Weeping Willow [Fang Fest 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)

by Vin Stephens

  Together, hands bound, they sprang as one.

  * * * *

  She was a bundle of nerves. The Scots approached a party like they did everything else, with unlimited abandon. Her unconventional husband and his pack, however, had their own brand of celebration—down in the dungeon.

  Saint Andrews Cross. That’s was what Jhor had called it. This was a toy she hadn’t sampled yet. It seemed far more ominous, an intimidating metal contraption with manacles of tanned leather and silver buckles. Altair removed the leather strip binding them and looped it around his neck. Was that symbolic? He then poured a glass of ruby wine, lit a cigarette and sank into an ottoman. Unsure, Willow stood at the center of the hubbub going on around her.

  Jhor set the table—hand dagger, antiseptic, swabs and bandages—minor things any boy scout might carry in his first-aid kit, except this wasn’t a boy looking to score brownie points. The arsenal continued—a narrow band of scarlet velvet, a bottle of peppermint liqueur—capped with a tot glass—and three whips of varying widths.

  These articles didn’t concern her. Garret’s did. He lined up six, straight-back wooden chairs before the cross. On each seat, he placed a neatly folded black robe with matching hood. They gave no explanations, allowing her imagination to run rampant. The scene was set. Altair rose.

  He removed his coat and placed it over his chair’s back. Heavy cuff links thudded as he tossed them onto a small table. The act of rolling up his sleeves was precise, unnervingly patient. He studied each item, caressing random pieces. Willow swallowed thickly. She couldn’t have envisioned a more nerve-wracking wedding night.

  “Come.” Her hand was engulfed by his large one. He led her to the cross. Her wrists were fastened, restraints tugged and double checked. Her ankles received similar care, leaving her vulnerable and spread wide open for their viewing. Dressed as she was in the warm tartan wedding dress, she felt somewhat safe—until he picked up the dagger.

  “Altair?”

  “Hush. Ye willnae deny me.” The tip of the blade touched her only enough to bring forth shivers. The horizontal cut from neck to hem line was carried out slowly, un-gluing her bravado with each shredded thread. Meticulous attention was given to the lace between her breasts and on either sides of her pelvis been carved up. Her back didn’t escape notice. Like its front, the dress posterior split and fell agape, exposing her nudity.

  Jhor and Garret took up positions at the doors. The evidence of their arousal tented their kilts. They removed their shirts. Restraint was evident on sweaty, flexing torsos, anticipation punctuated by shallow, irregular breathes. Altair’s voice whispered from behind, “Tonight I boast. Let them salivate over what is mine. Mae wife.”

  “Them? Jhor and Garret?”

  “Perhaps a mon ye ken. Perhaps not. Tis something ye shall always wonder.”

  Pride she understood, ownership, too. She wanted everyone to know it was she who had the privilege of calling this great specimen “husband.” Mine. But something told her Altair’s bragging wasn’t as docile as hers. It scared her. It also made her feel incredibly special. His pride didn’t just match hers. It superseded. Soft velvet slipped over her lashes, the tapered ends fastened. Everything went black.

  Her senses flared, compensating for the loss of sight. Feet shuffled. Gasps and hoarse whispers were acute. Chair legs rasped over stone. Altair’s satisfied voice entered her mind, “Show them, Willow mine. Tis isnae just the mon ye accept but all that I am.”

  The low growls and the scent of wolf reached her before her eyes were relieved of their blind. Standing between the white and black beasts, Altair dropped the velvet strip and transformed. Beyond their impatient pacing, Willow spotted them. Six, dressed in flowing robes with faces concealed beneath shapeless hoods. Shadowed eyes peered intently through each single jagged tear as they sat erectly, judging her every move.

  “What—who are they?”

  “Tis the men who willnae leave yer side in times of need. Ye have but tae show them your faithfulness, yer obedience tae Cameron—tae ye pack.”

  “You just want to boast your power over me.”

  “Aye.”

  Damn Altair and his obnoxious arrogance. What if she faltered? Nameless, faceless, yet these strangers would have a say in her worth. What if they found her wanting? Self consciousness evaporated as the wolves advanced. They sniffed and licked at her trembling body. They circled, nipping and scratching at her bare flesh. Willow arched her back. Her fingers curled. She wanted to run her fingers through their splendid coats, feel their strong sinews bunch beneath her hold.

  The gray wolf tugged the rags hanging off her. Willow had a moment’s panic as material ripped. Her scars were being displayed to unknown witnesses. Leather bruised her straining hands. She was desperate to hide the shame. Wordlessly the trio halted before her. They dropped first to their haunches, then all the way to their white under-bellies. It was a blatant act of honoring their mate. Scars and all, they accepted her.

  Tears gathered. Her audience hung on the edges of their seats, enthralled as she was by the mighty beasts’ sincere worshipping. “Ye see mae weeping Willow. Tis as much fer ye as tis fer us.”

  They pounced as one. Fangs sank. She screamed. Pain laced with unbearable pleasure speared through her. Her body jerked, erupting into mindless orgasms at every powerful slurp of their jaws, each abrasion to her limbs. They fed of her, roaring their desire against her flesh, through her mind. She slumped forward, drained.

  A sharp sting against her mons brought her awake. “Ye have passed the test of the beast. Now ye will do the same fer the mon. Look sweetling. See how they admire ye courage. Show them how ye feed this madness we share fer yer wee, bonny body.”

  “Will they also—”

  He howled angrily. “No one touches ye but me and mae brethren.” He brought the whip down. “No one.”

  Garret and Jhor added to the torture, dabbing antiseptic into her gaping wounds. She hissed. Altair popped open the bottle of liqueur. The scent of peppermint wafted up. He tossed the glass away, sending cascading fragments down the stone wall. He fed one brother then the other, and finally slaked his own thirst. She remained parched. They knelt, each man latching his lips to her lacerated tissue. Cool spirits gave instant relief. Altair upended the bottle once again. This time he shared alcohol with her stinging pussy lips. He parted the swollen folds. Her bud was submerged into the icy pool, sucked on by a blazing tongue. Willow gasped. He gave a sly smile and blew.

  “Oh God.” Goose pimples pebbled her skin. It was such sweet torment as he worked his magic. Sizzling one moment, frosted the next. The whip was added every time her climax grew. He was cunning, cruel. Willow drowned in the storm he created.

  He stood, drawing Willow’s wanton gaze to his erect cock. “Gentlemen. I forbid yer hands on mae sexy mate. Stroke ye cocks as ye please. Fer now we fuck her sweet cunt and arse. Spill ye seed where ye will, but nay on mae pet puss.”

  The men hastily drew up their garments displaying impressive cocks with angry veins. The bulbous heads were squeezed by their harsh grips. Garret rose to share the liquid in his mouth. Willow sucked at his mouth thirstily. Overcome with his taste, she bit on his succulent lips.

  “Ow, ye feisty hellcat. Altair—”

  Altair nodded. “—Aye. She’ll be punished. Stretch her wee pussy, Garret.”

  Willow mewled as Garret used both hands to expose her. Altair picked up the thickest of the whips and stroked her dripping channel. He rubbed incessantly at her aching love bud. Without warning he struck. Liquid fire shot from her sensitized clit. It spread heat through her bloodstream.

  Jhor kneaded her arse with callused hands. Garret’s fingers tangled with the intrusive whip to enter her starved pussy. Altair surrendered possession of his weapon to Garret and cupped her breasts. He played and studied her nipples before feeding. Willow yanked against the manacles. She needed to touch him—taste him. Her mouth watered. A feral glow lit his eyes, jaws tense with control. His thumb
swiped over her lip, teasing her teeth. He hooked in, anchoring her as he took possession of her mouth. He gave nothing, took everything, using her as he wished—driving her to the brim of sanity.

  He spoke against her tongue. “Two rock hard cocks will take turns plumping yer arse, sweetling. I’ll fuck ye sweet pussy. I’ll shoot hot cum deep inside yer greedy cunt. Take mae seeds in yer precious womb—in front of all these lusting men.”

  She nodded, crazy with need. Jhor skillfully worked her sphincter muscles. “Ye’re so wee. Forgive me, Red. I cannae wait.” His steel rod invaded her without mercy. He stroked once, twice before exiting.

  Garret moved in, wedging in his randy prick into her pleading ass. He pushed, ruthlessly stretching her delicate anal passage. “Aye, yer arse is tight. Tis puckering fer my dick.”

  Altair stayed with her, absorbing every moan and whimper. “See how they fight each other fer a turn tae fuck ye wee arse. Watch the men fist their cocks. They wish they were in ye.” He smirked.

  Willow stared as the six strange men stroked their rigid cocks vigorously. Their gazes remained fixated by the shared penetration in her ass. She gave a lusty wail.

  “Nay. Not yet.” His probing digits speared her needy pussy. “Aye. Ye’re dripping wet. Ye pussy weeps fer its master.”

  He covered her then. He plunged with one brutal stroke. His tongue mimicked the triple harmonic thrusts—in, out, harder, faster. “Watch.” His command was hoarse. “They drool. Aye, my fuckable wench. Make them come.” He thrust deep. “Now.”

  Entire body stiff, she teetered over the ledge. Her yells were drowned out by the men. They roared, each squirting creamy strings of cum. Her muscles clenched, wantonly eating the only cum she craved. First Jhor, then Garret’s thick wads of semen flooded her ass channel to stream down her thighs. Altair’s blazed a path to her very core. It found its mark, attacked and possessed.

  Willow stayed upright only by her bound wrists and Altair’s steel arms. He kissed the sweat from her brow. “They pledge their loyalty. Ye’re a true mate fer yer warrior Laird.”

  Willow looked up and started. Six hooded men knelt, elbow on bent knee, head bowed low on arm. She babbled, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Altair turned to do what he did best. He seized control. “I speak on behalf of mae mate. Tis with honor she accepts yer allegiance. Our swords willnae ever face an enemy in solitude.”

  Silently, they rose and poured out the room. Altair picked up their bind and reunited their hands. “Ye did me proud, wife. The Lairds pledge loyalty. Our pack vow protection. Our lives fer ye. Nay mon nor beast will ever hurt ye again.” He stroked an old welt. Tears filled her eyes. Altair groaned, “And she weeps again.”

  They untied her and, like every other night, poured themselves into cleaning and nurturing her exhausted body. Finally she belonged. If she could only have the love she desired, she’d be home.

  Chapter 6

  “Sheep ye say?”

  “You know damn well you blocked off the road with sheep.”

  “A wolf using sheep. Ingenious doonae ye think?” Altair shrugged nonchalantly. Although fatigue had packed dark bags beneath his bloodshot eyes and carved out a network of wrinkles across hollowed cheek bones, Lucien Catelli’s stubborn nature refused to let him slump. Without the adversary’s disadvantage of advanced age, ill-health and exhaustion Altair might have enjoyed this battle. He remained civil, not out of respect for his new father-in-law but because he wanted to catch Willow abed, preferably still in a receptive mood. “The Shire’s foggy night didnae agree with you. Sit.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Aye, I cannae deny that.”

  “You kept me away from the wedding on purpose.”

  “Defeats the purpose of an invitation doesnae it?”

  “You knew I would never have given consent to this madness.” Lucien, favored his left leg but defiantly refused to rest.

  It didn’t prick his conscience. Altair leaned back leisurely. “Eight and twenty years old, widowed and unprotected, nay someone needing permission. Twould seem times have changed, hasnae it Catelli?”

  “You’re still a little shit, grappling for something that shouldn’t be yours.”

  “Ye’re wrong, old man. Willow always belonged tae me.”

  “If you really believe that, why the conspiracy? You went to great lengths to keep me from intercepting the wedding. Not the actions of a confident man. I had the power to stop it and you knew that.”

  “I willnae deny that either.”

  “Yet here I am, albeit late. What do you want?”

  “Since ye blessing isnae being extended, I’ll settle fer a condition. Any future offspring between your daughter and me will be reared on Scottish soil. The eldest born, male or female, will have Cameron. Catelli heritage will be divided between bairns birthed thereafter. It will wait, however. To be handed over only after they’ve have reached maturity.”

  Lucien’s lips curved cunningly. “Nonna says Willow wed you for a child. A great deal of conditions seem to be flying about.”

  “True. Given a choice between her father and her husband, Willow chose ye.”

  Lucien was visibly taken aback. “You admit it?”

  “Aye. Why else would she choose death fer ye rather then life with me?”

  “Death? What are you talking about?”

  “The bairn. She would martyr herself tae please ye. Ye ken the fragility of a human birthing one of our breed. She ken it. Yet she goes ahead hoping ye would finally deem her a worthy daughter.”

  He growled angrily. “She never had to prove anything to me.”

  “Tis debatable. Where were ye when mae spineless brother used her as punching bag? Ah. By the look on ye face ye didnae ken. Tis odd seeing as ye shared estate lands.”

  “You’re lying. Murdock was—”

  “What? An honorable mon? A kind husband? She bears scars. I’ve seen them.”

  “Lies. You speak now because the man is dead.”

  “Regrettable, fer I wasnae the instrument of his demise. What of the bairn? Did ye bury her with nary a question?”

  Lucien stiffened. “The child was stillborn. Who was I to question? God?”

  “Nay. Ye daughter who was drugged so she wouldnae remember. The monster who killed the bairn. And the snake who helped him.”

  “I didn’t leave my sickbed to trade riddles with you. Spit it out.”

  “Yer wife. She wasnae strong enough tae bear ye bairn. Premature was she, our wee Willow?”

  “My wife was—Willow wasn’t—” He roared and flew at Altair, who was younger, fitter. He dodged easily. “Don’t you dare speak of my wife. You didn’t know her.”

  “Ye failed her. Ye believed a mad mon’s lies. Tis his council that made ye choose Murdock over me. Just as ye wife’s death was his handiwork yet ye cast blame on yer daughter.”

  “Anthony? You’re as crazy as he predicted.”

  “He showed such dedication tae ye fer a pureblood. A traitor. He could have ruled nations. Yet he chose tae be ye advisor. Did ye pay him so well? The cost of yer trust was steep indeed.”

  “Anthony would never betray me. I’ve known him since the age of nine. He was there for me when everyone else failed.”

  “Where is he now? Where was he when first ye wife died? When Murdock was slaughtered in a filthy alley. When Willow’s bairn passed so suddenly. Aye, ye’re right. He’s always there. Women are astute. Did yer wife ever voice doubts about him? Ye didnae listen, did ye? Catelli. Ye trusted only one. He made sure tis the way it stayed. He kept ye isolated—relying on him.”

  “No. It can’t be.”

  Altair noticed the flicker of uncertainty on his ashen face. There wasn’t anything more he could do. The old man had been led far astray. He had to find his own way back. He lingered after Lucien stumbled out the study, wondering why Anthony hadn’t insisted on attending this meeting. A raving lunatic was roaming his land. He didn’t like it.

  “Altair. I cannae find
Willow. The stench of intruder lingers at ye window.”

  Altair crashed through the glass, transforming midair amid showering fragments. “He ken I revealed the truth. Willow’s in danger. Her father, too. Where’s Garret?”

  A black shadow fell in beside Altair. “Descending from the turrets as we speak. Which way?”

  Her blood flowed through his veins, but he couldn’t sense her. The pureblood had talent. He was blocking her. He’d have to do this the primitive way. His nostrils flared. Hair stood erect, testing the air. Her scent was feint, distant. He tasted hot sweat and fear. “The woods. Haste, Jhor.”

  * * * *

  Willow grabbed Claire’s sleeve. “Why would my father call me to the forest? If this is a joke—”

  “—then ye father has strange humor. He begged fer me tae bring ye tae him. Tis about ye marriage. I doonae like this either. I arenae a messenger wench.”

  “If you’re lying, Altair will never forgive—” She froze. Through the shrubs she caught sight of him, lying facedown in the mud. “Father.” She ran.

  The force of the hand grabbing her sent her reeling to the ground. “Not so fast.”

  Willow landed on her rump. She stared at her attacker in horror. “Anthony.”

  “Ye never said anything about anyone getting hurt.” Claire’s round eyes swung between Willow and her father.

  “What did you think I meant by ‘I’ll take care of her?’” Anthony grabbed Claire’s hair and swung her around. “You best keep your mouth shut.”

  Claire winced as she nodded. His gratitude was shown by shoving her away. Willow stared at her unmoving father. “What did you do to him?” She tried to crawl to him but caught a hard kick to the ribs. She rolled over, clutching her side. “Altair. Help me.”

  “Nice try. That won’t work.” He tapped his temple. “I want you all to myself. Then I’ve unfinished business with the Laird and his merry band of mix-breeds.”