“I bet. Z gave us a call yesterday.” He pointed toward the L-shaped couch and chairs where Galen waited. “Go sit.”
As she took a chair across from Galen, Vance took a soda from the small refrigerator, opened it, and set the can on the coffee table in front of her.
“Thank you.” Okay, confession time. Rhodes had already told them—God, she just bet he"d told them—but she needed to also. “Some of the Shadowlands Masters learned I"m working undercover. It"s my fault.” She started to pick up her drink and realized she couldn"t swallow past the lump in her throat. Instead she folded her hands in her lap and forced herself to meet Galen"s eyes. “I told them. By accident.
But it"s still my fault. I—”
“Stop,” Galen said, holding up a hand. “I"m not sure I understand your logic.
You have a dom, one experienced enough that Zachary Grayson trusts him with the Shadowlands trainees. He strings you up, drives you straight into subspace, and asks you questions. Why the hell do you think that"s your fault?”
“But—”
“Shut up and drink your soda.” Galen"s baritone was actually kind.
“You don"t blame me?”
“You"ve played a brat too long, Renard. What did I tell you to do?”
Oh hell, that answered one question. The guy was definitely a dom. She picked up the can and took a tiny sip.
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Standing behind the couch, Vance leaned his forearms on the back cushions.
“Gabrielle, the sole reason we accepted you as a decoy is because you"re submissive.
You had no defenses against a determined master like Marcus Atherton.” He fixed her with a level gaze. “Am I clear? We don"t blame you in the least.”
She let out the breath that she"d held since…oh, since the day Rhodes went ballistic.
Galen"s brows drew together. “You figured we"d fire you?”
“Seemed logical.”
Vance"s blue eyes turned hard. “Rhodes is an asshole. He had the contacts to get him assigned to this case and plays the game well enough we can"t justify yanking him off, but do us the courtesy of not thinking we"re complete idiots.”
A gasp of laughter escaped her, and both men grinned.
“Much better.” Galen leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We didn"t ask you here today to ream you out. Quite the opposite. Gabrielle, are you willing to return to the Shadowlands?”
That was so far from what she"d expected that her head spun. “I will. You know I will, but Master Marcus—he knows. He knows I"ve lied to him and been faking it all.”
Vance tilted his head. “Personally I"d say you only fake about fifty percent.
What do you think, Galen?”
“I think sixty-forty, with the weight on the sassy side.”
Her mouth dropped open, and then she glared.
Vance chuckled. “You win. There"s more brat there than fifty percent.”
“And that"s not funny. Did you hear what I said?” Gabi crossed her arms over her chest, less to appear confident than to conceal her trembling hands. “Marcus won"t tolerate me coming back, and even if he did, I don"t want to…to do anything with him. Ever.” She"d trusted him, and he"d taken advantage of her. She shook her head and tried to keep her mind on the subject. “Besides, the other Masters know also.”
“It"s all right,” Vance said. “Z explained it all. The Masters aren"t stupid, and they understand why we kept your identity secret. It won"t be easy for them now.
They"ll have to fight back the need to protect you, not punish you.”
Galen interjected, “But they swore to do their best.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Not the most reassuring thing in the world for you to hear, I"m afraid.”
Go back. Be terrified of a kidnapper. Be punished.
Be with Marcus. Her hands curled into tight balls of dissent. He"d seen her at her most vulnerable and taken advantage of it.
“I"ll go to a different dom?” Could she bear having someone else in charge of her? She bowed her head, watching her knuckles tighten. I don’t have a choice.
She"d woken before dawn covered in sweat from another nightmare about Kim Masters of the Shadowlands 5: Make Me, Sir
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being whipped. Her screams had dug into Gabi"s mind until she could hear them echoing off the walls of her apartment.
A tap sounded on the door, and she raised her head.
Galen glanced at his watch. “Damn lawyers are way too punctual.”
“This is your decision, Gabi,” Vance said over his shoulder as he crossed the room. “We"re going to let you two work out how you want to handle it.” He opened the door.
Master Marcus stepped in. He glanced around. Then his gaze zeroed in on her like a targeting control in a video game.
Every blood cell in her body leaped in joy until she remembered what she"d done. What he"d done. The joy fractured and died, leaving her with the bitter taste of betrayal on her tongue.
“Marcus,” Galen said, rising. He held his hand out. “I"m glad you could make it.”
“Galen.” With his silent grace, Marcus walked over to shake hands, then nodded at Vance before turning his gaze back on Gabi.
She couldn"t meet his eyes. The lethal blue color hadn"t changed from when it had filled her world like a desert sky. And his voice—soft and deep, so different from the sound he"d made when she"d told him she was FBI. Like he"d been stabbed.
She concentrated on picking up her soda gracefully, although from the way her stomach churned, she sure didn"t need a drink.
Vance huffed a laugh. “Take her for a walk, Marcus, before she turns any greener.”
Galen said, “She"s willing to return—got more guts than a lot of so-called agents—so when you"ve worked out how you"ll handle this, come back here so we can finish planning.”
Go with him? As she realized the agents had cast her to the sharks, she stiffened in disbelief.
Marcus pinned her gaze. One shark. With piercing blue eyes. He held his hand out. “Come, Gabrielle.”
“No. I won"t go anywhere with you.” Back stiff, she rose, heading for the door.
She gave th
e other two men a wounded look.
“Little spitfire.” Vance caught her wrist and pulled her to a stop. His eyes were a darker blue than Marcus"s but surprisingly kind. “We talked with Z, with the other Masters, and with Marcus. All anyone wants is to let you serve as a decoy in the safest, gentlest way we can arrange…and we all agree Marcus is the best choice.
Talk to him, Gabi, and if you decide you can"t work with him, we"ll figure out something else.”
Talk with Marcus. Could she stand it? Did she have a choice? Vance held her gaze until she nodded her surrender.
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“Good girl.” He set her wrist into Marcus"s hand. Strong fingers closed, trapping her more completely than any restraint.
* * *
The agents had planned for Z to attend this meeting, but Marcus had played the guilt card on them. He might have employed a few courtroom techniques, but he"d told the truth. Their secrecy bullshit had not only given him a rough few weeks, but also led to the fiasco last Saturday. They sure as hell owed him a chance to make it right with Gabrielle. They"d reluctantly agreed, with the stipulation that Gabi had the final choice. Marcus had pondered long and hard about today—what to say and where to go so she"d feel comfortable. Obviously nowhere alone with him. So now he guided her out of the lobby toward the beach. On the grounds around the hotel, the palm trees rustled and swayed in the stiffening breeze. Gulls cried as they rode the air currents, diving at the white-capped waves. People were scattered here and there, their towels, blankets, and umbrellas a bright splash of color against the white sand. A child with flaming red hair used a stick to write his name in the wet sand.
As Marcus guided Gabi onto the sidewalk paralleling the beach, his spirits rose. Damn, he liked seeing her, even if she was under duress. The sea wind ruffled her shaggy hair and brought him her sandalwood scent. With an effort, he put away the memory of how the fragrance deepened, darkened in the tender crease between her hip and thigh.
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