BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “Look at me, Aidan,” she said softly and in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

  His eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at her as she braced one hand on the bed and leaned over him, her breasts lightly touching his chest, her other hand firmly grasping his manhood.

  “I own you, Reaper,” she taunted, her hand squeezing him.

  Cree's eyes narrowed. Very slowly, his lips stretched into a vengeful smile. “You think so?”

  She leaned closer. “I know so, baby.”

  One moment he was beneath her, his cock in her hand. The next he was straddling her, his knees pressing her legs far apart, her wrists in his strong hands, pinned above her.

  “Let's see who owns who, baby,” he growled.

  Bronwyn gasped as his head dipped to her chest and his mouth closed on her nipple. As his tongue lathed the swollen tip, she strained against his invasion, arching her back.

  He gave no quarter as he plied his own brand of torture to his ladylove. His lips moved from one peak to another—tasting, suckling, flicking, tormenting—and back again. His fingers tensed, holding her wrists captive as he moved his lower body against her, allowing her to feel the stab of his erection and the grind of his hips against her pelvis. He released one of her wrists and drove his hand down her side and hip, then to the damp mound of her sex.

  * * * *

  “Aidan!” she hissed, rising to meet him.

  He cupped her womanhood, swirled his palm over her wiry hair, then turned his hand so his index finger could slide inside her.

  “Aidan!” she screamed, lowering her free hand to push at his shoulder, then clutch him as her nails dug into his flesh.

  She wiggled against his invasion, gasping, reveling in the feel of him thrusting shallowly inside her: first one finger, then two, then three. His thumb made tiny circles on her clitoris, driving her mad with pleasure. She moaned and tightened her muscles around his questing fingers.

  His mouth slid from her chest to her mouth, slashing brutally across her lips, plunging his tongue deeply inside. He raped her mouth with his tongue—claiming her, branding her, making her his possession for all time. When he had his fill of her lips, he abruptly released her other hand and slid his body down hers, shoved his hands under her hips, lifted her, and claimed her nether lips in a hard vacuum that lifted her off the mattress with a shriek.

  She grabbed his hair—the thick strands threaded through her fingers—and pressed him to her. She made low guttural sounds that seemed to spur him on as his tongue drove ruthlessly into the center of her sex.

  “Oh, my God!” she screamed, feeling the almost-forgotten itch deep within her that she had known only once before so long ago on the banks of a Georgia river.

  * * * *

  Cree had no more control over his flaming passion. He moved up and over her and pressed himself inside her, striving not to hurt her but unable to keep from doing so as her legs came around his hips and she arched up to impale herself on his steely length. He heard her gasp of pain and would have withdrawn, but she held his hips captive and began moving against him, grinding her sex on his cock.

  Almost at the same moment, as he went as deep inside her as he could thrust, their passions ignited, rose up to meet one another, and crashed together in a blinding flare of consummation that brought a roar of satisfaction from his lips and a scream of intense pleasure from hers. They shuddered, clutching at one another as he fell limp against her, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

  Cree rolled off her but was loath to be apart from her. He pulled her into his arms, their sweaty bodies pressed together, and nestled her firmly in his arms.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “As I love you,” he returned, his hold tightening as he placed a chaste kiss on her damp brow.

  Within moments, she was sound asleep in his arms, exhausted by their lovemaking. He lay there listening to her deep, regulated breaths, and sighed with contentment.

  For the first time in his life, he knew utter contentment. The joy of their lovemaking had been like a laser thrust—he could feel the slicing away of his loneliness, the severing of the solitude that had always held his body captive, the fading away of the darkness that had been his constant companion since birth. He never once tried to reach out, to keep his emptiness from leaving, for the brutishness that was his solitary existence was being torn away, leaving in its wake a wondrous warmth that was his new physical being.

  With a smile on his face, he slid into the depths of slumber with his lady.

  * * * *

  “It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon,” Bronwyn groaned as she lifted her arm to look at her watch. “Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  Cree ran his index finger down her arm. “You seemed so at peace, I hated to wake you.”

  She turned her head. “What were you doing? Watching me sleep?”

  He nodded. “Reapers don't sleep well or deeply. I have been lying here reveling in having you at my side.”

  Bronwyn pushed up in the bed, blushing as the coverlet fell, exposing her naked breasts. She tugged up the sheets and tucked them under her arm. “Voyeur.”

  Viraiden Cree's amber eyes gleamed as a slow, devilish smile creased his mouth. “I am an evil man. What can I tell you?”

  “Then you had best repent, Reaper.”

  “I'm already doomed, my love. The sacraments will forever be denied me.”

  Bronwyn frowned. “Why? If you go to reconciliation and—”

  A harsh breath rose and fell in Cree's chest. He tossed the covers from his lower body, swung his legs from the bed, and sat up, plowing a hand through his tousled hair. “'If any man whosoever of the house of Israel, and of the strangers that sojourn amongst them, eat blood, I will set my face against his soul, and will cut him off from amongst his people'—Leviticus 17:10.” He turned to look at her. “I belong in hell, Bronwyn, and one day I'll take up permanent residence there.”

  Bronwyn winced. “Don't say that. I can't believe God would condemn you for something not of your doing. You didn't ask to be born a Reaper.”

  He took her hand. “You have to understand something about what I am.”

  She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held fast, his eyes locked on hers were golden fire pools.

  “I am a killer, Milady. I have killed so many times the very act of murder has no meaning for me. To me, it is no different than swatting a pesky mosquito and bears no more thought.”

  “I don't want to hear—”

  “You need to hear.”

  “Don't,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. She cocked her head in pleading, causing her lips to tremble. “Don't.”

  “Bronwyn...”

  “I know what you are. I just don't want to be reminded of it. I can accept you if you can accept that some things should not be discussed between us. This is one of them!”

  * * * *

  Her misery unnerved him. Her eyes were forgiving; her look one of infinite trust. She was wisdom's dark angel peering at him through a gaze that said more than words ever could. When she lifted her hand to his cheek, caressed him, her thumb stroking the side of his mouth, he gave in, gathering her to him.

  “Life is never simple,” she said as she settled against his chest. “Don't make it any harder than it already is.”

  His arms went around her. “I love you,” he whispered into her thick hair. “They tried to take the right to love away from me, to keep me from feeling anything but hate, but you saved me from the darkness into which I had fallen. For the first time in my life, I know what it is to love and be loved.”

  She drew back and looked at him, her smile a saving grace. “I understand, Viraidan.”

  Her use of his name made his heart soar. He brought her fingers to his lips, closed his eyes, and kissed her knuckles. “Never leave me, Lady. I could not bear it.”

  She pressed against him, her bare breasts soft against his naked chest. He opened his eyes to look at her and found h
imself staring into her very soul.

  “I have loved Sean Cullen for as long as I can remember,” she said. “I love him still. Now there is another soul to which I cling and that one is not as dark as its owner would like me to believe.” When he started to protest, she pulled her fingers free of his grip and covered his mouth. She pulled him toward her, falling back so his upper body slid over hers.

  “I thought you were getting up,” he protested, bracing himself on his elbows so he did not crush her.

  She craned her neck and looked down at his lap. “And I thought you were.” She arched a thick brow. “You need some starch for that package, Reaper?”

  He grinned. “Wicked woman.”

  “Goes well with an evil man.”

  He shifted position so he was lying against her, his belly to her hip. “Shall I show you what evil men do to wicked women, Milady?”

  Bronwyn's eyes widened. “Aye, my warrior. Show me.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure.”

  * * * *

  Sometime near dawn, the storms returned. Lightning crackled across the firmament and the strobe-like flash brightened the room in a harsh blue glow. The window-rattling boom of thunder woke them both. Bronwyn moved closer to the safe harbor of Cree's arms, flattening her trembling body to his.

  “Shush,” he crooned, stroking her long hair. “I am here, Beloved.”

  Her whimper brought an ache to his heart and his hold grew more possessive.

  “I will never let anything harm you, Bronwyn. Never.”

  She clutched at his chest, her fingers threading through the hairs nestled there. He could feel the sticky moistness of her sweat along his side.

  “Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass,” he began to sing in a low, soft voice. “Come over the hills to your darling. You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow. You'll be my true love forever.”

  As the tempest grew bolder beyond their window, his words rose in volume, drowning out the raging rain that lashed at the glass and the thunderous vibrations that shook the building. His left hand moved along her back, stroking her, calming and soothing her; his right hand held her held cradled in the crook of his shoulder, his fingers partially blocking the pulsing of the lightning.

  When at last the elements were nothing more than a distant echo, coming back to them from miles away, he realized she had fallen asleep. He smiled, closed his eyes, and would have drifted into a Reaper's dreamless rest had not the sudden intense pain in his back brought him fully awake.

  “I am hungry, Reaper,” the Queen stated.

  “Not now,” he pleaded, biting his lip to keep the agony at bay.

  “I allowed you the female, now you must pay!” the revenant worm Queen demanded.

  He knew what She was requesting. The thought of leaving Bronwyn's side to kill for Her sickened him. He also knew that if he did not, it was entirely within Her power to accelerate his Transition. Such a punishment would not only be painful, it would be dangerous for Bronwyn. He had no desire for his lady to ever see him in his bestial state.

  He rose carefully from the bed and his lover's side, bending over to kiss her goodbye. He made one stop before leaving, taking a grumpy Ralph with him when he left.

  CHAPTER 43

  Bronwyn turned off the water and opened the tempered glass door. Patting the wall beside the shower, she fished her bathrobe from the hook and pulled it on. She hated drying off with towels and the thick terrycloth robe cocooned her in warmth while it absorbed the water. She belted the robe around her and, after stepping into her slippers, padded over to the vanity to brush out her hair. But she stopped and sniffed the air.

  “All right!”

  She put down her brush and headed for the kitchen. Her objective was a steaming hot cup of the coffee she'd smelled wafting through the air. The aroma of the rich brew was a pleasant surprise and she was thankful for Cedric's ability to provide her with that much-needed waker-upper each morning.

  The coffeemaker was just finishing its timer cycle, the rich black coffee pooling in the glass pot, but Cedric was not in the kitchen to greet her. Instead, Cree had left a note on the computer by the refrigerator asking her to join him for lunch by the lake when she got back from Mass.

  “I'll bring human food, too, along with my usual entrails,” he'd typed and signed it simply “C.”

  “Idiot,” she called him affectionately at the reminder of what Sage Hesar thought Cree ate for his lunch.

  The coffee beckoned, the aroma comforting.

  “And the man makes coffee,” she sighed, opening the cupboard to retrieve her favorite mug.

  After pouring herself a cup of the delicious-smelling brew, she carried it into the living room and sat on the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. Her first sip of the scalding liquid made her sigh with contentment.

  “The man makes great coffee,” she said and sighed again.

  The cup nestled in her hands, she laid her head on the back of the sofa and thought of the night she had spent in Viraiden's arms. After their first wild coming together, he had proven to be a gentle and knowing lover, a true partner in the wondrous act they had shared—giving as well as he received; enjoying as greatly as he pleasured.

  Bronwyn lifted her head and took another sip of coffee. As she did, her eyes fell on the box of letters sitting on her desk.

  A brief spasm of pain flickered through her heart. She stared at the box, knowing she would have to deal with it sooner or later. Before she had followed Viraiden to the lake, she had made up her mind to read some of Sean's letters to his mother. Now, she realized that would be unwise. The past would be dredged up, dissected, and relived. The agony of what had happened to them would open fresh wounds and, at that moment, she was too happy, too satisfied with the way things were advancing with her and Cree to look back, to borrow trouble from the past.

  She put her feet on the floor, the coffee cup on the table, and stood. Her gaze on the box, she walked to her desk and stared at the manila envelopes housed within the cardboard receptacle. She ran a finger along the box's flap, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. But before she could open anything, her phone rang, surprising her. She doubted it would be Cree and she had no desire to talk to Brian, so she let the machine catch it.

  “Bronwyn, are you there?” her mother demanded. “If you are, pick up!”

  There was a long pause, then an audible sigh.

  “All right, I suppose you went to the nine o'clock Mass with Brian. You know I really don't approve of your relationship with a man old enough to be your father. Well, anyway, I can't wait any longer to tell you our good news.”

  Another pause, then a more cheerful tone of voice:

  “Bronnie, Neal and I were married in Provence a few days ago. I know we should have waited, but we found this darling little country church and the priest was so sweet.”

  Another prolonged sigh.

  “Sage was best man and the priest's housekeeper was my maid of honor. I wish you could have been here, but I knew we'd never drag you away from work. I hope you aren't too upset with us. We are deliriously happy and wanted to share our good news with you. When you get this message, please give us a call at...”

  Bronwyn grabbed a pen and wrote down the international number in Switzerland where her mother and new stepfather were located.

  “We'll be here through Tuesday, then it's off to Norway, Denmar,k and Sweden. Sage, however, should be back in Iowa by tomorrow. You know you could do a lot worse than that sweet young man, Bronwyn.”

  Another long pause then a quick “I love you” and a hasty goodbye.

  Bronwyn leaned against the desk, not sure how she felt about her mother's marriage. While she liked Neal Hesar and certainly understood her mother's need to have him in her life, Bronwyn felt a slight betrayal of her lost father. She knew that was natural, but all the same, it hurt a little to know her father could be replaced in her mother's affections.

  Mentally shaking herself, she was about
to return to the sofa and her cooling cup of coffee when she looked at the box of letters. For a long time she stood there, deciding what needed to be done. Finally she let out a ragged breath.

  “I'll take out my letters to Miss Dorrie,” she said, nodding. “No one needs to ever see them.”

  The decision made, she pulled the first envelope from the box and opened it. The first ten or so letters were from Brian. His name was in the return address. Next came a letter from her—the first of many she'd written Sean's mother—and she pulled it from the stack, remembering well how she had smuggled the letter out of Galrath and who had helped her. There were two more letters from Brian, then in the return address were simply the initials SDC. She deliberately looked away, hearing the blood beginning to pound in her ears.

  She remembered that day at St. Teresa's as though it had been yesterday—

  “I'm here to enroll me boy,” Dorrie Cullen had said in her thick brogue. “His name be Sean Daniel Cullen.”

  “Sean Daniel Cullen,” Bronwyn whispered, staring at the bold initials. She ran her thumb over the initials. Before the tears that stung her eyes could gather and fall, she quickly moved past the letter.

  There were five at the back of the stack postmarked Ireland, all from Brian. With a sigh of relief, she stuffed the letters back in the envelope and moved on to the next year's group.

  The first letter in the next envelope was from her. She laid it aside, shuffled through several from Brian, an equal number from Sean, another from her, then she stopped.

  She knew the exact date Sean had died. That day, month, and year was etched firmly in her fertile memory as the day John F. Kennedy had been slain. She stared at the postmark from that terrible day, her lip quivering. Her gaze shifted to the initials in the return address and she realized this was Sean's last letter to his mother. She lifted it, looked at it a long time, torn between reading what he had written and not wanting to know. No doubt the missive had been penned the day before the tragic events in front of the Flying Wench Tavern occurred. Bronwyn wondered if he had mailed it the morning he died or had dropped it in the post a day earlier. A part of her longed to know, to be a witness to his last thoughts, but another part warned the grief would be unbearable and she had no right to pry.