The memories retreated, pushed away by his anger…for her. Her nausea eased.

After she’d managed a few breaths, he sat back, taking her hand again. “Others used you. And?”

“I stabbed him afterwards.”

He stared at her, then burst out laughing, and with the sound of his hearty laughter, open and pleased, the darkness in her head shrank. He kissed her fingers. “Good for you. But…I think this is why you were hurt so badly?”

Badly. She couldn’t answer, just started to shake.

A growl came from him. He plucked her up like a dandelion and sat down with her in his arms. Warmth and strength enfolded her, not frightening her. Somehow. How did being ordered to talk make her blurt things out like that?

He waited, simply holding her, one hand running up and down her arm. As her trembling slowed, he said, “I know something of trauma. I have friends who were in war. Others survived the gangs. You will continue with the counselor—she and Gabi can come here—but even so, things will set you off. Panic you or make you cry. I expect that.”

Gabi? And Faith? Not alone, not abandoned. “Thank you.”

“But if simply talking does this to you, then I need to know the rest, so I can help you through it. Or avoid it. Do you understand?”

She felt dirty. Weak and useless and ruined. But he was right. She bit her lip and nodded.

“How did you manage to stab Lord Greville, and what did he do afterward?”

“As the…men…were leaving, I hid a knife in my dancing scarves.” Crawling to the veils, pulling them around her, knotting one over the blade. Her blood staining the delicate fabric. Trying to stand. Falling. Pushing to her feet. Blood trickling down her legs like warm water. “When he returned for me, I stabbed him.” She swallowed. The blade punching through his shirt, then his skin, his flesh resisting. “He jerked away as I did. Enough that I got his shoulder and not his heart. He hit me.” Knocked her across the room.

“I’m sorry you were not more accurate,” Master R said mildly. “And then?”

“He yelled, and his staff came. He was crazy mad.” Blood everywhere, yelling, insanity in his eyes. “He whipped me and then got the knife I’d used.” “I’ll cut you into pieces. Scream, slut.” She touched her ribs where the long slash had opened her to the bone. The pain had bloomed and grown and grown. “But he’d lost enough blood that he passed out.” She’d hurt so much, too much to glory in it. “They tied a bandage around my ribs and put me back in the cage. The little one.” Not the kennel. Made for a medium-sized dog and so small she couldn’t straighten her legs, couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t… Her lungs spasmed like a fish on dry land, suffocating with air all around.

“Shhh, shhh.” A big hand stroked her hair. “You’re here, gatita. No one will hurt you.”

Here. She blinked away the darkness at the edge of her vision. “They left me… I don’t know how long.” In the dark. Never let out. Bleeding. Hurting. Peeing on herself, her legs wet and stinking. The cage stinking. Her voice had broken from screaming. “Eventually they came and got me.” When the door opened, she knew she’d die and felt only relief.

He shook her gently, breaking her from the nightmarish thoughts. “Breathe for me, Kimberly.”

Slow breath. She stared out at the waves. The small windows lining the huge ones were cracked open, and the ocean’s shushing sounds rolled over her, drawing her memories away, grain by grain.

“Look at me.” He drew her back to the present. “They took you out and…?”

“The Overseer was there. They made him take me back.”

“Pobrecita,” Master R murmured.

Too tired to be afraid, she laid her cheek against his soft shirt. Beneath the thick muscles of his chest, his heart beat slowly, evenly, his breathing pulling hers into a matching rhythm. Under the influence of the even pace, she found her voice again. “The Overseer was furious because he said I was damaged, but he gave them a refund since Lord Greville’d brought in a lot of referrals. One of the Overseer’s slaves sewed me up, and I didn’t do anything for a while. After the stitches came out, I helped out in the kitchen for another week. And learned to dance.”

“No hospital?”

She managed a laugh. “Hardly. Although I got antibiotics. I think they were for dogs from a feed store.” I’m an animal.

“Well, I see why you were a bargain,” he said, breaking up her thoughts. “Almost killing your owner would definitely lower your value.” He tapped a finger on her nose. “Good job.”

She blinked, startled. A trickle of warmth crept into her at the open approval in his voice.

“Aside from being kidnapped, which would leave you insecure, most of what terrifies you happened at this Greville’s house? Rape, cage, beating. The way they treated you, being called names—you feel as if they’re right? That you’re what they called you?”

Why did it help when he…listed…things? Because it sounded like a set of problems she could deal with instead of an overwhelming chasm she’d fall into? “I… Yes.”

“Mmmmh. You get counseling already. I’ll add in some self-defense, so if you have to stab someone, you’ll do a better job.” He waited for her nod. “Getting over being raped will take time, but since you’re here in my arms, it might not be the worst of your problems. But you suffered enough that things will set you off. Unless your counselor says otherwise, we’ll stop, go through your fear so you handle it, and if possible repeat the trigger until it doesn’t work any longer.”

Maybe she could survive. Except… “Not the cage.”

He shook his head. “No, that one is for your counselor to deal with. You and I will stick with what causes you problems in your slave training.”

Slave. The word made her want to retch. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will, chiquita.”

As his arms tightened around her, she felt fear and safety mingle inside her as she was comforted…by her master. God had the oddest sense of humor.

With a low groan, Raoul pushed the weight slowly upward, his arms shaking with the strain. At the top, he dropped the bar into the rack, the clank loud in his empty weight room.

As he sat up on the bench and shook out his arms, sweat plastered his tank top to his skin, and his pecs and triceps burned. His body made the shadows on the wall dance. He’d deliberately left off most of the lights, the darkness suiting his mood.

He’d managed to keep from showing his fury when Kimberly talked about her kidnapping, but, Dios, it had been difficult to hear her voice tremble, feel her scarred body tremble.

An hour of lifting weights, of pushing himself to exhaustion and beyond, had restored his control. Leaning forward, he set his elbows on his knees and stared at his forearms. His skin was taut over the pumped muscles. His veins bulged. Yes, he was fucking strong.

Uselessly strong. He’d been too late to save his brother from dying in a filthy alley, too late to rescue this little slave before her abuse. Even worse, next time he saw the Overseer, he couldn’t beat him into the ground. Not yet. His jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. Hopefully later.

For now, his task was to heal the damage to Kimberly’s soul…and train her as his slave. He dropped his head into his hands, despair edging through his defenses. A slave. Here, in his house, the one he’d built after his divorce, not wanting to live with any memories of Alicia and their failed Master/slave relationship.

Now he would bring it back into his life.

Chapter Four

That evening, Raoul made Kimberly fix stir-fry while he sat on a tall chair at the kitchen island, sipping a beer. The way she moved was as beautiful as the way she danced. No motion wasted, everything in order. But the multitasking was making his head hurt. When he cooked, he’d fix one part; when it was done, he’d prepare the next. The little slave had several different preparations going on at once.

The slight smile on her face pleased him. Cooking was a comfort to her. He’d remember that.

Once the meal was on the table, he took a chair, holding up a finger to stop her before she sat down. As she stood beside the table, he helped himself to a bite. The flavors were excellent— strong and well balanced. “Very good, chiquita.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she said in a distant voice. She’d withdrawn emotionally from him since their talk. He understood. He tended to do the same, but it couldn’t be permitted. If she bottled up her anger and fear, he wouldn’t be able to read her or help.

“You sound unhappy.” He rested his arm on the back of the chair, deliberately letting his gaze wander down her body, the loose blue T-shirt, the baggy shorts. She’d put her hair into a long braid, and he missed seeing it free. “I think I have been a tolerant master so far. I even let you wear clothing while you were cooking.”

When her eyes widened, he frowned. At the sale house, she’d shown skill in serving drink and food. In dancing. She’d kept her eyes down, knelt gracefully, spoken only when told. Had she received more training than that? She’d said she was left alone after her kidnapping and then was sold to a sadist to be used for whippings and sex. After her return to the Overseer, she’d spent most of the time healing.