Make Me, Sir
Page 38
Z looked at Marcus, no expression on his face. “I gave her to you because I could ask you to keep her when any other dom would have dumped her after the first night. Or abused her. I knew you wouldn’t let your anger rule you.” Z leaned back and took a drink of the beer Cullen had given him, obviously giving them time to absorb everything.
His word. Marcus scrubbed his face, feeling the rough stubble. An honest man didn’t break his word.
Cullen snorted. “Dan would call this a clusterfuck.”
Marcus stared out at the palm trees. The black shapes blotted out the stars. Cullen had it right; this was a clusterfuck with no path that didn’t involve betrayal or damage. Knowing Z’s protectiveness toward submissives, Marcus understood his need to help. With a sigh, Marcus gave up. “It must have got you all riled up to see her punished for doing her job.”
Z’s shoulders sagged, the only sign he’d worried over Marcus’s opinion. “Nothing about this has been easy for anyone.” His eyes met Marcus’s. “Marcus, I am sorry.”
“Appears to me you didn’t have a choice. And Gabrielle knew what she was getting into.”
“I doubt that. Although I insisted she fill out the questionnaire honestly, I daresay she pushed her own comfort zone—she didn’t want to take a chance she’d fail to attract attention. Unfortunately, I believe her experience was limited and lightweight and several years ago.”
“Fuck.” Cullen’s face turned to granite. “I ball gagged her. How could I not have—”
Z nodded. “And that reaction justifies the reasoning for secrecy. How can you punish misbehavior appropriately if you know the sub is acting? The two agents in charge of the investigation are both experienced doms; they knew how we’d react.”
“Brave little sub,” Cullen said. “I know FBI agents are tough cookies, but…”
Z winced. “Not to add to your guilt, Marcus, though I doubt it can exceed mine, but she’s not an agent.”
“Excuse me?” Marcus said, keeping his voice as polite as he could manage.
“I didn’t find out until this week when her backup sniped about her lack of training.” Z rubbed his forehead again. “She’s a victim specialist—a social worker who helps the victims of crime.”
“Why the hell is a social worker here?” Marcus asked. His jaw felt so tight it might shatter.
“One of the women kidnapped in Atlanta is her friend. Gabrielle volunteered—demanded—to help. I daresay BDSM-experienced submissives are in short supply among FBI agents, so they took her up on it.” Z shifted in his chair. “Marcus, she’s one of the bravest people I know. She is completely terrified and doing this anyway.”
Terrified. He’d seen her fear. Every single night. He set his drink down carefully. He’d made her fear worse. He’d spanked her. Mercilessly. He’d hurt an innocent, vulnerable woman and made her cry.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabi’s brain slowly thawed from an icy ball into something functional. Her fingers clenched her crocheted throw to her breasts like a security blanket. Her eyes opened to focus on her bland apartment.
She tried to move. Failed. She frowned down at the thickly muscled arm around her waist, holding her against a hard chest. I don’t know that arm. Marcus’s arms were powerful but leaner. She looked up, past the corded neck, the strong jaw, and into chocolate brown eyes. Not blue. “Master Raoul.”
He smiled at her. “Back with me again? How do you feel?”
What was he doing in her apartment? As her memories flooded in, her breath strangled in her throat. Flogging. Marcus. Questions. The other doms. Her jaw clenched. This dom had stood and watched while Marcus turned her into jelly and interrogated her.
She shoved his arm away and rose, ignoring the weakness in her legs. “I want you to leave now.” Pulling her blanket more tightly around her bare shoulders, she tried to conceal her shivering. Her apartment felt as if someone had set the air-conditioning to thirty degrees, and the chill had gone bone-deep. She might never be warm again.
“Chiquita…”
“Go away.” In her head, she could see her mother’s disapproval at her rudeness. I don’t care.
“You’re still shaking, Gabrielle,” he said.
Raoul had been kind to her. He’d stayed silent on the drive home, not trying to make excuses for Marcus or blaming her for lying to them. Instead he’d held her hand in his big warm one as if to remind her she wasn’t alone. He’d escorted her to her apartment. Once inside, he’d ignored her protests and held her as she had a meltdown.
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—”
“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.
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?
His word. Marcus scrubbed his face, feeling the rough stubble. An honest man didn’t break his word.
Cullen snorted. “Dan would call this a clusterfuck.”
Marcus stared out at the palm trees. The black shapes blotted out the stars. Cullen had it right; this was a clusterfuck with no path that didn’t involve betrayal or damage. Knowing Z’s protectiveness toward submissives, Marcus understood his need to help. With a sigh, Marcus gave up. “It must have got you all riled up to see her punished for doing her job.”
Z’s shoulders sagged, the only sign he’d worried over Marcus’s opinion. “Nothing about this has been easy for anyone.” His eyes met Marcus’s. “Marcus, I am sorry.”
“Appears to me you didn’t have a choice. And Gabrielle knew what she was getting into.”
“I doubt that. Although I insisted she fill out the questionnaire honestly, I daresay she pushed her own comfort zone—she didn’t want to take a chance she’d fail to attract attention. Unfortunately, I believe her experience was limited and lightweight and several years ago.”
“Fuck.” Cullen’s face turned to granite. “I ball gagged her. How could I not have—”
Z nodded. “And that reaction justifies the reasoning for secrecy. How can you punish misbehavior appropriately if you know the sub is acting? The two agents in charge of the investigation are both experienced doms; they knew how we’d react.”
“Brave little sub,” Cullen said. “I know FBI agents are tough cookies, but…”
Z winced. “Not to add to your guilt, Marcus, though I doubt it can exceed mine, but she’s not an agent.”
“Excuse me?” Marcus said, keeping his voice as polite as he could manage.
“I didn’t find out until this week when her backup sniped about her lack of training.” Z rubbed his forehead again. “She’s a victim specialist—a social worker who helps the victims of crime.”
“Why the hell is a social worker here?” Marcus asked. His jaw felt so tight it might shatter.
“One of the women kidnapped in Atlanta is her friend. Gabrielle volunteered—demanded—to help. I daresay BDSM-experienced submissives are in short supply among FBI agents, so they took her up on it.” Z shifted in his chair. “Marcus, she’s one of the bravest people I know. She is completely terrified and doing this anyway.”
Terrified. He’d seen her fear. Every single night. He set his drink down carefully. He’d made her fear worse. He’d spanked her. Mercilessly. He’d hurt an innocent, vulnerable woman and made her cry.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabi’s brain slowly thawed from an icy ball into something functional. Her fingers clenched her crocheted throw to her breasts like a security blanket. Her eyes opened to focus on her bland apartment.
She tried to move. Failed. She frowned down at the thickly muscled arm around her waist, holding her against a hard chest. I don’t know that arm. Marcus’s arms were powerful but leaner. She looked up, past the corded neck, the strong jaw, and into chocolate brown eyes. Not blue. “Master Raoul.”
He smiled at her. “Back with me again? How do you feel?”
What was he doing in her apartment? As her memories flooded in, her breath strangled in her throat. Flogging. Marcus. Questions. The other doms. Her jaw clenched. This dom had stood and watched while Marcus turned her into jelly and interrogated her.
She shoved his arm away and rose, ignoring the weakness in her legs. “I want you to leave now.” Pulling her blanket more tightly around her bare shoulders, she tried to conceal her shivering. Her apartment felt as if someone had set the air-conditioning to thirty degrees, and the chill had gone bone-deep. She might never be warm again.
“Chiquita…”
“Go away.” In her head, she could see her mother’s disapproval at her rudeness. I don’t care.
“You’re still shaking, Gabrielle,” he said.
Raoul had been kind to her. He’d stayed silent on the drive home, not trying to make excuses for Marcus or blaming her for lying to them. Instead he’d held her hand in his big warm one as if to remind her she wasn’t alone. He’d escorted her to her apartment. Once inside, he’d ignored her protests and held her as she had a meltdown.
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—”
“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.
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?
