Cherise Sinclair - To Command And Collar

Masters Of The Shadowlands 6

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I’m a writer, and words are supposed to come easily to me, yet there’s no way to adequately express my appreciation to the people below.

I’m blessed to have the sweetest, most enthusiastic readers in the world. The long hours at the computer, the blurry eyes, the dirty house, and the frozen dinners-you make it worthwhile. Please realize that without your stubborn insistence (that’s a polite way to say nagging ‹g›), Master Raoul wouldn’t have a story. Truly, I adore you all.

A book is a team effort, and I’m very grateful for all those who helped get this story into your hands. A special shout-out:

To my Erotic Romance Authors critique group, who kicked the beginning of this book into shape. To Bianca Sommerland and Cari Silverwood, who beta-read it…and made me rewrite the ending again and again.

To G.G. Royale, my wonderful editor, who keeps the story on track-and made me lighten up the torture on the boat-and to the excellent line and proofing editors who made this book readable. To the Loose Id Quad who kindly ignore the way I tuck extra characters in…and how long these books have gotten. To the supremely talented artist, Christine Griffin, who’s created each Shadowlands cover and captured the ambience so well.

To Suede, who enthusiastically shares tales and answers questions. A big hug to you.

I’d like to thank Kane and careena at the Lair de Sade in Los Angeles for your warm welcome and for the tour of your huge dungeon…especially that sinister jail cell in the basement. Thanks to the generous Doms, Masters, submissives, and slaves there who shared their stories, and a special thanks to the awesome Dom who did the fireplay scene. Many hugs go to Fiona Archer from Australia, who joined me on the late-night dungeon jaunt despite an early flight. That’s friendship above and beyond the call of duty.

To my wonderful, creative, loving children, real and honorary, who put up with a mom who disappears for hours at a time. And last but never least, to my good-natured husband for his patience when I say “uh-huh” without hearing a word. You’re the reason I can write about love.

Bless you all.

Cherise

To my readers,

This book is fiction, not reality and, as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

You, my darlings, live in the real world and I want you to take a little more time than the heroines you read about. Good Doms don't grow on trees and there's some strange people out there. So while you're looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

When you find him, realize he can't read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you're going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little-he's a Dom, after all-but you have your safeword. You will have a safeword, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.

Remember: safe , sane and consensual .

Know that I'm hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close. Let me know how you're doing. I worry, you know.

Meantime, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.

– Cherise

Kimberly Moore kept her eyes focused on her long, transparent skirt. The silky material provided no cushioning for her knees on the cold tile floor. But she should be used to misery- since the day she’d been kidnapped, her life had held no comforts, just pain and abuse. And it looked about to get worse. Don’t move. Don’t tense. Don’t show anger.

The Overseer stepped closer, his boots-black like his soul-entering her field of vision. “The three buyers are in the living room. Serve them drinks, hors d'oeuvres. Use your bodies to please them. I suggest you all do your best. If you’re not bought, you’ll entertain the staff in any way they choose, and then be auctioned off next month.”

A new owner . Trembling started deep in Kim’s center, and bile rose into her throat. She tried to swallow, but her collar seemed to tighten, choking off her breath, choking off her life. Forcing a slow inhalation, she kept her hands still. Don’t try to rip it off . A scar ran up her neck from the first collar she’d cut off, slicing herself in the process.

Lord Greville had beaten her until she’d vomited from the nightmarish pain. As her hands had smudged the blood on the concrete, she’d futilely wished her knife had sliced deeper-an artery and not merely her skin.

Endure. Be silent . She tightened her stomach muscles and made herself into a statue. The Overseer’s boots remained in her vision for another moment before he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.

The sound of his footsteps had faded completely before Kim dared look up. She could keep her face from betraying her, but not her eyes. Any slaver seeing the hatred in her eyes would beat her.

“Buyers,” Holly whimpered.

Kim reached over to squeeze the nineteen-year-old blonde’s hand. “Shhh. It’ll be fine.

Maybe there’s a nice one here tonight.”

“Do you think so?” Hope filled Holly’s sweet face.

“Who knows?”

The third slave in the kitchen took Holly’s other hand. “Be strong, honey. We’ll get through this.” She shook her head at Kim, disapproving of giving the younger woman false expectations. They both knew nice men didn’t buy kidnapped women.

Kim only wanted to be purchased, to get away from the Overseer. After that, somehow- somehow she’d get free. She remembered for an instant the surge of the ocean under her boat, the scent and taste of a briny breeze, the camaraderie of the other Georgia biologists. Keep those memories, but bury them deep, where whips can’t reach . She’d get home again. Somehow. Maybe tonight. Any change in routine presented opportunity for escape, especially during transportation. She’d learned the hard way chances decreased once a buyer got her home. Slaves were put into closets or basements when the masters weren’t using them. A shiver ran over her skin. Or cages.

She swallowed. Her defiance had broken against the heavy steel of the dog-sized cage. On hands and knees, unable to stand, to move. Pissing down her legs. Panicking and screaming until her voice gave out.

Her master hadn’t liked it when she’d tried to kill him.