Sea Lord

by Virginia Kantra

  The TV chattered—some woman with big lips and small tits leaning over a stove. Bart snapped off the set and heard noises from the kitchen. Running water. Scraping sounds.

  He found Lucy in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink, chipping away with a spatula at some godawful black mess in a frying pan. Cupboards and drawers stood open. Dirty cups, bowls, and spoons littered the counters among splotches of flour, grease, and tomato. Under the smoke and char floated a sharper, fresher scent, like a mowed lawn.

  Lucy’s head jerked around as he entered the kitchen, her shock of blond hair flying. Something—tomato sauce? chocolate?—smeared her cheek. Her eyes were wild.

  Bart halted. He didn’t ask her what was wrong. They never asked. There were too many possible answers he didn’t want to hear. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She lifted the pan half out of the sink, slopping water to the floor. “I wanted to make dinner.”

  His gaze went from the wet floor to the hard, blackened remains of . . . whatever it was, stinking in the sink.

  He frowned, bothered. Bewildered. “Why didn’t you just throw something in the Crock-Pot?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I don’t know anything.”

  Her eyes welled with tears.

  Bart recoiled. But under his worry and aggravation, a memory stirred: Alice, right after she’d come to live with him, struggling in the kitchen. “But I want to cook for you,” she’d protested when he came home to another ruined dinner. “Like a regular wife.”

  “I didn’t want a regular wife,” he would tease her. “I married a mermaid.” Maybe he’d fry up some eggs, then, or boil lobsters. Sometimes they’d skip dinner altogether and go upstairs to make love.

  In the old days. In the good days. In the days when she still loved him enough to please him, and he’d loved her enough to trust her.

  The old, familiar pain ripped at him.

  He looked at Alice’s daughter, her flushed face, her tear-filled eyes, and shifted his weight uneasily.

  He’d never been a good father to her. Hadn’t needed to be. Caleb had raised her since she was in diapers. By the time the boy left home, she was pretty much taking care of herself. And him, too. Doing the laundry, doing her home-work, opening cans of soup for dinner. A good girl. No trouble, he thought again.

  But she was in some kind of trouble now. Henry said she hadn’t been into work all week.

  “Maybe we should go out,” he said. “To eat. Give you a break.”

  Her green eyes—green as grass, greener than he remembered—widened. “Why?”

  “You’ve been sick,” he said gruffly. “Not yourself.”

  “Not myself,” she repeated.

  He wouldn’t take her to the bar at the inn, he decided. They’d go to Antonia’s. “Get a good meal inside you, you might feel better.”

  Her tears dried up as if by magic. “I will feel better.”

  He was unaccountably pleased with himself and her. “And tomorrow you get yourself back to school.”

  She stared at him, her face a blank.

  His mouth dried in panic. Had something happened to her at the school? Something she couldn’t tell him? She was fired, maybe, or . . . His mind skittered away from all the things that could happen to a girl, all the dangers he’d never been able to protect her from.

  “School,” she said suddenly and smiled. “To learn.”

  He jammed his hands in his pockets. “To teach.”

  “To teach and learn.”

  “Right.” Well, why not? “Better than brooding around the house like your old man.”

  She smiled, a hint of mischief in her face. “Get a good meal inside you, you might feel better.”

  He chuckled, already feeling better than he had in a long time.

  Conn’s gaze swept from Madadh’s body, limp on the cobblestones, to Lucy’s white, stricken face. For one second his heart simply stopped, frozen in terror.

  Across the courtyard, Gau smiled, taunting him. Playing him.

  Fury slammed through Conn like a storm surge, sweeping everything in its path.

  His lips pulled back in a snarl. “Hold him.”

  Gau’s form flickered. Perhaps it was an effect of the sunlight, but the demon lord appeared almost shaken. “I am an emissary. You do not have the authority to hold me.”

  “My realm,” Conn said. “My rules.”

  A sigh rippled through Gau’s cohort. The stench of demonkind lay over the keep like smoke. In that shifting, shimmering crowd, any one of them could have slipped away. Any one of them could have seized a second’s opportunity, a moment of human weakness, to slide into Lucy’s mind and possess her, to settle into that long, lean body, to rape her of her will.

  Conn reached out with his senses, all his senses, but he could find no taint of demon in her, no fingerprint of Hell. Whatever had been attempted, she was not possessed.

  His fear abated. His fury did not.

  Gau bent his borrowed features into an expression of pained surprise. “You would not jeopardize our détente for . . . a dog?”

  “My dog,” Conn said.

  My woman.

  He did not look again at Lucy. He would not draw the demon’s attention her way. But he was achingly aware of her shrinking into the shadow of the arch, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

  “You do not have cause to hold me,” Gau objected.

  “Pray you are right, demon,” Conn said grimly. “Or even Hell will not protect you from me.”

  “I acted in self-defense,” Gau protested.

  “Bollocks,” Griff said. “The animal cannot bite a ghost.”

  Madadh.

  Now that his greater fear was soothed, Conn could spare thought for the dog. He reached the hound in three long strides, barely noticing the wardens who squeezed out of his way. The hound was young, strong, only three years old. Only three . . .

  Conn dropped to his knees.

  Gau sneered. “Your concern is touching. I did not expect such feeling from the great lord of the sea.”

  Conn ignored him, his hands doing a rapid check of the dog’s heart, limbs, lungs. Madadh cocked an anxious yellow eye upward and whined. Alive.

  Conn’s lungs relaxed enough for him to draw breath.

  “You see? The animal is merely stunned,” Gau said. “I would not do anything foolish to upset the balance of power.”

  Did the demon’s gaze slide to Lucy?

  “Bugger the balance of power,” Conn said through his teeth. “Touch what is mine again, Hell spawn, and I will snuff you.”

  Gau hissed.

  Conn found Ronat among the wardens who had followed him from the hall. “Water and blankets for the hound.”

  “Yes, my prince.”

  Conn smoothed a hand over the dog’s head and rose to his feet. The hound’s tail thumped weakly on the stones.

  “What shall we do with Lord Gau?” Morgan asked.

  Conn wanted to send the demon lord back to Hell. But he would not release Gau until he had confirmed Lucy was intact.

  She still stood in the shadow of the bailey wall, outside the wardens’ protective circle. Her face was ravaged. Ashen. The delicate skin beneath her eyes appeared bruised.

  Conn’s face set. His gut churned. He needed to get her to himself. Somewhere he could hold her, touch her, assure himself of her safety. Anger still pounded in his temples like a headache, but controlled.

  Or nearly controlled.

  He stalked across the courtyard.

  She had lowered her hands, holding her elbows tightly across her midsection as if she had taken a mortal wound. Conn gritted his teeth. She could hold on to him. Wouldn’t that be the normal human female response to an attack? She should throw herself in his arms. He would not mind.

  But first he must get her away from Gau. From all of them.

  He moved on her, close enough to see the sweep of her thick, fair lashes and the part in her springy hair, near enough to smel
l her skin and her fear. He searched her gaze. Her eyes were wide with shock, but it was her spirit that looked out of them.

  She was safe. His heart, which had been clenched as tightly as a fist, relaxed enough to beat. She was herself.

  Ronat spoke from behind him. “My prince? Lord Gau?”

  “He can go to Hell,” Conn said without turning. “Escort him to the caves.”

  Lucy’s tongue came out to moisten her lips. His entire body clenched in response.

  “Upstairs with me,” he commanded softly. “Now.”

  She craned her neck to look over his shoulder, apparently oblivious to her danger and his need. “The dog . . . Is Madadh all right?”

  He wanted to shake her. Did she fail to realize how narrow an escape she had just had?

  “The dog is in shock,” he said curtly. The vision of Madadh stretched on the cobbles, of Lucy with her hand to her mouth, struck him again with bruising force. “But it will live. Perhaps this will even teach it to listen.”

  A tinge of color returned to her pale face. “It wasn’t Madadh’s fault.”

  “He should have obeyed.”

  Her eyes were wide and desolate. “Are you mad at him? Or at me?”

  Conn drew a short, sharp breath. He was furious at Gau and at himself, for not anticipating her danger, for not moving quickly enough to protect her. But he had no intention of debating his feelings with the entire court looking on. He was not discussing his emotions at all. His fear was too new, his need too raw.

  He gripped her arm above the elbow. “Upstairs.”

  She regarded his hand on her arms as he propelled her across the bailey toward his tower. “Did you know you only touch me when you’re hauling me somewhere?”

  She did not sound accusing. Her tone was almost wistful. It filleted him like a knife.

  His hold tightened. So did his jaw. He did not know how to touch to give comfort or reassurance. Only to fight or to mate. “I touch you. I have been inside you.”

  They were almost to his tower.

  “Sex doesn’t count,” she said.

  Temper and need erupted inside him. His control shattered. “Then it doesn’t matter if I do this.”

  He spun her through the doorway, backed her against the wall, and covered her mouth with hot, hungry urgency. The kiss was rough, almost savage. Fury and fear pumped through his blood, drummed in his head.

  She was his to claim.

  His to protect.

  His to take.

  Lucy absorbed the shock of his assault, feeling his hunger, feeding it, needing it.

  Gau had caught her in the open, unprepared. She hadn’t had time to find shelter behind the wall she’d been building her entire life.

  When the demon attacked, she’d struck back instinctively, throwing up barriers to protect herself, her defense less like building a wall and more like dumping a load of bricks on the demon’s head.

  At least, that’s what it felt like to her. She didn’t know how it felt to the demon.

  But the alien presence in her mind was gone, extinguished like a campfire under a shovelful of dirt, leaving her empty in the rubble and the ashes, with gritty eyes and coated tongue. Her chest felt hollow. Her mind was bruised. The taint of smoke and char caught in the back of her throat and lingered in her sinuses.

  She needed Conn’s taste to wipe it out. She needed his touch to feel alive again and safe.

  She welcomed his hard, urgent mouth, his rough, claiming hands. He leaned into her, his heavily muscled body a bulwark and a refuge. She rested her hand on the back of his neck, the edge of her little finger riding that line of smooth, exposed skin, and felt his groan vibrate in the back of his throat, in the pit of her stomach.

  He could fill her. He could take her to a place where she wouldn’t have to think. His hands closed over her breasts, and she quivered in reaction and relief. She craved the warm oblivion of sex like her father craved his bottle. She wanted to feel something other than lonely. Something besides numb.

  Conn made her feel. He trapped her against the wall with his body, his breathing quick and hard. The storm inside him swirled around them, charging the air, sending lovely electric thrills sliding along her skin. She was squashed between the bite of stone at her back and his muscled weight all along her front, breasts, belly, thighs. His erection pulsed against her, thick with life. He bent his head, and she felt the rasp of his jaw and then the warm suction of his mouth on her throat. Her eyes slid shut.

  Dust and ashes and despair.

  She opened them again hastily and Conn was there, warm and real, hard and urgent. She threw her arms around his neck, fisted her hands in his hair. Take me. Save me.

  He growled and lifted her into his arms, plunged with her into the cool, shadowed tower, hauled her up the stairs. Round and round they climbed, darkness and light playing over his hard face, her gasps and his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. She could feel the urgency in him, violent as an approaching storm. Her head spun. She was breathless, dizzy, drunk with anticipation.

  It was sex. Just sex.

  It was life.

  It was everything.

  She licked the hollow of his throat, savoring the taste of salt and man. He carried her to his room and dropped her on his bed. She bounced once before he came down hard on top of her, taking his weight on his elbows, caging her legs with his thighs. His mouth covered her mouth. She parted for him eagerly. His tongue plunged inside.

  Her hips hitched upward—there, please—seeking pressure, seeking relief. The blunt, hard ridge of his arousal rubbed the juncture of her thighs. She struggled to open her legs, to capture his, but he straddled her, his knees on the cloak, pulling the wool fabric tight across her body. She was trapped and itchy. Desperate.

  Panting, she struggled to throw him off. He rose up—not enough, not nearly enough—and grabbed her hips and turned her facedown into the mattress.

  Um, no. Not like this. He was too strong. It was too much. She was wary of his total dominance, and even more alarmed by her own response.

  In any contest of passion, she would lose. Had lost already.

  And she didn’t even know the stakes.

  She twisted to face him.

  But he pinned her down, his arms enclosing her arms, his thighs restraining her thighs, his strength surrounding her. With one hand, he pulled up on her cloak and her skirts, bunching the material around her waist. The wash of cold air on her bared legs was distraction and relief. His hands shaped her bottom, measured the span of her hips, tugged the elastic of her panties down her thighs. She shivered, open to him, vulnerable and wet and open. She turned her face on the pillow as he reached under her, as his long-fingered hand splayed over her belly, toyed a moment with her piercing, dipped into her navel. His touch moved down, slow, seeking, deliberate. She moaned and then bit her lip, the pain a tiny punctuation point to pleasure.

  He was so close behind her, hot and solid behind her, his body controlling her body, his hands compelling her response. She was drunk, dizzy with the mingled, musky odors of his sweat and her arousal. She felt him shift to adjust his clothing, and trembled in anticipation. Her breasts tightened. Her boundaries blurred.

  His knee shoved her legs wider apart. She writhed. He stroked, his hand teasing, skimming over her slick, sensitive flesh. Swaying on her knees, she ground against him, a willing accomplice in her own surrender.

  He kissed her nape.

  She made a muffled sound of frustration into the pillow and bit him. His arm. Like an animal.

  His breath was hot in her ear. “You want this.”

  She felt the hair at his groin, the smooth, hard jut of his cock rubbing the crack of her buttocks. He took himself in hand, positioning himself, sliding the thick head against her wet opening. She melted for him. Moaned. His skin was hot and silky. Her womb softened and clenched.

  She panted and tipped her hips upward, helpless to deny him. “Yes.”

  “Then take it.” He thrust. “Tak
e me.”

  Deeper.

  “Take my seed.”

  Her body jolted. Her mind rebelled. But mind and body were taken up, taken over, by the feel of him inside her, pumping inside her, filling her to bursting. She was blinded, breathless, caught in a current she could not control. She cried out and convulsed, her orgasm ripped from her, tumbling her over and over like a shell trapped by the tide. Wave after wave racked her, wrecked her, her contractions milking his until he plunged, until he shuddered and groaned and released deep inside her.

  His big body sprawled over hers, damp. Spent.

  Lucy closed her eyes, absorbing the pounding of his heart, the sound of his labored breathing.

  “Now,” Conn said, his voice deep with satisfaction, “you will stay.”

  12

  “UM.” LUCY’S MIND FLOATED SOMEWHERE ABOVE the bed, anchored only by the knot at her heart. Her head still reeled from the force of Conn’s possession, from the fullness of her own surrender. Her body felt swollen and achy. Loose, as if Conn had taken her apart and put her back together without using the manufacturer’s instructions. “I didn’t say I would stay with you.”

  The smell of sex, sharp and musky, hung in the air and clung to her skin. The covers were a tangled mess. So was she. And Conn, instead of rolling over and falling asleep or jumping in the shower and out the door, seemed content to lie beside her, his hand resting lightly, possessively on her hip, his gaze on her face.

  “I do not require the words. This is enough.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the back of his knuckles brushing her cheek. She almost wept at the tenderness of the gesture. Unexpected from him. Unprecedented for her. “This is better.”

  Her heart kicked in her chest. Her mouth was dry. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

  He lowered his hand. His dark brows drew together. “I gave you my seed.”

  Yes. She moistened her dry lips, uncomfortably aware of the tenderness in her belly, the wetness of his semen between her thighs. He had pushed himself so firmly, so deeply inside her, she was afraid she couldn’t tell anymore where he ended and she began.

  “Uh-huh. And do you make a lifetime commitment to everybody you have sex with?”