A Reaper's Love (WindWorld)

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Yes, I see it,” she whispered and tears fell from each eye.

  “Whose face is it you see, Laci?” he asked softly.

  Her lips trembled. “Yours.”

  “That face is the face of your life-mate, isn’t it, Laci?” he questioned.

  There was only a slight hesitation. “Yes.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. She had capitulated, given in to his mental persuasion.

  “Good,” he said. “Good.” He enfolded her in his arms, pressed her head to his chest. “Do you feel my heart beating?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is beating for you, Laci. For you and you alone. You own that heart, my love. It belongs entirely to you. Do you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is nothing that heart, this body would not do for you. Do you know that as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “That’s my sweet, sweet girl.”

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, laid her down gently on the counterpane. She looked up at him with a trace of fear.

  “I will never hurt you, sweeting,” he said. He put his fingers to the buttons of his white shirt and began running them, tugging the tail from his black slacks as he neared the bottom. He unbuttoned the cuffs of the soft silk shirt as he toed off his black loafers and pushed them away with his sockless foot. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded as he peeled the shirt from his chest and her lips parted, her tongue pressed between them then curled over her bottom lip before drawing slowly back into her mouth.

  His cock leapt and his hands trembled as he reached for his buckle.

  “You belong to me,” he said, drawing the belt from its leather keeper, releasing it from the tang. “You are my life.” The belt came free and he unbuttoned his slacks, tugged down the zipper. “I would give my life for you.”

  He watched her draw in a deep, shuddering breath and could see the vein at the side of her neck throbbing wildly.

  He pushed the slacks over his hips, his thighs, down his legs and stepped out of them. He held his hand out to her.

  * * * * *

  He sat bolt upright on his bunk and howled. Jealousy and unbridled fury lashed at him as heart-rending agony filled his mind and his body. Before he took another breath he Converted into Panthera form and leapt from the bunk. With fangs bared and claws extended, he raked viciously at the titanium walls as savage snarl after snarl ripped from his throat.

  “Get the Supervisor on the horn!” the man watching him yelled. “Now!”

  Unleashing the pent-up ferocity and rage, he clawed deep grooves down the walls and the sound his claws made as he dragged them down the titanium panels barely masked his piercing yowls. He continued to tear brutally at the wall for over twenty minutes. By the time the Supervisor arrived in the video room to see for himself what was happening, blood was coursing from his paws.

  “Spray him before he hurts himself,” the Supervisor said as he stared at the vid-com screen.

  The beast that had been Taylor Reynaud did not see the mist floating down from the four jets hidden in the ceiling. There was no odor to the tranquilizing gas but the moment it touched his fur, his head came up and he twisted it to the side to look up. The mist fell into his eyes and the sound he made raised the hair on the Supervisor’s arms.

  “Coulter is with his woman.”

  The Supervisor turned to see Viraiden Cree and Darkyn Sorn standing behind him. His brothers had informed him they were sending their Alphas to the Exchange and now he knew why.

  “You should keep him out until we can exchange the hellions,” Viraiden advised. “Otherwise he’s going to wind up doing damage to himself.”

  “And the goddess help you if he ever gets loose,” Sorn warned.

  “This is wrong on so many levels,” Cree said. “There is no reason to make him suffer like this.”

  “As if he hadn’t suffered enough already,” Sorn agreed.

  “Sometimes I wonder why She allows fucking shit like this to happen,” Cree stated. “She put me through hell when my life-mate was taken from me. She did the same thing with Fallon. For what?” He snarled. “What possible purpose could this torture have other than to amuse her?”

  “With Fallon, I could see it,” Sorn said. “He’s an arrogant prick at the best of times but Reynaud doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Perhaps to make each of you appreciate your woman even more?” the Supervisor queried.

  Cree shook his head. “No, that’s not it. She knows we love our mates. We would lay down our lives for our mates. This…” He pointed at the screen. “This is just plain hateful.”

  “And mean,” Sorn added.

  “Be careful of the things you say,” the Supervisor warned. “She is always listening.”

  “Let her,” Cree said. “There should be accountability for Her as there is for Her Reapers.”

  The black jaguar violently shook its head, gave one last roar and its legs gave way beneath it. It dropped to the floor with a grunt. Though the large green eyes were open, they were unseeing. The beast was under the strong influence of státúil, the most powerful take-down drug in the Exchange’s arsenal.

  * * * * *

  Dixon Coulter had lain with many women in his lifetime but none had been more than a moment’s pleasure, a passing fancy, a way to while away the time between assignments. He had been—as his sperm donor before him—a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. A flash of his smile, a flex of his biceps and an audacious wink could earn him a bed partner any night of the week. Just a knowing look had been enough to have a broad take him into a storage room, a toilet stall—anywhere private and sometimes not—and screw him hard enough to make him walk funny for a few minutes. He’d had more than his share of handjobs and blowjobs over the years. Had once wrecked a perfectly good Jeep because a captain’s pretty little mouth had been wrapped around his cock. But once fucked, he made it a point to never see that woman again, much less think of her.

  All that was in the past. What he wanted—no, what he craved—was lying on his bed looking up at him, her soft hand in his.

  “You are mine,” he said and he saw a shadow track through her eyes.

  “Take her,” the hellion directed. “Make her yours. Do it now!”

  For all the power that had been given to Dixon Coulter he could not detect the evil whispering in his mind. That evil was deeply hidden and suppurating in his mind like a gaping wound. He was open to the suggestions that were coming—not from the hellion—but the One directing them. He did not realize his actions were being dictated by the Destroyer of Men’s Souls and that he was losing his to the Storm God Raphian.

  “Plant your seed within her, Gravelord,” the hellion cooed.

  His body aching, his cock burning for her, he eased himself gently atop her. The moment his flesh touched hers, a wave of blackness descended over him and he sank beneath it like a rock.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Laci was running. As fast as she could. Around her was a dark forest of withered and dying trees with spectral limbs that arched over her, branches reaching down like claws, moss dangling like the wispy hair of a dead woman as she passed beneath them. The wind keened like a banshee to set her teeth on edge, the hairs to stirring on her arms. Her legs felt like lead and when she paused to catch her breath—putting out a hand to brace herself on one of the slick trees—the moss covering the ground began curling over her feet. With a cry of horror, she shook free of the greedy, grasping tendrils and pushed away from the tree. She ran her palm down the skirt of her nightgown for it was coated with some noxious, clinging mold that was arctic cold at the same time it burned like flame.

  Behind her she knew he was gaining on her. He was calling to her and his voice was mesmerizing, audible even above the skirling wind for he was driving his commands deep into her mind.

  “Laci….”

  She sobbed as she ran. The stygian darkness surrounding her held no haven
. Decomposition and rot filled her nostrils, the stench making her eyes burn. There was no life in this terrible place, only corruption and she was lost inside it, unable to find her way out.

  Hair whipping wildly around her head, she came to a low hill and scrambled up it. Upon gaining the top she paused again—panting, her chest heaving—and looked out over oily black water that seemed to go on forever and ever. She whimpered. There was no escape in that direction. She turned to descend the hill but her bare feet slipped in the muck beneath them and she began to slide down the slick embankment.

  “Taylor!” she screamed, his name the only talisman to keep her sane and rooted to her world.

  But he was not there. He could not help her and she fell facedown in the sludge and though she dug her fingers deep into the debris matting the bank, she slipped rapidly down the slope. The moment her toes entered the water, she yelped for it was so cold it took her breath away. The icy liquid crawled across her foot, over her ankle and began to slither up her calf to freeze her, paralyze her. The pain was excruciating.

  She slipped farther down the ooze and the water clawed at her thighs.

  She screamed again then felt a hand slap around her wrist to halt her downward slide.

  She arched her head back, looked up—hoping to see the one face that could save her—but it was his face hovering above her. Her heart sank and her body shuddered hard. She was in his grasp once more.

  “Accept me,” he shouted at her over the shrieking wind. He thrust his free hand down to her. “Accept me and I will save you!”

  She looked down at the water that was halfway up her thighs. In the glistening oil that swirled within the water were living things that were gnawing at her flesh, ripping at it. She knew if she became fully emerged within that dark, sinister liquid, she would stay there for eternity. It was the sludge of the Abyss that was trying to claim her.

  “Accept me, Laci, and I will protect you!” he yelled. His fingers—the only thing keeping her from descending into the mire—were like a steel trap around her wrist. They were digging into her flesh, grinding the fragile bones.

  Unless she wanted to sink beneath the waves of the stench dragging at her she had no other choice but to do as he bid. As much as it shattered her soul, ripped at her heart. With the last of her waning strength, she extended her other hand to him. Their fingers touched and he inched his to her wrist. His grip was strong, sure, as he started to pull her back up the slippery slope.

  She grimaced as the muck clung to her. The stench was nearly unbearable and she whimpered as it clung to her nightgown, coated her skin. When he had her standing atop the hill, he did not seem to notice the odor permeating her body as he dragged her into his arms.

  “I have you,” he said against her ear. “I have you now.”

  Despite the overwhelming sadness and grief welling in her very soul, she clung to him. He was her only lifeline in the dark, stained world. She made no sound as he lifted her into his arms—cradling her like an infant—and turned away from the sludge of the vast water basin behind them. His boots skidded in the slurry as he carried her down the hill but he kept his balance.

  As he carried her, a hard rain began to fall. It was cold and made her shiver but it was washing away the stench and foulness that was stuck to her.

  “You are mine,” he told her. “Nothing will ever threaten you again.”

  She looked over his shoulder at the gnarled and twisted trees. The branches reached toward them with flexing twigs that looked like talons—opening and closing as though they would snatch her from his arms. She whimpered again and pressed her face to his shoulder.

  Chapter Twelve

  Taylor sat perfectly still on his bunk. He’d been warned if he Converted again he would spend another day or two locked inside the imprisoning influence of the státúil. He wanted to avoid that punishment for the drug had side effects that were so disturbing he had no desire to experience them again.

  “You will get her back,” Cree told him from the other side of the unbreakable plexigon panel.

  “She shouldn’t have been taken from me in the first place,” Taylor said. He barely glanced at the three Reapers who had come to speak to him.

  “Nothing happened between them, Tay,” Fallon said. “Every time Coulter tried to do anything, he passed out.”

  “I’ll bet you he thinks he did something, though,” Cree said with a grunt.

  “You guys are not helping,” Sorn said. “We were sent here to relieve his mind not reinforce the misery he’s feeling.”

  “We’re telling him like it is,” Cree stated. “We’re not sugar-coating it. He’s a Reaper. He can take it.”

  “But you are making him feel worse in the bargain,” Sorn grumbled.

  “How do you know how he feels?” Cree asked.

  “Until you find your life-mate you can’t understand what he’s going through,” Fallon said.

  “I don’t want or need a life-mate,” Sorn told him.

  Cree snorted. “I got news for you, Darkyn. That’s not your call to make.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Fallon agreed.

  “If it’s all the same to you guys, I’d rather you take your arguing elsewhere. Just leave me alone,” Taylor said. “None of you are helping.”

  “We came down to tell you Laci is on her way back,” Sorn said. “The Supervisors thought you should have some company when you were told.”

  “As if that makes a gods-be-damned bit of difference,” Cree said.

  Taylor slid off the bunk. “How long before she’ll be here?”

  “They will be here tomorrow morning,” Fallon said. He locked eyes with Taylor. “And no, they aren’t going to let you out of here to see her.”

  “Why the hell not?” Taylor demanded, rushing over to the panel. He slammed his palms to the surface, searching Cree’s stony stare.

  “You know why not,” Cree said. “Until we harvest the hellions and make the exchange—”

  “I want to see my fucking woman!” Taylor bellowed.

  “Well you can’t,” Fallon stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Not yet anyways.”

  “The gods damn it, I—”

  “Listen to me!” Cree snapped and the other Reapers stilled. They were all Alphas but each of them feared Viraiden Cree. Not only was he the oldest, he was the most dangerous. No one messed with the Prime Alpha and came out unscathed. “We are here in case this Coulter asshole acts up. The consensus is he won’t but he’s being controlled by forces he doesn’t even know about. We’ve got to bide our time until we can get him down here to the clinic and cut your hellion out of him.”

  “And clean that hellion of Raphian’s influence,” Fallon said. “We can’t do that with it still inside him. It has to be back where it belongs.”

  “Both Supervisors as well as Dr. Hesar are here, as well,” Sorn said. “They think it may take all of us to handle Coulter.”

  Taylor flinched. “He’s that powerful?”

  “Aye,” Fallon said. “He’s that powerful, Tay.”

  “Then let me out to help,” Taylor demanded. “My hellion is almost full grown.”

  Cree shook his head. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The operative word is almost,” Fallon said. “You’re going to have to give it another day or two to reach maturity.”

  Taylor pushed away from the panel. He turned his back on his fellow Reapers, his fists clenched at his side. “Go away,” he ordered.

  “Hang in there, bro,” Sorn said. “It’ll all work out.”

  “Says the man who doesn’t know the first thing about life-mating,” Fallon mumbled.

  “Fuck you, Misha,” Sorn groused.

  “You’re not my type,” Fallon smirked.

  Cree cranked his head toward the exit. “Stow that shit. Let’s go,” he told them.

  “Take care of my woman, Cree,” Taylor said without looking around.

  “As if she were my own,” came the answer.r />
  That statement rankled but Taylor let it slide. He heard the door close behind the warriors and raked a hand through his hair, grabbing a handful to tug brutally. He welcomed the pain.

  Going back to the bunk, he sat down with his hand still clenched in his hair. He swung his legs onto the platform and lay down, drawing his knees up. His belly was cramping with tension, his chest tight. He had a budding headache that he knew was only going to get worse. Reapers suffered from savage migraines and the one headed his way was going to be a doozy.

  He let go of his hair and slid his forearm over his face, blocking out the light overhead. He shut his eyes. “Light, off,” he ordered and automatically whoever was observing him obeyed the directive. The containment cell went dark but he knew the watcher could see it through the night vision lenses located in the ceiling.

  “Do you need anything, milord?” the watcher—a female—asked.

  “Not yet but I will,” he said.

  “Let me know when you do,” she said. Her voice was soft, very quiet and carefully modulated.

  “Duly noted,” he agreed.

  The watcher said nothing more and Taylor tried to quieten his roiling mind, force out the images of Laci in the arms of a faceless monster. He ached with need. He throbbed with longing. The hellion within him stirred and began to whisper once more that there was another female ripe and ready for his taking.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Shut the fuck up and leave me alone!”

  “She will give herself to you.”

  No, he thought, clenching his teeth. Keenan would not. Fallon would eviscerate him, tear off his head and piss down his throat before he allowed that to happen. He debated whether or not to tell anyone that the new hellion—that had replaced Fallon’s on the island and that had not belonged to a living mated Reaper—was whispering forbidden directives to him.

  Then it occurred to him that the hellion didn’t mean Keenan.

  He sat up, eyes wide. There was another female out there of which this hellion was speaking.

  Which meant the life-mate of the Reaper who had willed himself to die was still alive!

  * * * * *