This is Who I Am
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.
She didn’t look back. No, not at all. Because if he saw how terrified she was, he’d never let her through the door.
* * * *
“You look at me now like they did…showed more feeling to their dogs.” Sam walked through the Shadowlands as Linda’s words swirled through his memory. Painfully.
The club was coming to life. Cullen and Andrea were setting up the bar. At the sound system, Z was choosing the music for the evening.
Sam shook his head. It was a crying shame Z would play country-western music only on the rare western-theme nights.
Sam stepped up to the bar. “Got a water back there?”
Andrea’s whiskey-colored hair blanketed her shoulders as she brought him a bottle. She set it on the bar top. “You don’t look so great. Are you feeling all right?”
Cullen’s sub was almost as observant as her Dom. “Long week. And Z saddled me with the trainees again, damn him.”
Andrea grinned and looked past Sam. “Hear that, Master Z?”
“Oddly enough, the trainees say they enjoy having you as a trainer.” Z moved from behind Sam to take a seat on a bar stool. He gave Sam a long look. “Andrea is right. You don’t look up to par.”
Andrea turned at a call from Cullen and moved away.
“I fear I didn’t get a chance to warn you,” Z said. “I added another trainee to see how she’ll work out.”
Sam gave him a sour look. “I noticed. How’d that happen?”
“Perhaps submissives shouldn’t be allowed to fraternize.”
Sam snorted. “Good luck. What’s that got to do with Linda?”
“They discussed the spotter.”
Sam’s hand tightened on the bottle of water until the plastic crackled. “Jessica talked to them?”
“No. Linda did. Then Sally suggested a trainee position so Linda could meet all the members without being obvious.”
“That’s hogwash.”
“My first reaction. She’s been through too much already.” Z leaned one elbow on the bar, turning toward Sam. “Buchanan and Kouros found it an excellent idea. And she agreed.”
“Why is she so determined?” Sam remembered her panic during the scene last week. She’d scared the crap out of him.
“Mixture of reasons.” Z rubbed his temple as if his head hurt. “A bit of healthy payback motivation. I enjoyed that. Wanting to fight past her fears.” He sighed. “Mostly to protect the others.”
“That damned maternal instinct,” Sam muttered.
“Indeed.” Z stared across the bar at nothing. “Kim once mentioned how important Linda was to her and the other slaves. Apparently she mothered them all.”
Dammit.
“What happened between you two?” Z asked.
Sam gave him a cold look.
“Normally, your relationship wouldn’t be my business, no. But she’s now a trainee.”
And the Shadowlands owner stood as Master to the trainees. Sam drank some water, his throat desert dry. “She wanted more than I can give.” Wanted him to love her. Worse, to be able to say it.
“Yes? You have money enough to support a woman. You’re obviously adequate with both sex and scenes—submissives beg for your attention. You’re smart, careful, controlled.” Z tapped his fingers on the bar. “What aren’t you giving her?”
Sam stared at him.
Z’s lips twitched. “That says it all. You’re not talking to her?”
Goddamned psychologist. Sam thumped the bottle of water onto the bar top. “That’s not who I am, dammit.”
Z studied him as if he were a submissive. “You never told your mother that you loved her?”
“Of course I did.” Every bedtime. When leaving the house. Whenever she’d said it to him, and she had often. The words had come easily enough. “Love you, Mom.”
“When you were young, did you tell your girlfriend your concerns about school? Making ends meet?” Z waited for an answer.
Sam frowned, trying to remember. In the military. Complaining about a hard-ass lieutenant—one who reminded him of his stepfather. As a civilian, attending college at night. Telling…Tammy—that was her name—about how he worried over his grades. “Guess I did.”
“How about your daughter? Do you discuss your worries about the farm? Or tell her what she means to you?”
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. How long had it been since he’d said anything like that to her?
Z straightened. “At one time, you were that kind of a person. Now you’re not. To me, that says you changed because of some experience.”
Sam frowned, knowledge getting a good clamp on his guts. He’d experienced Nancy.
“Think about it. Figure out if you want that experience to determine the rest of your life.” Z took a few steps away before glancing back with a slight smile. “Be nice to the trainees, please. There’s a new one tonight, and she’s nervous.”
Goddammit.
After stewing at the bar for far too long, Sam headed through the room to check on his trainees. He stopped near the back to watch old Gerald strapping his wife to a whipping post. At least seventy, Martha was what Sam would consider a lightweight masochist. But pain fulfilled something in her, both in her submission to Gerald and erotically.
Once Martha was restrained, Gerald swatted her ass with a narrow paddle, watching her as if she were a Playboy bunny. After a few blows, he leaned down and tucked a stray lock of gray hair behind her ear. He was speaking softly.
But Sam could hear him.
“I love you, Martha mine. Love seeing you wiggle. Love seeing you pant. Love you, period.”
The look in her eyes was…indescribable.
Sam walked away. That’s what Linda wanted. That baring of the soul. Emotions. Z hit the nail right on the head. Damn Nancy for messing with his mind. Damn himself for letting her and retreating so far he couldn’t give Linda what she needed. So far that she compared him to a slaver.
Near the end of the room, Sam saw a Dom considering some of the paddles hanging on the wall. Z didn’t bother with artwork—not when he had toys to display. Maybe Sam should decorate his walls that way too. He frowned, remembering the painting that used to hang over the mantel—one of the farmhouse when it was first built.
Nancy had destroyed it in a tantrum. With the talent of a manipulator, she’d destroyed anything they loved. Sometimes just objects, other times nonphysical prizes—memories and emotions. Whatever she discovered about a person, she later used as a weapon. He’d learned to keep everything to himself.