Bound to the Beast

by Kay Berrisford

  Table of Contents

  Bound to the Beast

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon: Lord of the Forest

  About the Author

  Bound

  TO THE

  Beast

  BOUND FOR THE FOREST – BOOK TWO

  KAY BERRISFORD

  England, 1588. When a fairy betrothal ritual goes wrong, Tam finds himself bonded to Herne the Hunter. Warrior, legend, and Greenwood spirit, Herne once led the terrifying Wild Hunt, an army of the undead who rode as harbingers of doom.

  Herne could be the dominant lover Tam secretly craves, but his past makes Tam fear Herne will only enslave or kill him. But all Herne wants is solitude, which means breaking the unwanted betrothal. But to do so, the pair must travel deep into the dangerous Greenwood, where mutual desire grows increasingly difficult to ignore, and the Wild Hunt bays for blood...

  Bound to the Beast

  By Kay Berrisford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Nicole Field

  Cover designed by Phill Simpson

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Third Edition August 2019

  Second edition published by Less Than Three Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by Kay Berrisford

  Printed in the United States of America

  With thanks to Serena Stokes, Melanie, Diana, and Halo - who inspired this book and helped me through the many "empty room on the third floor" moments. A billion thanks also to LT3 Press.

  Prologue

  Southern Britannia, 43 AD

  Herne never expected his death to be easy.

  Neither did he anticipate taking his life by his own hand. But his people were vanquished, at the mercy of Rome and her allies. Herne's only remaining act as their leader could be to die, so others might be spared. And he'd be damned if he fell to the swords of the Roman invaders or be humbled by rival tribesmen.

  Herne saw no choice.

  When the red light of dawn bled across the clouded sky, he slung a rope over his shoulder, climbed the small hill near the Roman camp, and turned to look for a final time across the lands he'd called his own. He breathed deeply but could not discern the sweet scent of the heather, just smoke, ash, rotting flesh, and blood—too much blood, Roman and Briton alike.

  In the distance, thunder rumbled, and rain lashed Herne's face, whipping through his hair. The mist proved too thick for him to see the burned homes, the razed crops, and the unburied bodies, a country so ravaged the air itself had been ripped asunder by spearheads and ballista bolts. He shuddered, finding no comfort in the grey shroud that obscured the scene. He looked to the east, to the Roman legion's camp.

  Rows of small tents grew visible in the bleak light, buffeted by the wind, and one or two campfires flickered. Little more than an arrow's flight from where he stood, the Romans would see Herne when they awoke and know his people no longer defied them. The Atrae's warrior king would hang dead.

  Not that Herne had sought to stand against Rome. He'd seen too much war to wish it on his people when any chance of parley remained. He'd trusted in the power of words. And it had been Crea's honeyed words that had betrayed them.

  Crea.

  The man for whom Herne would have willingly ripped the still-beating heart from his own body.

  The face of his lover filled his mind. Crea's cool-blue eyes, his high cheekbones as sharply edged as clipped stone, and his flowing ice-blond hair.

  Crea had loved to wrestle in the heather, had adored being held down and fucked roughly. Rougher than Herne often intended. Crea always demanded more, even as his body shook with rapture, inside and out. He'd clench Herne's cock as though he would drain the very essence of him, their passions all but wringing the life from them both.

  Herne wished to hate Crea with every sinew of his being. Even now, driven by his love to his death, he could not bring himself to do so.

  His thoughts echoing about his empty chest, he strode to the ancient oak that crowned the hill and threw the rope over one of its branches. He tugged hard, and the tree scarcely creaked, although assaulted by his strength and the rising wind. He allowed himself a rueful smile and a scant modicum of comfort. At least he would die in the arms of the Goddess. Her strength would carry him through.

  *~*~*

  Herne anticipated unbearable pain, his final, instinctual struggles for life before his wish for the embrace of oblivion could be fulfilled. The rope bit into his throat, cutting off his hoarse cries. He kicked for the ground in vain, twisting in the wind like a kindling flame, while the oak looming over him thrashed, and the world seemed to shake.

  Figures emerged from the mists, sending new shock through him. Did death or madness hold sway? All his life, he'd worshipped the Mother Goddess's spirits. Now Sulis, the water spirit, paced toward him, her skin washed smooth as a pebble by the currents of her rivers, her long silver hair and gown glistening. When Taranis, the warrior lord, parted his lips, he shouted thunder, while the sky god, Sucellus, sent lightning shooting from the tips of his fingers.

  Epomaros, a spirit with the head, arms, and thorax of a beautiful man and the four legs and flanks of a white stallion, leaped to slice a silver knife through the rope that crushed Herne's throat. The pressure released, Herne landed on the ground with a thud and gasped for sweet air, his body trembling against the roots and black mulch. Rain hammered into the furs on his back, making them feel thin as gossamer.

  After a few moments of dragging breath down his throat, Herne struggled to his knees. He gazed at his new company, but he could hardly trust his eyes. Five of the Goddess's spirits circled the tree at the heart of the storm they commanded. Despite strength that exceeded most living men, Herne felt like a naked thrall, kneeling abject before their power and majesty. Fear rushed through him like the chill of the rain. Still he refused to flinch, even at the sight of Senos, the ancestor of man, a willowy elder whose skin dazzled like sunlight on a calm sea.

  The warrior Taranis, brawny and bearded like Herne, spoke with a deep voice that carried beneath the elements. "Look about you, Herne of the Atrae. What do you see?"

  "I…I don't know." Herne struggled to speak, his voice a husk. "Am I dead?"

  "No, you dwell still among the living," said Taranis. "You know who we are, although you see too few of us. It is not just the people of this island who face new challenges, new company. The Romans have brought their gods and goddesses to our shores, hoary spirits of wine, song, and the south, and many of our number have fled. Lugus, the swearer, has left us. Cernunnos too, spirit of hunting and the oak, has flown toward the isles of the west. The Wild Hunt cannot ride, for he is their leader, and he has deserted them."

  Herne knew the Wild Hunt, the army of living corpses drawn from the foulest depths of the Greenwood, who swept the lands before the onslaught of great evil. Rumour told they'd scourged the coasts before the Romans landed.
If the Wild Hunt could no longer ride, surely that was a mercy.

  He rose to face Taranis. "Why do you preserve me?"

  "The Goddess has admired your strength, your zeal, your…tenderness," continued the spirit. "She bids you join us in place of those who have deserted. She bids you become one of us."

  "But I am no spirit," said Herne. Straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, he suppressed his fright as if he were still on the battlefield. "I cannot join you. I don't want that."

  "She bids it," replied Senos, the wrinkles on his face deepening with every syllable. "You already possess the iron will of a spirit. You will join us and pass with us through the ages."

  "Goddess, spare me." Herne launched himself into a run; he must reach the Romans' camp, if only to throw himself on a sword so victory could be his.

  A preternatural blast of air defied his efforts and pushed him against the oak, his back slamming into rough bark. Momentarily stunned by the blow, he watched the spirits advance, their gazes piercing to his heart, touching him with their pity, soothing his pain—and sweeping over him covetously.

  The horseman, Epomaros, smiled, raising his arms in an invitation to embrace. "We want to give you gifts."

  Herne glowered at him. He didn't want their blessings. If he failed to pass through death's portal, he deserved no gifts.

  Epomaros's human features were strong, his nose long and straight, his long blond hair falling to his shoulders and reminding Herne of his lover. But Epomaros was half beast. Who could desire a man who was half beast? And as for Crea…

  Damn him to the foulest realms of the afterlife.

  "We want to ease you, Herne of the Atrae." Epomaros parted his lips, smoothed his tongue around them, and made them glisten. "You asked us to consume you in death. Instead we will consume you with life. We'll make you one of us."

  Herne again tried to run. Thick boughs shot from the oak, caging his chest and thighs, while vines burst from the soil beneath, wrapping tight around his ankles, binding him to the trunk. Green shoots crawled up his body, twisted in the animal skins that covered him, tugged and tore them, then ripped them away. Now mere shreds, they dangled from the vines that cut across his flesh, crisscrossing his rippling sinews and countless battle scars—old, new, and many barely healed.

  Shock struck as sharp as the lightning Sucellus hurled across the skies. Nature had stripped him, and the spirits admired his near-naked body, his well-muscled limbs and thighs and heaving chest rendered helpless by his bindings. His cock hung exposed before him, thick and heavy, lashed by the elements and the spirits' scrutiny. Humiliation underlay his need to escape. He strained once more, but not a shoot yielded. The oak still refused to reward his efforts.

  "The oak desires you." Epomaros smiled. "Your body is the finest I have seen in a long time."

  Herne shut his eyes and muttered a silent prayer to the Goddess. She couldn't possibly want this for him.

  Wet shoots crept across his skin, soothing his cuts and bruises like cooling ointment. What would become of his people if he did not die? Would this mean the carnage continued?

  The warm breath of the wind caressed his damp brow and loins. His cock gave a twinge, and he did not fight it. The shifting foliage coaxed his body toward pleasure—the body he'd sworn would never know pleasure again. Ever so slowly, his torment waned, and he submitted. He'd not wanted to die. If he surrendered, surely the Goddess would permit him to protect his people. And what good could come from defying the spirits, in life or death?

  He opened his eyes and saw the spirits drawing ever nearer.

  "Give yourself to us," whispered Epomaros, "and you will know power that will raze the lands of the earth behind you."

  Taranis, the sturdy warrior spirit, stepped nearly close enough to reach out and touch him. Under the heat of his stare, Herne's flesh sizzled. Tendrils of fire cracked across his chest, and his scars healed, leaving flawless skin and wiry hair beneath. His blood surged so hotly even his skin felt too tight, as if it could not contain his carnal passions in his human form. Oddest of all, his head ached as strongly as his cock, although he'd not been struck there. He blinked in bewilderment, grasping to regain his self-command.

  "It is time," said Taranis, "for you to claim Cernunnos's crown."

  "What man can be crowned when bound to a tree?" demanded Herne, striving to keep the authority in his voice.

  "This is no ordinary crown," said Sulis, stepping in front of Taranis. She laughed, and a cloud burst as if punctured by a spear, sending water cascading in sheets over Herne's skin. He shuddered under its icy caress, until the streams took form as glistening snakes. He twisted and writhed, trying to resist their cool embrace, but the snakes wrapped lightly about his loins. Sulis danced, swirling her arms and splashing her bare feet through the rain and dripping grasses so she whipped their sweet scent into the air. Following her lead, the water-snakes shifted like silken ropes, imprisoning his cock in wetness and rising heat. Soft and yielding as flesh, the water slid and teased, causing sublime friction.

  His body turned traitor, his cock engorging toward the cusp of pain. The tightness in his skull nearly outweighed the rushing of blood to his loins. He felt as if his head might crack in two, the pain almost swamping his pleasure. The earth shook, the rain pummelling into the soil-like stones hurled from a catapult, setting dirt running down the hillside in torrents.

  His body hurtled toward bliss, his shaft weeping even as his head quaked. Battling the pain and governed by base needs, he thrust wildly against the water-snakes, who worked their magic. His cock felt ever tighter, his balls drawing up as his deepest internal fibres clenched and curled; he strove for relief, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his excitement swelled. Sucellus sent lightning shooting from his fingers, arcing over Herne's torso, while smooth vines slipped between his buttocks. They lingered beneath his balls and sent his sinews into spasm, even before they teased his tightly puckered entrance.

  He roared in bittersweet pleasure, though he abhorred the emptiness of this bodily provocation. He now understood how Crea's every caress had meant no more, that he'd mistaken selfish, carnal passions for affection. Would he never know the touch of a lover who truly cared for him, who'd welcome his embrace through the long winter nights? Who'd stand by him in a fight or await his return from the hunting grounds?

  Stilling a moment on the precipice, he screwed his eyes tightly shut—and saw a man lying on his front by a glowing hearth. The stranger arched his hips, parting pale golden buttocks, eager to sheathe Herne's aching cock. Warm auburn curls tumbled to this lad's shoulders. Herne discerned the easy curve of his smile and met a gaze rich with whispers and promises.

  Forever?

  No. Impossible. He'd offered "forever" to Crea, and Crea had thrown it back in his face. Herne pushed the image from his mind, and his heart pitched, his body swept away on the tide of sensation. His cock heaved a spasm, even as the pressure in his head grew unbearable. Lightning flashed, and Herne's seed burst forth, his cock pounding into water that evaporated into nothing—just as pain sharper than a stabbing dagger cleaved his skull.

  He cried out, his wordless yell shattering even to his own ears, his vision swamped in darkness. As the thrill of his rapture faded, the agony in his head intensified, as if the weight of the heavens pressed down on him, yet a new strength coursed through him. He strained his every muscle, fighting not just the oak but the wind and the rain for what seemed like an age, until he snapped every bond that held him.

  He stared at the spirits that circled him. His cock still throbbed from the rush of power, but it wasn't as heavy as his head felt. What was happening to him?

  "You have mastered the oak and the elements," said Sulis. "Behold your crown, huntsman."

  As Herne gaped, the spirits dropped to their knees. He raised his hands to his scalp, to his crown. Antlers worthy of the greatest stag in the wild wood scraped their many branches toward the clouds. Tracing up the down-covered bone, Herne staggered bac
k in shock. He, too, had become half man, half beast.

  "The antlers of Cernunnos are yours," said Taranis. "Some days you may walk as a man, but it will never again take the spilling of your lust to bring your crown forth. When your passions are stirred and your blood is up, these antlers will crown you, shouting to the world that you are spirit. With this crown, the Goddess bids you accept Cernunnos's duties—lord of the oak and protector of her wayward fair folk, for there are those among the world of spirit and men who would prey upon them."

  Fair folk? With his new strength came renewed fury. "I care nothing for the fair folk. I wish only to save my people."

  Taranis nodded slowly. "We feel your tumult, huntsman. We know your heart has been ripped in two. You cannot decide if you want oblivion from the world of men, or vengeance. Your anger, even though you deny it, demands vengeance."

  Vengeance? Herne had rarely sought that. He was a nurturer, a protector, a lover. Yet vengeance could bring him Crea's body, dead on a battlefield. Could that sight bring him comfort? Anguished, he clutched his antlers, which rattled in the wind and rain. "Who put his death into my mind?"

  Sulis swirled around him, her watery form blending into the rain that poured so thickly over her face it formed a translucent mask. "The desire is your own. Even as you fight it, your need for it festers. Ah, yes, the Goddess knows every use you can be to her." From beneath the folds of her silvery cloak, she drew out a hunting horn.

  "Take it," she entreated, thrusting the wet horn into his hands. "You may not be able to punish he you loved, even though punishment is due. But punish you will. With this you will lead her Wild Hunt through the lands of men, a harbinger of doom. Many will crumble to dust in your wake."

  His insides curled with revulsion. "I do not wish this." He pushed the horn back toward Sulis. She retreated, refusing to take it. "I wished to sacrifice myself to preserve the lives of men, not to bring any more down."

  "This is your duty," said Taranis. "You cannot deny it."

  Herne stared at the silver-rimmed hunting horn, clasped so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He looked back to the spirits, who waited as patiently as if he were a child. When he shut his eyes, seeking his own counsel, he recalled only his last glimpse of Crea, smiling at the side of his mortal enemies and wishing death on all those he loved. And then Crea was gone.