Her Reaper's Arms
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“Préachán is a stalwart steed,” the Reaper said. “And one for whom I would battle.”
“Would you consider it?” Penthe asked. “Fighting me for the mount?”
Bevyn shook his head. “No.”
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Penthe shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “It might have been fun to have you
stretched out beneath me.”
Lea stiffened and opened her mouth to comment, but her Reaper reached out to
thread his fingers through hers, drawing her to him. “I love you,” he said so quietly
only Lea heard him.
Penthe ignored the Terran woman whose hand was clasped in the Reaper’s. She
walked with him to the blanket, and when he dropped down, pulling his woman with
him, she scowled. She looked pointedly at the basket from which the woman had fed
Bevyn Coure earlier.
“Tell me what it is you expect to happen here, milady,” Bevyn requested of Penthe
as the Blackwind hunkered down on the blanket, the Dóigra clutched tightly in her
hand.
“Unless my people come for me, I am trapped on this world,” Penthe replied. “A
warrioress among women scared of their own shadows.” She raked Lea with an
insulting glance.
“Let’s you and me get something straight,” Lea said, her hand tensing in Bevyn’s.
“Touch my man at your peril. I might not have your strength, I might not be a
warrioress, but your back won’t always be turned away from me and I can be a spiteful
bitch when I want to be.”
Penthe’s green eyes flared. “Are you challenging me?” she hissed.
“No, she is not. She is simply warning you as I will warn you,” Bevyn said. “If you
touch one hair on her pretty little head, you’ll have me on you in a way I promise you
won’t like, wench.”
Penthe swept him a heated look. Up close the man was by far the most handsome
she’d ever seen, and the tat on his left cheek made her womb clench with need. “I have
never lain with a man and never expected to, but I could make an exception with you,
Coure,” she said boldly.
He snorted. “Won’t happen,” he stated. “I belong to her.”
The Blackwind blinked. “A Reaper would dare say such a thing?” she asked.
“I belong to her,” he repeated. “With my entire being and with every beat of my
heart.”
Sweeping Lea a hard look, Penthe asked her how she had managed to bewitch the
Reaper.
“With love,” Bevyn said softly.
Penthe rolled her eyes. “Love makes a warrior weak.”
Cornelia came over to them and stood glaring down at the Amazeen. “And hatred
won’t keep you warm on a cold winter night or fill your belly with food or child.”
“Food I want,” Penthe admitted. “A child?” She waved a dismissive hand. “That I
never want.”
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“Can’t say as I blame you,” Cornelia quipped. “They can be an ungrateful bunch.”
She turned her attention to Lea. “I need some help with supper.”
Lea didn’t want to leave her man with the statuesque beauty who was squatting
down beside him, but when he gave her a look that curled the toes in her slippers, she
got up and without a backward glance started toward Cornelia’s house with her.
“You’ve trained your pet well,” Penthe remarked. She lowered her rump to the
blanket, sitting tailor fashion, placing the Dóigra upon the ground.
“How did the rogue manage to get hold of one of your weapons?” Bevyn asked her.
“He attacked my partner, ravaged her in his insanity,” Penthe said. “He was rabid.”
“It happens to balgairs,” Bevyn said.
“But not to Reapers?” she asked, intrigued. “Why is that?”
“They don’t know. Our Prime was once bitten by a rabid fox. He was sick but not as
if it had been a ghoret bite.”
Penthe shuddered. “Even hearing that word disturbs me,” she said.
“You and me both,” he admitted.
“He lived? This Prime?” she inquired.
“Aye, but I’ve heard tell that rogues succumb to the disease in a matter of days
when bitten. Obviously their parasites aren’t as strong as ours,” he replied.
“Thankfully Artesia did not survive his mauling to contract the illness,” Penthe
said. “That would be a gruesome way to meet the Gatherer.”
“How was it he managed to kill her?”
Penthe swept her hand along her thigh to brush away pieces of hay. “We had
argued and she’d gone off on her own. In her state of mind, she wasn’t being careful
and he jumped her, tore her throat out before I could shoot him with my weapon. He
saw me and took off running with Artesia slung over his shoulder, her Dóigra in his
unworthy fist. I was amazed at how fast he could run.”
“Rogues aren’t as fast as Reapers in that department, but they can move when they
feel threatened,” he agreed.
“He took her to that hellhole where he had slaughtered the other women.”
“Did you know he was rabid?”
She nodded. “His face was already turning black and his tongue so swollen he
could not draw it back into his mouth. I knew it was but a matter of time before he
succumbed. There was nothing I could do for Artesia so I just waited, hoping he’d come
outside so I could shoot him and put him down. I never got the chance for he died a few
hours later, howling and snarling the likes I hope to never hear again.”
They were silent for a moment then Bevyn asked what she would do now.
“I have no idea,” Penthe said. “By rights, I suppose I should stake you to the
ground and avenge my grandmere.”
Bevyn smiled. “I don’t think I’m going to let you do that, wench,” he said.
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“Too bad,” Penthe said with a sigh. “Torture is so entertaining and…” She swept
him a sultry look. “I wouldn’t mind putting my hands to you, Reaper.”
“It was Kennocha who wronged me,” he told her. “Not the other way around.”
She waved a hand. “Aye, I realize that now, but at the time I accepted the Edikeõ, I
was young and somewhat foolish and—I will admit it—looking for adventure. Coming
to Terra to extract you seemed worthy.”
“And now you may be stuck here,” he reminded her.
“Aye,” she said, her lips twisted with irritation. “So what do I do, Reaper?”
He turned his head and looked up at the home he was helping to build. The
foundation, walls and rafters were in place, much of the roofing panels laid. Come
tomorrow, he and his crew would begin work on the inside.
“I will be journeying to the Citadel in the next several days,” he told the Blackwind.
“You are welcome to come with us and meet with the Shadowlords. Perhaps they can
find something worthy for you to do.”
Penthe sat up straighter. “The Shadowlords?” she repeated. “I have heard of them.
They are here on Terra?”
“Three of them are,” he replied.
“It would be entertaining to meet them,” she said then gave him a wicked look.
“Not as entertaining as putting my hands all over you but interesting, I would think.”
Bevyn threw back his head and laughed. “You don’t give up, do you, wench?” he
as
ked.
Penthe bent forward and put a hand on his thigh. “I believe I could keep at it all
night long, warrior. Your cock would be so sore, you wouldn’t be able to move come
morning.”
Bevyn glanced up to see Lea coming toward him. His lady was not smiling and
when her eyes flicked over the Blackwind, there was anger in them.
“What is it, milady?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“I need to speak to you,” Lea said, and snaked out a hand to grab his arm. “Now!”
She yanked him behind her, storming toward the stable.
“Be gentle with him, wench!” Penthe called out, and everyone still left at the
building site laughed.
Bevyn stumbled along behind his lady, his eyebrows drawn together. She was
furious and he could feel her anger snapping like lightning around him. “We were only
talking, sweeting,” he said, instinctively knowing it was the Blackwind who had caused
Lea’s fury.
“She wasn’t talking,” Lea snapped as she jerked the stable door open and pulled
him inside. “She was flirting with you!”
“Nah, wench,” he said. “Not really. She just—”
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Lea let go of his arm and shoved him hard to send him crashing into an upright. He
grunted as his back hit the wood.
“I won’t have it, Bevyn Coure!” she snarled at him, coming toe-to-toe with him. “Do
you hear me? I won’t have it!”
“But, sweeting, she—”
Her hands were suddenly all over him and Bevyn gasped at her ferocity. She was
snatching at his belt buckle, snagging down his fly, pushing the sweat-dampened
denims down his hips.
“Lea, what are you…?” he began before she slammed into him, reaching up to grab
his face between her hands to pull his mouth to hers.
Lea boldly thrust her tongue between her Reaper’s lips and ravaged his mouth, her
lower body grinding against his, his suddenly very attentive tool rising to the occasion.
He turned her so her back was to the upright, tearing his mouth free of her frenzied
kiss.
“Two can play at that, milady,” he said through gritting teeth, and swept her gown
up, his hard hand going under her chemise to pull it up as well.
The moment his fingers touched her core, Lea draped her arms around his neck and
pushed her feet off the stable floor. His free arm locked around her and he lifted her up,
her legs going around his waist as he held her against the upright.
“You are mine, Bevyn Coure,” she said.
“I am,” he agreed as he thrust himself up inside her. “You gods-be-damned better
believe I am!”
Her hands were tight in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. Her sheath was
squeezing him fiercely as he rode her, pushing her hard against the upright. His thigh
muscles were taut as he held her, his arms around her so tight it was hard to tell where
his body stopped and hers began. His legs were spread wide as he worked her up and
down on his hot, slick shaft and all the while their tongues were dueling, swirling
around one another.
Lea reveled in his broad, sweaty chest pressed against her. His was a clean, manly
scent that did wonderful things to her body and sent her into spasms of delight. She
could feel her channel tightening around his rod, beginning the series of tremors that
would bring forth such pleasure for both of them.
He nipped at her bottom lip and when her eyes widened, he swept his tongue over
the slight pain.
“I want to taste you,” he said huskily, and she knew he did not mean the musk that
lay between her thighs.
Unable to deny this man anything, Lea arched her head to one side, exposing her
neck to him.
Bevyn didn’t hesitate. He wanted the taste of her blood on his lips, in his mouth,
settling in his soul. He needed it for more than for just the carnal pleasure it would give
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him, give her. He needed it to bond with her as no other male ever would. His fangs
came out and he bit her—shallowly but enough to break the skin. Two tiny beads of her
sweet blood bubbled up and he retracted his fangs, latching his lips unto the tiny
wounds.
Lea tensed against him but the pain was so much more than the slight, momentary
discomfort. It brought with it a surge of sexual intensity that made her groan. She could
feel him drawing against her flesh, heard the soft swallow that told her he had
consumed her very essence.
“Bevyn,” she whispered, attached to him more at that moment than mere flesh to
flesh or body to body. She was being forged into him and she knew it.
The taste of her life force was so intoxicating he wanted to drown himself in it. He
had drank from her vein before, had taken all he needed so that no matter where she
went, where he went, he would be able to find her, track her, but he wanted to reinforce
that bonding, needed to tie her to him so irrevocably she would never give thought to
another man. Never would she be able to escape him now. Not even her thoughts could
escape him for he was able to hear her thoughts, speak to her even though they were
apart, and keep her safe in ways beyond the ordinary.
With her blood bursting down his throat, he felt his release pushing upward,
burning his cock in waves of exquisite agony. He shoved hard against her. Thrust
upward with such force she groaned for he had touched her very womb with his
straining.
“Come for me,” he hissed. “Come for me, my love.”
And she did in ripples of pleasure that gripped him with silken fingers that
squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until his cock jerked and he spurted long and
hard inside her. Straining against her until the last of him shot deep, he buried his head
against her shoulder, his chest heaving as he shuddered.
They stood there until his thigh muscles began to quiver and she unlocked her legs
from his waist and he allowed her to slide down, his arms still clasped around her.
He lifted his head. “Look at me, Lea,” he said.
She looked up into his golden eyes.
“These eyes may see another woman,” he said, “but these arms will never reach out
for her. This body will never hunger for her and this heart will never hold any save you
within it. Never question my love for you, Lea Walsh, for it is now the air I breathe and
the very blood coursing through my veins.” When she would have looked down, he put
a hand to her chin and held her face. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“Aye, milord,” she said, “but you understand this—I might die in the trying but if
any woman ever dared try to take you from me, I would do my gods-be-damned best to
tear her apart.”
His smile was slow but filled with pride for her. “I don’t doubt that for a minute,
milady,” he said.
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“She will try to lure you away, Bevyn,” she warned him.
“She can try but she’ll not succeed,” he vowed. “You—and only you—are the one I
want.”
* * * * *
Penthe watched the Reaper and his lady as they came out of the stable. She sniffed
the air and caught the scent
of sex permeating the couple. Digging her fingernails into
her palms, she watched them coming toward her and knew before ere he spoke what
the Reaper’s words would be.
“This is my lady,” he told her. “I guard her with my life.”
The Blackwind forced herself to shrug as though it mattered little to her although
she was raging inside, wanting something she knew she’d never possess but coveting it
anyway.
“Do we have an understanding, Amazeen?” he pressed.
“We do, Reaper,” Penthe replied. She got to her feet. “Now tell me more of this
place you call the Citadel and the Shadowlords who rule it.”
* * * * *
Cornelia joined them on the back porch after she had finished the last of the
cleaning in the kitchen. Lea had helped her with supper and offered to wash the dishes
but the older woman had shaken her head.
“Don’t leave him out there with that woman warrior,” Cornelia had said. “I don’t
trust that woman any farther than I can see her.”
Sitting in the swing with his lady, Bevyn had his left arm stretched out along the
back of the swing, one bare foot braced on the seat as he idly pushed at the floor with
his other.
“I’ve never seen a man what likes to go barefoot as much as you,” Cornelia said as
she sat down in her rocker and lit the only pipe she enjoyed after a hard day’s work.
“Why is that, milord?”
Penthe sat in the other rocker, though the chair was motionless beneath her. She
frowned when the black woman lit the pipe. “Such things are not good for your lungs,”
she commented.
“Ain’t good for me, I know,” Cornelia said, taking a deep draw on the tobacco, “but
it’s good to me, girl.” She turned back to Bevyn. “You gonna tell me why you don’t like
to keep your boots on, son?”
Bevyn’s right hand was sliding up and down the swing’s chain. “I guess because
one of the punishments I had as a novice was to have my feet bound so I couldn’t walk.
I hated it because I was forced to crawl on my knees—which was the whole purpose of
a punishment meant to humble the wrongdoer.”
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“Did it hurt?” Lea asked. She had her right hand resting on his thigh and was
enjoying the feel of the hard muscles bunching as he pushed the swing.
“Aye, it hurt,” Bevyn said. “Most of the time now I can’t even stand to have on