All around her the mob was shouting its agreement to the words. In her hooded cloak, she slipped past sweaty men and women whose perfume was cheap and cloying to get closer to the platform on which the speaker stood. Once she was close enough to see him clearly, she was intrigued with his handsome face and piercing blue eyes. As he spoke, those eyes glowed with fire and passion.
"Crevan Byrne is a demon and he must be destroyed!"
Those words caught and held Tara's attention.
"No one will gainsay what this fiend does. He is immune to punishment. The Portal Police jump at his command and even the militia bows down to his orders. If we can take him out of the picture, the Modartha will be like a snake with its head severed!"
"And how will you do that?” she had called up to him.
Doyle's hot blue eyes had fallen to her. His expression made it clear he had not expected anyone to question him. Coming to the edge of the platform, he had hunkered down so he was close to eyelevel with her.
"By luring him with his only weakness,” he said.
"The Modartha has a weakness?” she countered.
"Beautiful women,” Doyle has said in a silky voice. “He laps them up like a bear to honey.” His eyes roamed over her face. “Would you care to be the bait, pretty one?"
She had flicked her tongue over her upper lip knowing full well his gaze would drop there. “What would I need to do?"
Doyle had put a hand to the hood of her coat and pushed it back from her wealth of thick ginger-colored hair. She had seen the front of his loose trousers shift and his eyes darken to sapphire. “Seduce him.” He let the two words work their way into her libido.
"I can do that,” she'd boasted, believing back then there wasn't a man alive who could resist her practiced charms.
"Then meet me after the rally and we'll discuss it,” he said before standing and moving back, his gaze going out over those assembled. “So, my friends and fellow Faolchúan, what are you willing to do to gain our freedom?"
It had seemed an easy thing to do. Wait at the bar the Modartha commander frequented, garner his attention, and then lure him into the alley away from his bodyguards where a team of Resistance fighters would be waiting to capture him.
Sitting at a table alone that evening, Tara had enjoyed the protection of her own highly-priced bodyguards who had kept potential suitors at bay. Sipping on a snifter of very potent Sionnach brandy she had watched Crevan Byrne and his men saunter in, watched him straddle a stool at the bar, his back to her, and had admired his broad shoulders and lean hips. Though she had seen the Modartha commander on Vid-Com screens many times, the transmissions had not done him justice. His dark, swarthy looks made her belly clench and heat pool between her thighs. Her palms ached to roam over his taut back and strong-looking thighs and when he swiveled around on the stool to look out at the action on the dance floor, her mouth had watered. She actually felt his gaze flick over her, snap back, and then settle upon her. He had grinned cockily, but she had looked away as though totally disinterested. There never had been any doubt in her mind that he'd stroll over to her table.
"Want some company?” he had asked.
Tara had looked up at him, felt her womb stir again at the devilish look he was giving her, and had shrugged, not answering. Instead, she looked away from him, seemingly interested in the dancers.
Other men might have taken her actions as a dismissal, but Van hadn't. He'd pulled back a chair and sat down.
"Why aren't you dancing?"
His question had given her a reason to look him in the eye.
"I don't like dancing alone,” she said in an icy tone.
"Neither do I,” he stated then scooted the chair back, took her arm and pulled her to her feet.
He had moved like liquid lightning on the floor and every eye there had gravitated to his lean body. Though he was in civilian attire, people had moved back when they saw who it was who had taken the floor and had it not been for the music blaring in the background, you could have heard a pin drop.
"You know how to clear a dance floor, don't you?” she had asked, giving him an arched brow.
His reaction had been more of a snort than an actual laugh and he had ground against her, moving so perfectly to the rhythm she could not help but be impressed.
"You're Tara Cowart,” he said at one point just before the music ended.
"And you're the infamous Modartha,” she had flung back at him.
"Not tonight,” he said and put his lips to her ear. “Tonight I'm just a horny man in need of loving."
She had thrilled to his words and had slid her hand from his shoulder to his ass, reveling at the hard feel of him beneath her fingers. She had pressed against him suggestively. “We can go to my apartment,” she'd told him.
"I've a better idea,” he'd said in a husky voice and had taken her by the hand.
He led her off the dance floor and down the hallway to a small room with a cot and nothing else. As soon as she realized his intention, she'd snatched her hand from his grip.
"Are you kidding me?” she had hissed at him. Her eyes had blazed green fire. “I'm not a two-bit whore for you to fuck and then..."
She'd gotten no farther for he had slammed the door behind her, twisted the lock, pushed her firmly yet gently against the wall and then lowered his mouth to hers, his left hand snaking up to cover her right breast, his thumb arching back and forth across her nipple.
And Tara had lost all sense of herself.
Though she hadn't been a virgin since her thirteenth birthday, she had not known sex could be as thrilling and overpowering as it had been that night. Crevan Byrne had done things with his hands and mouth and body that no man ever had and she had loved every intense moment of it. He had awakened some deep, uncontrollable part of her that, having once tasted his special kind of lovemaking, she became instantly addicted to it. She knew in her heart of hearts that no man would ever satisfy her in the way Van had and that she had to make him entirely her own. The thought of him touching another woman set her teeth on edge and brought out a fierce side of her she had not known existed.
"Next time, we'll do it on a proper bed,” she'd said as she stretched there on the cot. She had not been prepared for his reaction as she watched him stuff that glorious shaft back into his tight black jeans.
"There won't be a next time, wench,” he'd said.
"What?"
"One to a customer,” he said, tucking his white shirt into his jeans. “I never fuck the same woman twice.” He reached for the door handle.
With his juices still clinging to her thighs, Tara had sat up, her eyes narrowed into slits, her face as hard as stone. “That had better be a joke, Bryne,” she'd snarled at him.
The Modartha had turned, given her a slow, lazy look from head to toe then opened the door. “I never joke."
And then he was gone. Just like that. As though she were nothing more than some skag he had picked up at a waterfront tavern.
Fury unlike anything she'd ever experienced washed over Tara. She threw back her head and shrieked and was still shrieking when her chief bodyguard threw open the door and stood there staring wide-eyed at her as she ripped at her own clothing and cursed more viciously than any dockside slut.
Despite having gone to her father to complain about the way the Modartha had treated her, Tara had found out that Crevan Byrne was not only the law on Faolchú, he was above the law.
"What did you expect would happen when you threw yourself at him, Tara Ayne?” her father had demanded. “You play with fire, you get burned. It's as simple as that. Don't come crying to me for comfort."
Though she'd tried repeatedly to see Van and had left numerous messages—as well as threats—for him, he had ignored her. His steadfast refusal to have anything more to do with her only made her that much more determined to have him. Barring that, she would do all she could to destroy him.
"Nobody treats me like that, Crevan Bryne,” she said, her fists clenched at her s
ides. “Nobody!"
Taking his precious little wife from him had only been the start of the revenge she'd planned for the Modartha. His incarceration, his torture, the rape—each had been meticulously planned and paid for and each had taken the proud werewolf down a peg or two from his heroic height.
But the worst was yet to come.
She meant to see him on his knees, crippled beyond repair.
* * * *
Kona Doyle watched the short Vid-Com tape for the third time that night and each time he had gotten harder and harder, his palm rubbing the massive erection that needed to be assuaged. He looked up at the clock and grunted. There were still fifteen minutes to go before he could relieve himself. He reached for the vac-syringe lying on the rough table beside his chair and caressed the cold metal and glass instrument.
"My brother and I are brilliant pharmacists, Kona,” Ian McCory had insisted when he had handed over the vials of what McCory had called dul le báiní. “The drugs we fashion are unlike anything you will find anywhere else in the megaverse."
McCory—whose twin brother was better known as Lord Damhán—had not been boasting for the drug had delivered all that was promised and more.
"Just five milligrams are all you need inject. More will do irreparable harm,” the scientist had cautioned. “The dosage may be repeated in four hours but not before that."
There was just enough time to watch the tape a fourth time and Doyle started it playing. He kept one hand on his swollen cock and the other on the vac-syringe, pressing the barrel to his bare thigh, caressing it as he would a lover's body.
Eyes glazed as the images flashed across the Vid-Com screen, Doyle's breathing became quick and shallow, his blood began to race, his pulse to thunder. He continually licked his lips for what he was seeing was almost as satisfying as the real thing.
Tearing his gaze from the screen, he realized two minutes had passed. Thirteen to go. He rubbed himself, slipped his hand around his cock, and held it stiff and rigid.
He looked at the clock. Another minute had passed. His naked body twitched in the chair. When the tape ended, he stood. The vac-syringe was tightly in the grip of his left hand but with his right, he thumbed in the code that would send a copy of the tape to the Modartha headquarters.
"Fuck you, Crevan Byrne,” he said.
Chapter Six
"It came in through our feed from Béar,” the Com Specialist told O'Rourke. “It had been relayed from several other sights before that. The supervisor on Béar wasn't going to send it on to us but when he read who it was addressed to, he thought it best to forward it on."
"Who was it addressed to?” Donley inquired.
"The Commander."
"What is on it?"
"I don't know, Sir,” the Com Spec said. “It was marked confidential, his eyes only, so the supervisor did not view it and suggested I not do so, either."
Donley chewed on his thumb nail for a long while then made up his mind. “Bring it up, pause it, and I'll take a look."
The Com Spec nodded and did as he was ordered. He got up from his seat so the captain could sit down then left the viewing room.
As soon as Donley saw the first image on the tape, he shut it down, his heart thudding in his chest. He sat there—stunned and sweating—and wondered who he could pawn the thing off to. He thought of O'Rourke and decided against it. Patrick Byrne came to mind, but he dismissed that, as well. The only one he knew who might be able to view the thing and make a decision would be Declan.
He put in a call to the Modartha's priest brother.
* * * *
"No way in hell should he see that thing!” Declan snarled an hour later. “No damned way!” He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes as though trying to blot out what he'd viewed.
"Will you tell him we got it?” Donley asked.
"Hell no!” Declan declared. He leaned over, pushed a button to eject the vid-tape, and then broke the plastic disk into four pieces before dropping them into the trash can. “Burn that fucking shit. Now!"
Donley was not used to hearing a priest curse and hastened to do as he was told. He took his laser pistol and fired into the metal can, incinerating the plastic. An acrid smell that nauseated the senses filled the room.
Appeased once the tape was nothing more than a black pool of charred plastic in the trash can Declan stormed out of the viewing room with his fists clenched tightly at his side and went in search of Patrick. He found his younger brother in the conference room with several of Van's men.
"I need to talk to you,” Declan said and when Patrick indicated he wasn't finished with what he was doing, Declan yelled at him. “I don't mean later, Punk. I mean now!"
Patrick waved the two Modartha operatives out of the room then gave his older brother a steady look. “What's happened?"
"How well do you know the wench our brother married?” Declan asked.
"Bailey?"
"Is there another fucking woman he married?” Declan shouted.
Patrick blinked and his mouth dropped open. He hadn't seen Declan this mad since their brother Liam had hung him from the rafters of a barn and left him there.
"Paddy!” Declan warned, squinting dangerously.
"I know her fairly well,” Patrick was quick to answer. “Why?"
"Were she and Doyle lovers before all this shit happened?"
"No,” Patrick said and shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not."
"Are you sure?"
"Aye, I'm sure,” Patrick stated and then his brow furrowed. “Why are you asking?"
Declan raked his hand through his hair. “Because we got a vid-tape that was sent to Vannie and on it was the most disgusting...” He swiped his hand down his face. “She and Doyle were...” He shuddered. “If Vannie saw that tape, he'd go berserker on us."
"It had to have been staged,” Patrick said, hoping that was the case.
"It didn't look that way,” Declan said. “She was all over him like white on snow."
Patrick winced. “She wouldn't do that unless she had been forced to."
"I'm telling you, she was giving it all she had, Punk! She had him in her mouth and every other orifice a woman has.” Declan shuddered. “The gods help me but I got hard just watching it!"
"Watching what?"
Neither of them had heard Van enter the room and they snapped their heads around, guilt emblazoned on their faces, heat high on their cheeks.
"Ah, nothing,” Declan said, shaking his head. “We were just...” He looked to Patrick, the best liar in the family. “We were..."
"That old vid-tape we stole from Liam's locker when we were boys,” Patrick lied. “Remember?"
"No,” Van said. He folded his arms over his chest. He knew his brothers were lying. They wouldn't meet his eyes and their faces were red. Declan was sweating.
"Oh, you remember Vannie,” Patrick said, trying to smile and doing a bad job of it. “It was a porn tape Liam got from his friend Carlton. It was really raunchy."
"Nasty thing,” Declan added. His hand trembled when he stuck it in his pocket. “Hell on Heels or some stupid title like that."
Van just stared at them, saying nothing for a long moment, then turned, and walked out. His acute hearing did not miss the relieved breaths his brothers exhaled.
He went down to the Com Room, closing the door behind him. “Did you get a transmission in earlier?"
The Com Spec licked his lips nervously. “Which one, Milord?"
Van cocked his head to one side. “The one intended for me?"
"Ah, I..."
"Bring it up and let me see it,” Van ordered.
"I burnt it to tape, Milord, and gave it to Captain Donley,” the Com Spec said.
"But a copy will still be on the hard drive,” Van reminded him.
"Ah, aye, Milord, but..."
"Then bring it up and let me see it,” the Modartha repeated.
Knowing he had been issued a direct order he dared not disobey, the Com
Spec did as he was told and then got up out of his chair once again and left the room.
Van sat there staring at the title on the transmission for quite some time. ‘Eyes only: Crevan Byrne’ it read and he wondered how many people had already viewed the tape. Surely Donley had since the Com Spec had given it to him, then his brothers. Had Liam watched it, too?
He put out his hand to start the tape then stopped. Whatever was on the thing had to be bad considering how his brothers were acting and their reluctance to tell him the tape existed. Yet it hadn't been fear he'd seen emblazoned on their faces but guilt and concern for him. They didn't want him seeing whatever was on the damned thing.
Once more he inched his hand toward the control to set the tape into play and once again he stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut, hand hovering over the control
"You really don't want to see that."
Van didn't look around at Declan's soft words. “I need to know."
"Sometimes not knowing is the better way to go, Vannie."
The Modartha looked up at his brother. “Is it that bad?"
Declan squatted down beside his chair. “You remember the effects of the drugs the Spider gave you?"
The Modartha winced. “Aye, all too well."
"Patrick believes your lady was given drugs, too, for he says she is not acting naturally on the tape."
"She is with Doyle?"
"Aye."
"Is he hurting her?"
"No,” Declan said. “If anything can be said of what he's doing, it's pleasuring her."
Van snatched his hand back from the control as though it had come into contact with a roaring flame. “Who has seen it?"
"Donley says he saw who it was meant for, pulled up the first scene then shut it down. He brought it to me and I watched it for if it had been bad news.... “He shook his head. “Patrick didn't see it at all for I had destroyed the disk onto which it had been burned."
Van nodded. “Okay.” He sat where he was, his gaze locked on the Vid-Com screen and the title. “Leave me, now."
"Why don't you just erase the signal and...."
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