She could feel her lips trembling, how her skin had gone cold, and somehow couldn’t pull her gaze from the direction he’d taken. From where he’d disappeared.
He hadn’t even looked back. Please. No.
“Mistress.” Joey’s voice recalled her. Blinking, she looked down at him, and his expression turned to concern.
That wouldn’t do. She was the Domme. Supposed to be in control of herself. Able to support those who were weaker.
It took all her strength to bulldoze the damage under enough to move. She had to swallow several times before her voice could get past the rawness. “Joey, I’m not taking on any slaves right now.”
The floor was shaking under her feet; no, the trembling came from deep inside her.
“Oh, but Mistress.” His voice broke. “I-I need…” Desolation filled his eyes before he looked down.
Disgusted with herself, she straightened her shoulders and pushed her self-pity and ego away. She was a Mistress of the Shadowlands; this was a submissive who needed help. “Do you want me to find you a new Mistress?”
His gaze lifted, hope lighting his face. “Really?”
She managed to curve her lips up. “I’m sure I can find a Domme who is more of a sadist than me. I should have done better for you, pet.”
He bent and kissed her boot. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
“Give me a few days to make some inquiries, and I’ll get back to you.”
Quivering with happiness, he rose and backed away. Then hesitated, and his brow furrowed as he looked at her.
She motioned with her hand. Off with you.
He complied. He knew better than to linger if she indicated otherwise.
Ben would have ignored her wishes, would have talked to her and comforted her, no matter what she said she wanted. The thought brought another stab of agony as she looked around, hoping against hope he’d changed his mind.
No tall man topped the crowd, broad shoulders taking up more than his share of the space.
He’d left. Just walked out without talking to her. Without even giving her a chance to work it out. Why? After pushing himself into her life, he just…gave up?
The savage ball of pain in her chest continued to grow, pressing against her ribs, cutting off her breathing. One hand over her heart, the other over her baby, Anne struggled for the next breath.
“What was that about?” Raoul appeared in front of her. “What hap—”
Cullen stalked from behind the bar. “What happened was she ripped his heart right out of his chest.” His eyes were chill. Unhappy. “That man trusted you. Was doing his damnedest to serve you, and you go right back to your previous slave and—”
“I what?” Anne stiffened. “Tell me, Master Cullen, have you touched another submissive since Andrea became yours?” Her gaze went to the bar ornament and back to him.
“That’s different. I wasn’t hitting on her. Andrea knows that.”
“I wasn’t either,” she said softly. God, God, she couldn’t take this. Tears kept filling her eyes, and the struggle to blink them back pissed her off.
It all pissed her off. As anger battered her defenses into broken fragments, she knew the damn hormones were messing with her.
And yet…wasn’t Cullen supposed to be her friend too? And Raoul, as well. She’d held his hand when his ex had almost gutted him. Didn’t they know her character at all?
She couldn’t survive losing more friends, more family, more… But she already had, it seemed.
From a place deep in her soul, she found her Mistress gear and strapped it on like a weapons belt.
“Anne.” Even as Raoul stepped forward, his hand out, she shot him a stare that made him stop.
“You needn’t worry about your guard dog.” Her voice came out calm and cold. Dead. “Or protect the vulnerable submissives from the dishonorable—cheating—Mistress.”
Cullen flinched. “That’s not—”
“Tell Z to cancel my membership,” she told him.
He took a step back. “What?”
In the moment that shock held the Masters pinned, she made her escape. Not running, but quickly.
Because Mistresses didn’t walk through the Shadowlands crying.
Chapter Twenty-Six
On Wednesday, after four days in the swamps, Ben parked his Jeep at the curb of his warehouse and hauled his weary carcass out. His sweaty, filthy, rain-sodden clothes dragged at him.
His spirits felt as if they were trailing behind him on the ground. He was a fucking mess.
How could he be so damned angry with Anne and yet miss her so damned much? Every time he thought about that night at the Shadowlands, his head pounded with pain, like the inside of an artillery shelling.