Protecting His Own (Masters of the Shadowlands Book 11)

  About Protecting His Own

  Masters of the Shadowlands: 11

  From the heartbreaking first chapter to the last I dont think I ever had a dry eye during this book. This was one emotional powerhouse of a story.

  ~ SNS Reviews

  A man protects those given into his care.

  Landscape designer, Beth King survived an abusive husband and built a new life for herself with the help of Master Nolan, the strongest, most protective man she has ever known. She loves him with all her heart, but the one thing he wants, she can’t give him. To her grief, the damage from her abusive first marriage means she can’t bear him children.

  As Beth and Nolan change their plans and pursue adoption, they’re already imagining a baby girl in the nursery. But when two boys from the local domestic violence shelter see their mother taken to the hospital, they call Beth in a panic. Agreeing to care for them temporarily, Beth soon falls in love with the two adorable boys.

  Now Master Nolan has a new problem. How can he protect the children when their drug-addicted mother is released—and how the hell can he keep his sweet submissive’s heart from being broken when they leave?

  Heads-up, my dears: the story is heartwarming…yet heartbreaking due to children in a domestic violence situation.

  Protecting His Own gets a FIRM BUT TOUCHING, FIVE SHOOTING STARS! This book will leave your emotions in every which way and back again!

  ~ Marie’s Tempting Reads

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  Protecting His Own

  Masters of the Shadowlands 11

  Cherise Sinclair

  VanScoy Publishing Group

  Protecting His Own

  Copyright © 2016 by Cherise Sinclair

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9975529-0-4

  Published by VanScoy Publishing Group

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, business establishments, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.

  Disclaimer: Please do not try any new sexual practice, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor the author will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.

  Acknowledgments

  Let’s start with the usual suspects. My crit buddies, Bianca Sommerland, Fiona Archer, and Monette Michaels get warm, squishy hugs and kisses for wading through rough drafts and helping unearth the actual plot.

  Many thanks go to Red Quill Editing for polishing this book into readability. They even worked on weekends to get the book finished quickly. Blessings upon Saya and her crew.

  A big hug to Ruth Reid who vetted the psychology for me. You’re awesome, Ruth!

  In the past, three readers have (ever so tactfully) pointed out errors that escaped my various editors and publishers. Well, a job well done means someone hands you a new job, right? This time, I recruited them before the manuscript was published. Thank you, Lisa White, Barb Jack, and Marian Shulman, for your incredibly sharp eyes, your knowledge of grammar, and your wonderful suggestions.

  To all of you who have survived abuse, as children or adults, and struggled through the aftermath, I know it can be so very tough at times. Hang in there, my dears. Get help from friends and family and therapists. And know that slowly, but surely, there is healing.

  Author’s Note

  To my readers,

  The books I write are 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 in your relationships. Good Doms don’t grow on trees, and there are 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 will have your safe word. You will have a safe word, 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.

  And while you’re looking or even if you have already found your dearheart, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.

  Love,

  Cherise

  Chapter One

  “Beff?”

  In the center yard of the Tomorrow is Mine domestic violence shelter, Beth King smiled at the four-year-old boy. Each time he couldn’t pronounce the “th” in her name, her heart melted. Had any gardener had such an adorable assistant? “Yes, sweetie?”

  He set a tiny dandelion on the weed pile, and his little brow furrowed as he frowned. “Lamar tooked my coloring book, but Grant made him give it back.”

  “I’m glad Grant was there.” Connor’s brother was seven and as protective as they came.

  “But…” Connor shook his head to show she’d missed the point. “Lamar doesn’t like to color.”

  Ah. The problem wasn’t the attempted theft, but the illogical behavior. She removed her gloves to stroke his ear-length, dark brown hair, and he tilted his head into her hand. Always so grateful for affection. “Maybe Lamar saw that coloring made you happy, and he hoped your book would make him happy, too.”

  Connor scrunched his face up in thought. “Uh-uh. He hates sitting still.”

  “He’ll learn. People don’t always know what makes them happy, but stealing is a sure way to get a big helping of unhappiness.”

  Worry gone, he giggled. “Grant yelled at him, and he runned away.”

  “There you go.” Heart full, she hugged him. When the boy had first arrived at the Tampa shelter last spring, he’d rarely spoken. Now, in mid-July, he chattered like a magpie in his little-boy-speak.

  He hugged her back and whispered into her shirt. “Beff? We going home.”

  She froze. “Today?”

  “Uh-huh. Going back to our and Jermaine’s place ’cause Mama needs to get from here. She says here is driving her crazy.”

  “I’m”—Beth steadied her voice—“I’m sorry to hear that, honey.” Their departure wasn’t a complete surprise, after all. When Drusilla McCormick’s boyfriend, Jermaine, had completed the court-ordered anger management classes, he’d asked her to return. Dammit. With Drusilla’s history of drug abuse, she’d do better to dump him and find new friends.

  This was Drusilla’s second visit to the shelter since Ma
y. The first reconciliation with Jermaine had succeeded until they fought over money, and he put her in the hospital. Drugs and abuse—the combination went hand-in-hand and was never good for the children.

  Please, let the anger management classes have worked for the jerk. And let both of them stay clean.

  She rested her cheek on Connor’s head and held him close. Although still too skinny, he’d gained weight at the shelter. “Are you leaving this morning?” she asked past the lump in her throat.

  He nodded and rubbed his face against her shoulder.

  Darn it, she’d miss him and Grant so much.

  As if conjured from the air, his big brother trotted across the yard. “Mama’s ready to leave, Connor.”

  “Hey, you.” Beth held her hand out.

  He hesitated, far too reserved to push for affection as Connor did. But, when she put her arm around him, he soaked up the hug like a rain-starved plant. His mother wasn’t affectionate. In fact, when the shelter had given Grant a party for his seventh birthday, Drusilla appeared only long enough to eat some cake.

  Yet, from what Grant said, she had been a good mother before her husband’s death in Iraq last year. Before she’d started drinking and then using meth. Beth couldn’t even imagine the pain of losing the man she loved; just the thought was like being stabbed in the chest.

  However, Drusilla had two children who needed her care. Didn’t the woman realize what precious gifts she’d been given? Beth had spent the past year trying everything she could for the chance at one child.

  “Beff, we gots to go.”

  “I know, baby.” She hugged the boys harder, wishing she could surround them with a protective shield. What if they run into trouble? She should at least give them her phone number. Her overprotective Master would grumble, but he was so softhearted, he’d understand. And he wasn’t here to fuss, anyway. “Do you know how to make phone calls, Grant?”

  “Sure.” He waited. Brown eyes the color of rich milk chocolate were steady on hers. He was the first-born. The tough guy. He’d told her it was his job to protect his little brother and his mother, too.

  As a child, Nolan had probably been just like him. The thought of her husband brought an ache of loneliness. “I’ll give you my number. If you need me or want to talk, you call, okay? Or you place the call so Connor can talk.”

  Connor bounced in agreement. Grant would never call to chat; like Nolan, he was all action, no words. However, if Grant dialed, Connor could get on the line and babble at her, and she’d know they were all right.

  Grant considered. “Okay.”

  Beth let out the breath she’d been holding. “Good. My number’s easy. 555-1234. Can you remember it?”

  “555-1234,” he returned. To her amusement, Connor echoed him in his higher voice.

  Such bright kids. “Perfect.”

  Their mother appeared in the door, shoving her brittle blonde hair back over her shoulders. “Connor, Grant.” Her voice was like sharp ice. “Get your butts in here. Now.”

  Beth’s eyes burned with tears. “I’m going to miss you two a whole, whole lot.”

  Two hard squeezes. She heard their choked sobs before they ran into the building. Their mother raised a hand to Beth in farewell before disappearing. No long goodbyes for Drusilla. Then again, the woman had spent most of her time getting off drugs, not making friends.

  With blurry eyes, Beth watched the door close. Oh, she’d pine for those boys, as would Nolan.

  Like many abused children, the boys were wary around men, and her Master was scarred, big, and scary. But he’d patiently worked to earn their trust. Grant used to follow him around everywhere. His own silent, little shadow.

  Please, be safe, babies. Beth rose, brushed off her khaki shorts, and headed inside to do her part to achieve that goal.

  In the office, the gray-haired secretary pulled up the children’s file for her and grimaced. “Poor kids. Looks as if Clifford E. Price is the DCF investigator assigned to their case. I’ll write his number down.”

  “Seriously? Price?” Beth heaved an unhappy sigh. The man should have retired or changed careers at least five years before. Burned-out, indifferent, arrogant. And lazy. A social worker who’d rather do paperwork than actually get off his rear end and check on his cases, he was a glaring exception to the caring nature of the other Department of Children and Family investigators and supervisors. Over the past year, she’d butted heads with him so often that she’d tried to have him reassigned. Unfortunately, she’d failed.

  “ ’Fraid so. Isn’t it the kids’ bad luck to get him?” Shaking her head sadly, the secretary jotted down the phone number.

  “They deserve better.” Beth walked out into the yard as she punched in the number.

  “DCF. Price.” He sounded as impatient as if she’d interrupted a call from the governor or something. In all reality, she’d probably interrupted his cigarette break.

  “This is Beth King at the Tomorrow Is Mine shelter.” As she moved toward the picnic area, her arm brushed the blue flowering plumbago hedge, and she remembered how Connor had danced in delight at the way the butterflies rose in the air before resettling again. “Drusilla McCormick and her sons, Grant and Connor, are on their way home. Drusilla’s boyfriend, Jermaine, still lives there.”

  “McCormick? Hold on.” The sound of typing came over the phone. “I have it. According to the file, Jermaine Hinton completed his anger management class, and Mrs. McCormick agreed to return. I don’t see the problem.”

  No staff or resident was in the quiet area, so Beth perched on a picnic table. “The problem is Drusilla’s history of substance abuse—meth, to be specific. Her boyfriend has a history of drug abuse and violence. The children are at risk.” Why had the woman gone back to him? Maybe she worried she’d end up homeless or broke. She sure hadn’t kept any job for long.

  More tapping. “Drusilla received counseling for substance abuse while she was in your shelter. All the bases have been covered, Mrs. King.”

  Beth bit back a rude response. “I’m not as concerned with the bases as I am with the children. Can you, please, see your way clear to check on them?” Her words, somehow, came out more a demand than a question.

  Price’s tone chilled. “My time is extremely limited, Mrs. King. However, I’ll attempt to fit a call in somewhere in the next few weeks.”

  Next few weeks? A call? “I was hoping for sooner and a visit in person. After all, this is the second time the family has been in the shelter.”

  “Which is why Jermaine was forced to take classes.” She heard his fingers tapping impatiently on the desk. “Now, excuse me, but I have other work to attend to.”

  Silence.

  Beth took the cell from her ear and stared at it. The bloated, self-indulgent toad of a man had hung up on her. Well, fine. If the children didn’t call her soon, she’d simply…happen…to be in their neighborhood and drop by for a sociable visit.

  After checking her watch, she jumped to her feet. The shelter’s director had asked her to lead a morning session since the psychologist had called in sick. Talk about the wrong person for the job. Just because she’d donated money to the shelter didn’t mean she knew anything about counseling.

  She was a gardener, for heaven’s sake.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, Beth brought the session to a close. It broke her heart to see so many lives disrupted—not ruined, she’d never use that word. Nevertheless, these women had endured far too much pain and suffering. For some, their physical recovery would take a long time—Melody, her cheek scarred from the scalding coffee her husband had tossed in her face; Sandra, her arm broken from her husband’s boot; Juli, her throat bruised from her boyfriend’s big hands.

  Their mental recovery would take much longer.

  If only she could help them see themselves as they really were—lovely, bright, and unique, each and every one of them. But, as she knew all too well, physical and emotional abuse could grind self-esteem right into the
dirt. A few months ago, she’d believed herself completely recovered from her sadistic first husband. After all, it’d been over three years since he died.

  Yet, all summer, she’d fought the return of her miserable self-loathing.

  Shaking off her worries, she rose and smiled at her small group. “Marta should be back tomorrow, so today, make a note of any derogatory thoughts you find lingering in your head. In the next session, you can share and come up with ways to counter them.”

  All of them knew her history, and she collected hugs and thanks as they filed out the door. They were already chatting about the afternoon’s plans and chores and sessions as Beth gathered her notes and bag. She had a lot to do yet today. First, landscaping plans for a bank in Carrollwood. Then she’d swing by Egypt Lake where a newly constructed B&B required a front yard makeover.

  As she stepped from the air-conditioned room into the heat and humidity, she felt herself wilting like an unwatered violet. Honestly, she’d been in saunas that were less intense than Florida in August.

  The children in the grassy square enclosed by the shelter buildings didn’t seem to notice. In the sandbox, two giggling toddlers were filling red plastic pails. Older children played happily on the playground swings and monkey bars.

  As Beth entered the administration building’s foyer, she spotted Jessica with her baby perched on her hip.

  “Hey, Beth, I was hoping we’d see you.” Her friend’s blonde hair had been pulled up on top of her head—and undoubtedly, her four-month-old daughter was the reason most of it was now in tangles.

  Another friend stood behind Jessica. Holding her son’s hand, Kari pointed. “Look, Zane. It’s Beth.” The toddler let out a high scream of delight and danced forward to be picked up.

  So, so cute. Beth couldn’t help but think that a child of Nolan’s would probably have dark hair like Zane’s—and be every bit as adorable. Please, give me the chance. She bent to hide her face and scooped the toddler up. “Who’s a big boy? Who’s the best boy in the world?”