Servicing the Target

by Cherise Sinclair

  In contrast, his submissive was short and slender, fair-skinned, red-haired, and soft-voiced.

  And she had a very big heart.

  Tomorrow Is Mine would have closed if Beth hadn’t stepped in with a huge donation. Her abusive ex’s death had provided Beth with the money to fund battered women’s shelters in Florida and her home state of California.

  After that, she’d persuaded several Shadowlands’ members—including Anne—to help with the shelter’s programs.

  Anne crossed the room. “It’s good to see you two. Did you come to help teach?”

  Nolan shook his head, silent, as usual.

  “Can we talk when you’re finished here?” Beth asked. Her unreadable face was worrisome. Beth usually showed all her emotions.

  “Of course.” Anne checked her watch. “The girls have another five minutes. Will that work for you?”

  “Sure,” Beth said.

  “All right then.” Anne returned to her class and stopped at the head-high sandbag, hanging from the ceiling rafter. “That kick was excellent, Petra. Can you feel the difference when your power comes from your core?”

  The thirteen-year-old girl nodded, her mouth in a line of determination. The canvas-filled bag was taller, wider, and far more threatening than the slim teen—but a dent still showed where her foot had hit. Perfect.

  Anne moved to the next girl who was working through block-punch moves with another girl.

  Gina was seventeen, pretty, five-ten, and built like an Amazon. She frowned at Anne.

  “What’s wrong, Gina?”

  “No matter what I do, a guy would just flatten me. This is, totally, a waste of time.”

  Hmm. “If you think that, you will definitely lose.” Perhaps the staff needed to show more empowered female movies—including some with women fighters. In fighting, the mental attitude was just as important as skill.

  Nolan’s rough laugh drew the attention of the girls. He and Beth had moved close enough to hear Gina’s comment. Two of the newer teens backed away from him, but the rest continued practicing, having seen the big contractor working on the buildings.

  Annoyed at the interruption, Anne set her hands on her hips. “Something funny, Nolan?”

  “These girls ever seen you fight?”

  Anne frowned. Actually, they hadn’t. She demonstrated techniques, but actual fighting? No. And she caught Nolan’s point. The girls needed the bone-deep belief that a woman could effectively use her fists and defend herself.

  “Do you think it would help if Anne and I sparred?” Beth asked.

  Nolan smiled down at his submissive. “Sugar, you’ve come a long way, but she’d flatten you.” His black gaze hit Anne. “Fight me.”

  Gasps and whispered protests ran around the room, warming Anne’s heart. Her students cared about her.

  Although it was pretty insulting the way they assumed she’d lose.

  “You’re on. Let’s go for medium impact.” After handing Gina her watch, Anne led the way to the area covered with thick floor mats and sank into a ready stance.

  Nolan stripped off his belt and wedding ring, removed his boots and socks. Face impassive, he attacked immediately. A right toward her face—slightly wide—testing her readiness. She slapped it aside and followed with a solar plexus punch with just enough power to make a point.

  She ducked under his return backhand, thumped his ribs, and continued turning, using the momentum as a foot sweep.

  He rolled to his feet and pressed her ruthlessly this time with a one-two-three punch flurry that she blocked as she stepped forward. One of the girls gasped.

  Inside his guard, she shoved him back—to open his stance—and set her knee against his balls gently.

  He froze and let out a laugh. His muttered, “Mistress,” was for her ears only.

  She smiled and lifted her voice. “What happens when my knee hits your balls?”

  He played along and groaned, hands covering his crotch. She gripped his thick hair and yanked his head down far enough to show how easily his face could meet her knee.

  Turning toward her class, she said, “If you can, always just get away. If you have to fight and you get a man down, then it’s smart to incapacitate him, giving yourself time to escape. Have you watched movies where the woman drops the bad guy—but he tackles her before she reaches the door?”

  Hands lifted everywhere.

  “Exactly. Deliver that extra kick so he stays put.” Feeling Nolan move, she spun in time to block his left, then used the block-punch movement she’d just taught them. Her fist hit his gut solidly enough she heard his grunt.

  She ducked his follow-up, punched back, and delivered a carefully pulled strike toward his throat.

  To her surprise, he hammed it up—so not Nolan—and fell, hands to his throat.

  She mimed a kick to his knee. “Knees are wonderful targets. Now, I know he won’t get up any time soon.”

  Two girls were cheering; the rest were silent. Anne checked them. Some were a bit pale. Most had intent expressions as they absorbed the lesson.

  With a faint smile, Nolan propped himself up on an elbow. “Have you let them see how hard you can punch?”

  Again, she hadn’t.

  After a second, she realized she’d worried that the munchkins had already witnessed too much violence. But, he was right. They needed to know that women could hand it out as well as take it.

  She leaned over, offered Nolan a hand, and yanked him to his feet. At the sandbag, she delivered a few light taps to gauge the distance, then worked through solid one-two punches before moving on to snap and roundhouse combinations that would destroy a man’s knee before breaking his neck. She finished with a powerhouse back-kick that would have wrapped the poor bastard’s liver around his fractured spine.

  As she turned, all the girls were whistling and shouting.

  Well. Good enough. Her gaze met Gina’s.

  With tears in her eyes, the girl gave Anne a firm nod. She was in.

  “All right then. Class dismissed.”

  Anne followed Beth and Nolan into the inner courtyard. Encircled by buildings containing dorms, the dining hall, laundry, classrooms, and meeting rooms, the grassy center held a playground and scattered picnic tables.

  Beth and Nolan chose a corner table.

  “What’s up?” Anne sat down across from them.

  “It’s Gretel.” Beth pushed her hair back and leaned against Nolan. “Her husband located her yesterday.”

  Hell. Hell. Fury rose so fast Anne felt her control waver. After suffering years of abuse, Gretel’d walked out when her husband destroyed the Happy 50th Birthday, Mom cake her daughter had baked.

  Having her children and grandchildren in Tampa, she’d stubbornly refused to relocate, hoping a restraining order would deter her husband. She’d stayed at the shelter a month—and the children had pined when the kindhearted grandmother moved to her new place.

  With an effort, Anne shoved her anger down. “Is she all right?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Nolan said. “The bastard was drunk.”

  “He spotted her in a mall parking lot and attacked. She was caught by surprise,” Beth said.

  “He nailed her in the face. Knocked her down. Busted a couple of ribs. Even on her back, she kept her wits and kicked at his legs.” Nolan gave a nod of respect. “He stepped back, and she hosed him down with the pepper spray attached to her key ring.”

  “The police arrested him,” Beth added.

  Anne frowned as she realized her friend was shivering. “Beth—”

  Nolan was already wrapping an arm around his submissive, pulling her in close. “Anne, Gretel said to tell you that, thanks to your lessons, she survived.”

  “He’s in jail now.” Beth’s voice sounded strained. “How long will he stay there? Guys like that don’t stop.” As her gaze dropped to her hands, her shoulders hunched as if to protect herself. Anne could see she was fleeing inward to memories of her own abuse. To the scars she still carried.


  “Beth,” Nolan growled.

  God, Beth. Anne’s eyes prickled with tears as she reached across the table and took Beth’s trembling hand. Fucking men. “I swear, Nolan, I like you, and still, there are days I want to go out and geld every male in every town in all the world.”

  Buried and suffocating in brutal memories, Beth heard Nolan, but it was Anne’s voice—icy cold, yet filled with rage—that sliced through her fears and ignited a fire to burn away the past.

  Hauling in a deep breath, Beth leaned into her Master, who’d proven over and over that he could be trusted. Her gaze met Anne’s furious eyes, and she offered, “I have pruning shears. And branch loppers as well.”

  Nolan snorted a laugh. “That’s my girl.” Relief as well as pride roughened his deep voice.

  “I’m okay,” Beth said to both of them, heartened by their concern.

  “You’re far more than that.” Anne squeezed Beth’s hand, a fierce look on her face. The Domme was fully as protective as Nolan. If anyone threatened a woman here, her friend would fight shoulder-to-shoulder with the Masters.

  And Beth would darn well join them, even if she were shaking in her sneakers.

  The opening of the door to the admissions building drew her attention, and she watched as a shelter advocate stepped out, followed by a woman in her thirties.

  “This is the commons area,” the advocate said, waving at the grassy yard.

  The new woman was limping, exhaustion and pain evident with every step. Her face was black and blue; her neck and arms displayed small, round scars.

  Deliberate cigarette burns. Beth knew, all too well, how that felt.

  Two boys, about six years and four years, followed the women.

  As the advocate moved toward the center of the courtyard, the youngest boy stopped and sat down with his back against the wall.

  Beth frowned. The mother—if that’s what she was—never looked around to check on her sons. The advocate was fairly new, so might be forgiven, but someone should watch the children. How could a mother not notice her littlest wasn’t right there?

  The older boy saw his brother and abandoned the tour as well.

  Poor babies. Beth shook her head. At least she hadn’t suffered abuse until she was an adult. How horrible to discover violence so, so young.

  On the same wavelength, Anne started to rise.

  “I’ll take care of them.” Beth grinned at her. “I’ve learned to carry bribes.” Using Nolan’s knee as leverage, she pushed to her feet. Slowly, she walked toward the children.

  They were so little. Faded shorts and ripped shirts revealed toothpick-thin arms and legs. Their hair was dirty and tangled. And bruises marked cheeks and jaws, arms and legs.

  With Beth’s approach, they hunched as if trying to disappear into the wall like mini-turtles.

  “Hey.” Stopping at a non-threatening distance, Beth sat on the grass. Cross-legged. See, I can’t quickly chase after you if you need to escape. “I’m Beth. You guys look thirsty. Want some apple juice?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pulled two small bottles out of her bag. After tugging off the insulated sleeves, she opened the tops. The containers were still nice and cold, although the ice was gone. She offered one bottle.

  After a long hesitation, the oldest took it. Watching her warily, he took a sip…and his face lit up.

  “It’s good,” he whispered to his brother who carefully, like a terrified puppy, accepted the other bottle. They both drank thirstily. Every few seconds, their big brown eyes would turn to check on their mother.

  “Should I try to guess your names?” Beth asked, smiling slightly. “Maybe John? Or Adam?”

  “Uh-uh,” the youngest said.

  “Oh dear. Um, Greg? Horace? David? William?” Each name got shakes of the head—and less tensed muscles.

  “I’m bad at guessing names,” she admitted, scrunching her face up. “Peter Pan? Clark Kent? Ironman?”

  Giggling, the littlest couldn’t hold back any longer. “He’s Grant. I’m Connor.”

  “Oooh, those are nice names.” The boys were adorable. An ache tugged at her heart. Thanks to the damage she’d suffered during her marriage, she’d never carry a baby…and, oh God, she really wanted children. “Grant and Connor, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Sugar.” Nolan’s Texas-accented voice came from behind her—although she’d known he was approaching from the way the children had molded themselves to the wall. “We need to get going.”

  She glanced at her watch and winced. “Right.” As the boys watched Nolan with ill-concealed terror, she leaned forward and whispered, “He’s my Ironman. He saved me from the bad guy, and now he keeps me safe, and he won’t let anyone hurt me. That’s what heroes do, you know?”

  Their eyes got wider. Some—not all—of their fear disappeared to be replaced with awe.

  “I’ll see you guys next time I’m here,” Beth promised and let Nolan lift her to her feet. “Nolan, this is Grant and Connor.”

  Nolan nodded gravely. “Men. Good to meet you.”

  As Beth walked through the door, she heard Grant whisper in wonder, “He called us men.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Carrying a small basket, Ben opened the front door. As Bronx led the way into the house, Ben grinned, his spirits soaring. Anne’s Escape was parked in the low carport, so she was home. The past couple of weeks—since their relationship had upgraded to .44 magnum level—had been a revelation. He’d never known that a woman could fill a man’s life so completely.

  Make him so happy.

  They were good together. He knew it. Cooking, lifting weights, sparring and wrestling, jogging on the beach, watching the news—even if he was relegated to the floor sometimes—reading quietly. Everything was more fun with her beside him.

  Even the slavery shit was mostly cool. Anne was slowly teaching him what she required from him and he was improving—although she rather disapproved that his massages inevitably led to a hearty round of fucking. He’d tried to explain that when she went all Mistress on his ass, he got turned the hell on. Not his fault she was so damned sexy, right?

  And not having to scramble for condoms meant they could fuck anywhere. And did.

  As Ben followed Bronx through the kitchen, he glanced at the spotless counters. Having been through basic, he didn’t have any problem with cleaning. He preferred things tidy himself, although she did have a penchant to over clean.

  And he was getting pretty good at the personal care stuff now that she’d abandoned having him do her toenails or whatever the hell that procedure was called. Painting walls was a piece of cake, but with his big hands, trying to paint a toenail the size of a pea had turned into a complete clusterfuck.

  He’d found out Anne could giggle like a little girl.

  He grinned at the memory. Damn, she was cute sometimes.

  In her Mistress role, she was taking things slow. Taking care with him. Like the way they weren’t scening in the Shadowlands, although they’d both worked last weekend.

  At first, he’d wondered if she were ashamed to be seen with him, but instead, she’d noticed he wasn’t quite…comfortable…with being a slave in public. He felt as if he’d let her down, but seems his reaction wasn’t unusual. She said she was happy keeping things private, for now.

  Her concern for his feelings and health kept surprising him. Hey, he was supposed to be doing everything for her.

  So, to have her change plans because he was a sensitive pussy was…fucking amazing.

  Besides, he liked the bubble they’d created—one with just the two of them inside. Especially since gossip about the Mistress and security guard was undoubtedly running rampant through the small-town-like Shadowlands community. Hell, after the vets’ group meeting last week, Z had told Ben to call if he had questions or wanted to talk.

  Questions? Sure. Want to talk? Nope.

  Tail wagging frantically, Bronx impatiently waited as Ben slid the back screen door open.

/>   There she was. Amazing how the sight of one special person really could make a man’s heart skip a beat.

  Sitting on the decking, Anne was facing the railing. Thick, dark brown rope dangled from the top rail. The strands held knots here and there and terminated in coils in her lap. Red wooden beads were piled off to one side.

  She turned at the sound of Bronx’s charge across the deck and spotted Ben. “You’re home!”

  He fucking loved the way her eyes lit.

  She pushed the rope out of her lap to hug Bronx. “You guys got done early.”

  After Bronx had curled up next to her, Ben set the basket beside her, went down on one knee, and patiently waited for her to indicate she wanted a kiss. She always wanted a kiss—he knew that—but he tried to be an obedient slave.

  Pissed him off sometimes when he wanted to scoop her up for a long hug.

  Her brows drew together and rather than giving him permission, she touched his face with her fingertips. When her fingers lingered on his forehead, he realized he was frowning.

  “Benjamin. I get the impression that”—she was speaking as carefully as he might navigate a Baghdad street, uncertain what trash-filled pile might contain explosives—“perhaps, serving as a slave isn’t what you really want. This might not be a good—”

  “No.” He interrupted before she could finish. “No, Mistress, I’m where I belong.” In her home, at her side, in her heart. Maybe parts of the service chaffed like wearing an undersized jockstrap, but being with her was fucking more than he’d ever imagined.

  The emerging sorrow in her eyes could break his heart. “I’ve had slaves, my tiger. I think you’re uncomfortable.”

  “Some, yeah.” He took her hand to stop her. “I’m new to this, and being a slave wasn’t how I saw myself. But this is where I want to be.”

  She looked down at his fingers that had swallowed hers. Dammit, if he let her think, she’d talk herself into letting him go.

  While her keen gaze wasn’t on his face, he pushed with all the determination that years of missions could generate. “I’m happy as your slave. This is what I want.”