Tender Mercies - By Kitty Thomas Page 0,12

her eyes.

And the fact that her back had been bandaged on the night of a showing––by her from the looks of it––was bad form. Any master who would show his property with the intent to sell right after he’d left marks wasn’t fit to own another person.

He remembered when he’d lived in the States, how he’d witnessed animal cruelty, people who left dogs chained up for weeks with barely enough food or water, cats who had been left flea-bitten in crates. Why would one own a pet if they only intended to mistreat it? To Asher, slaves were the same as pets. Why acquire one if you were just going to abuse it? You could never truly own something that hated you. But some masters, like Lucas, were too fucked up to get that.

Asher moved to the wall of books and pulled a green leather volume out halfway. The bookcase slid to the side to reveal a secret passage. It wasn’t that secret, of course. William was aware of it. He’d been quite amused by it, in fact. The island was a place where fantasies became reality: dreams of owning a slave, having a mansion, having a secret passage. Whatever he’d wanted so far in his life, once money became no object he’d been prepared to do anything to get everything on that list.

Some wealthy men bought jets, some liked to hide extra rooms in their house. He flipped a switch to turn on lights and descended the stone staircase. As nice as the idea of torches lining the walls had seemed, he’d opted for more practical dome lights that created a similar ambiance.

He remembered when Darcy had come over and how she’d squealed in delight at the secret dungeon room. She’d been fresh from a life of freedom living in Europe. Like many of the masters on the island, he hadn’t wanted to buy a pre-owned slave. He’d wanted someone fresh. Someone he could mold completely as he liked from the ground up. Perhaps he’d feared he wasn’t a brutal enough master, that his kindness would be seen as weakness by someone with more experience. And sometimes, perhaps it had been.

He’d allowed her to wrap herself around his little finger, showing her leniency when he should have shown her discipline. In the end, he’d lost control of her so much it had taken James and a bullwhip to right the balance. But then there had been nothing left to balance.

He crossed to one of many boxes of toys and implements of pain and dug around until he found it: the whip that had killed Darcy. The bullwhip still had a bit of her blood dried on the tip. He could no longer leave the weapon hidden away in a chest. He had to see it, every day. If he was to own another slave he had to be reminded of what his mistakes could cost him so he wouldn’t make them again. He hung the coiled whip on a hook at eye level.

His mind went to the slave. He didn’t even know her name yet. He’d know once he had the paperwork on her, assuming Lucas would sell to him. There were a couple of others who’d shown a great deal of interest––too much interest for Asher’s taste, and their reputations weren’t much better than the bastard she was with.

The longer he stood in the dungeon, the more obsessed he became with having her. She was so pale and seemingly fragile. How she’d survived under such brutality he had no idea. Her hair, like spun gold, had been long and covered a good portion of her back. But of course the edges of the bandages had shown, and when she’d turned he could see the blood that had seeped through.

Her body drew his eye, but he was ashamed to admit, it was her fear and desperation that had awakened him. His cock had jumped to attention immediately as he’d taken in the sight of her. She had delicate, pert breasts, which her master had neglected to pierce. No piercings below her waist, either.

It was an indication that he’d always intended to keep her to entertain himself for a while and then sell her for a profit. Unpierced slaves were easier to sell since most masters wanted to do that themselves. Piercings were personal, much like a brand, and not something many wanted secondhand. It would only drive the price down. Which begged the question of why he’d present her