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“I don’t think⁠—”

“You need to show me, actually. You’re away from your master, and I am returning you to him. While he’s not here, you need to do as I say, within reason. Unbuttoning your shirt is a small request.”

I had no idea what the protocol was, but I seriously doubted he was telling me the truth. The thing was, I didn’t want the act—me strolling the grounds by myself—to have attention drawn to it, so I complied.

When my shirt was unbuttoned, he flattened his hands on my chest, sliding them over my skin like he was sculpting my pecs.

“Your body is perfect.”

I just stood there, waiting.

His hands ran down my abdomen and finally settled on my hips as his eyes lifted to mine. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

It took a lot of concentration not to move away.

“These scars,” he said, tracing a fingertip over one that bisected my collarbone, “are from some kind of service. These are not bondage scars. These were made to try and kill you, not for fun, not for punishment. I know the difference.”

“How do you know?”

His smile did nothing for his eyes, infused no warmth. “I’ve inflicted some that look like this, seen more.”

“You’re in the service?”

“Not here.”

“Where are you from?”

His eyes narrowed, and too late, I saw his gaze slip past me.

Hands gripped my wrists, the back of my neck, and I was shoved forward. Someone grabbed the chain and used it to choke me, and I was shown a knife before I felt the tug on my belt.

I was not small. I was strong and big, so the very idea of being overpowered and held down, having others force themselves on me … rape me … had never ever entered my consciousness. It was not something that could happen to me.

But there were so many hands, and my belt was cut from the back and pulled through the loops, the buckle yanked off from the front. I saw what looked like a wide pommel horse, just four steps into the bushes in a small clearing, like it was natural that it should be there under the stars. Rings had been soldered into the concrete base so chains could be attached, leashes fed through and tethered. I was slammed down, winded, my chest smacking the wood, head thumping hard enough that, for a second, my vision swam. One of the men took that opportunity to show me the large hunting knife he’d used to destroy my belt, serrated and thick, and I wished I could see it better, but I could barely focus.

Fingers were inside the back of my jeans, sliding close to the top of my crease, and I heard the rip as the knife began slicing through denim. For a second, a beat of time, a rush of terror, of futility, swept through me, but I moved my right foot in reaction, just a slight jolt, and I realized it was free.

In law enforcement, there were two schools of thought. One said it was all you and your weapon. Your gun would get you out of any dilemma—become a marksman and learn the lethal art of bringing down any target.

My partner was very good with his firearm. You did not want to face him down in an alley if you both had your guns drawn. Jimmy O’Meara would put a bullet in your head before you even thought to return fire. Sam Kage was the same way, as evidenced by the cannon the man carried as his spare.

I had never been a great shot and so had to depend on the second protocol of self-defense—the whole dive-into-the-fray part most cops didn’t much care for. I was the guy who tried to grab you before you could get the gun clear of the holster. It was not the preferred way for a policeman to conduct himself. It accounted for me being hurt more than Jimmy or Sam, as the distance the gun created kept you clear of fists, bats, brass knuckles, and knives. What I’d found, however, was that people who depended on their guns were not so great with the hand-to-hand stuff—except the special ops guys, of course—or the grappling.

So, when I drew back with my leg, pushed forward, and got it under me, my leverage got better, and I was able to twist sideways and kick out.

The sound of a knee popping, followed by a high-pitched wail, was music to my ears.

“You fuck!”

I lifted in time to get a fist in my face, my left eye feeling like it had liquefied and spurted out of my socket. There was blood, and I knew it was mine, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t helpless anymore.

When he turned and swung at me with his leg, I threw myself back, clear of the kick, and dropped to the ground. When I rolled, my hand slid over my discarded belt buckle in the gravel clearing, and I grabbed it, wrapping the belt up fast as I got to my knees.

“No!” I heard Goran yell, but his man charged me anyway.

When he was close enough, he got a fist to his balls. With my belt wrapped around my hand, it had a larger surface, which doubled the force of my blow. He dropped like a rock.

My heartbeat was pounding in my ears as I sprang to my feet and kicked the guy in the head, rendering him unconscious. Then I turned on the other, who was still clutching his knee, and kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs.