Freeing Rowan (Masters Club 3)

She had so much potential. She only needed a little guidance to bring her submission into its full flower. But instead of nurturing Rowan’s natural submissive grace, Garfield had simply demanded blind obedience. He had taken her extraordinary gift and perverted it to his own end.

If only she’d had a little more time in the safe, warm environment of the Masters Club. Then she might have refused Master Asswipe when he’d come storming in, filled with the misplaced righteous indignation of a wannabe Dom who didn’t have a clue.

Yet now hope flared like a warm flame in Eric’s heart. She had reached out, taking that first step to get out of what he was sure was an abusive relationship. And Eric was the one she’d called.

Finally, after what seemed like ten hours, but was in reality only fifty-eight minutes, the driver pulled to the curb in front of an old-fashioned railroad car building with a big red-lettered sign that read Suzie’s Diner above the double glass doors.

“Thanks, man,” Eric said, opening his door before the car had come to a full stop. He’d already paid and tipped the driver on the app. “Can you just wait a second in case I still need you? I’ll just be a moment.”

“Sure.”

Eric raced up the sidewalk to the building. Yanking the door open with more force than necessary, he stopped just inside, swiveling his head as he scanned the dim interior.

“How many?” a young woman said, suddenly appearing in front of him.

“Oh, uh, I’m meeting someone,” Eric replied distractedly, his heart racing.

Then he saw her, seated alone in a back booth, her face toward the door—toward him. He glanced at the hostess. “I’ll just be a sec and then I’ll seat myself if that’s okay.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he turned back to the door. Opening it, he stuck out his head and waved at the Uber driver, indicating he could go.

With an answering wave, the guy pulled away.

Eric streaked back inside. “Thanks,” he said to the hostess as he hurried toward Rowan.

She rose as he approached, looking even younger than her twenty-three years in a faded pink T-shirt and jeans. She managed a hesitant smile as he approached, though her large, dark eyes were troubled, her face drawn.

Without giving himself a moment to think about it, Eric pulled her into a strong embrace and held her close. Her breasts were soft against his chest, and the scent of her jasmine-orange shampoo stroked his senses like a caress.

She pulled back a little, recalling him to himself. He abruptly let her go and took a step back, looking her over properly this time. She appeared intact, no obvious bruises, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Are you okay? I got here as fast as I could.”

They slid into the booth on opposite sides. “Yeah, I’m okay,” she said. She blew out a breath. “Thanks so much for coming all the way out here, Eric. I honestly didn’t know who else to call.”

“No, I’m glad you did. Really glad. What happened? Are you still in danger? Should we call the cops? Did he hurt you?” Eric tried to keep his voice calm and his temper under control.

“No,” she replied quickly. “I don’t want to involve the police. The thought of being questioned by a bunch of cops, of having to tell them about the whole Master/slave thing and listening to them snigger…” She hugged herself, rocking anxiously.

Eric blew out a breath, aware the last thing Rowan needed right now was another man making her decisions for her. But Garfield shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.

“I understand how you feel and I respect your decision,” he said. “But the fact you felt you had to run away with nothing but the clothes on your back… If he’s hurt you, threatened you, he shouldn’t be left free to possibly do it again, to you or to someone else.”

She gripped the white ceramic coffee mug on the table in front of her and stared down into it. “No, I know,” she said. “But he didn’t hurt me. Not in the way you mean.”

Her hand moved to the slave collar still around her neck, her fingers curling around the stiff leather. “He—he punished me for something I said.” Her voice trailed off to a mumble as she stared down at the table.

Eric leaned forward to hear her better. His heart cracked at her obvious pain and humiliation as she told him about the cage, and being left alone all night, cuffed and gagged, helpless in the dark.

Fury flared like white-hot heat in Eric’s gut. Garfield had violated one of the most basic tenants of a BDSM power exchange—keeping your sub safe from harm. He dug his nails into his palms as he struggled to keep his voice level.