Her Reaper's Arms (8 page)

his entire body.

Whatever he had seen, whatever he had been a part of had taken a violent, brutal

hold on him and was digging in with cruel barbs. His tears saturated the thin cotton of

her chemise and ran down between her thighs. They were scalding tears and the sounds

that came from his very soul shook her as he cried. She was unaccustomed to hearing a

man cry and to hear a man like this one—a Reaper—do so was unnerving and it sent

chills down her back.

“Tell me, milord,” she whispered to him. “Let it out.”

He was whimpering as he cried, as though whatever he was remembering was so

terrible, so exacting, that it was refreshing itself over and over in his mind. It had a

strong grip on him, refusing to let go, and she could tell he was battling with that evil,

straining to break away from it.

“Let it out,” she said. “Don’t keep it bottled within you.”

“No,” he whined.

“Share it with me, milord,” she said. “Let your burden become mine. We will

banish it together.”

The bed was shuddering beneath his sobs and the keening sound he made caused

her eyes to fill with sympathetic tears.

She didn’t think he was going to tell her, but then the tale spilled from his trembling

lips as he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that continued to fall unchecked. She

sat there in stunned silence as he told her what he had seen hanging from the walls of

the rogue’s shack, of the evil that had been wrought in that isolated place, of the

atrocities that had been done.

“They were young women,” he sobbed. “And they had been tortured.”

Lea could have told him of the nunnery near Dixonberg that had burned to the

ground a year earlier, of the nuns who supposedly had succumbed to the flames but she

knew he would remember hearing of it. Twenty females—many no older than thirty—

had been reported to have perished in that fire of unknown origin. Obviously at least

some of them had not.

“Their bodies were hanging on meat hooks,” he said, and shuddered so violently

she thought he would come apart in his struggle. “If he hadn’t already been dead, I

would have stripped the skin from him inch by inch for what he’d done.”

How long did it take for the medicine to claim him? To knock him out?

She laid her fingers over his lips to keep him from speaking aloud any more of the

horrendous things he had witnessed in that vile place. If she could reach into his mind

and extract the scene of such carnage, could erase it, she would.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He sobbed brokenly for so long, she feared he would make himself sick. His tears

had soaked the sheet beneath them and still he shuddered with such pitiful cries he was

getting hoarse. His body trembled, his hand clutching hers as he vented his sorrow.

“Help him,” she prayed to whatever gods still listened to the people of Terra.

“Please, help him.”

All of a sudden the scent of gardenia drifted through the room and Lea looked up,

stunned, for there were no flowers nearby. It seemed darker in the room and cooler, and

then the delicious aroma increased until it was almost as though it were being poured

upon her skin. It flowed over them along with a soft breeze that came out of nowhere.

“Forget for now, my Reaper,”
a sigh breathed through the room.

Bevyn’s body was tense as a steel spring one moment and in the next, it was as limp

as a string of silk. When at last his sobs died away to hitching breaths that shook the

bed, the terrible grimness smoothed from his face and he lay quietly, his head heavy in

Lea’s lap, his fingers relaxed and slightly curled toward his palm.

“Morrigunia,” she heard him whisper, and looked about the room with fright for

the Triune Goddess was rumored to be a fearful sight.

But only darkening shadows filled the room. No creature with flaming red hair

hovered in the corner to rush at them with wicked talons. No fire-breathing entity

lurked to snatch the Reaper from her arms.

Yet Lea’s arm stiffened around her man, holding on to him protectively. If she

needed to fight for him, by all that was holy, she would.

She stroked his forehead and cooed to him, humming a lullaby from her childhood.

Over an hour had passed since they had lain down but it felt to her like an eternity.

She felt his fingers running along the underside of her arm as though he were

testing the softness of her flesh. As he spoke to her, she could hear the gruff roughness

of his strained throat.

“I want you,” he said.

“I am here,” she replied without hesitation.

He moved, lifting his head from her lap, pushing up in the bed until his face was

mere inches from hers.

“You are mine, Lea Walsh,” he said, putting a hand to her cheek to cup her face.

“I know I am.”

“You will always be mine.”

“That I will, Bevyn Coure,” she agreed.

Had he not been under the influence of the very potent drug racing through his

system, she did not think he would have cast aside his normal cautions. Had not the

memory of what he had seen not been hanging there to remind him of how fleeting

human life could be, she wondered if still he would have acted upon his need.

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Her Reaper’s Arms

His hand moved from her cheek to behind her neck and he pulled her toward him,

put his lips on hers in a soft, tender kiss. He plied her mouth gently, his tongue

caressing her lower lip, the creases, then he moved back.

“I want you,” he said again, searching her eyes.

“Then take what you need, milord,” she told him. “I offer it freely.”

His hand shook as he lowered it to her breast, caressing her through the worn

material of her chemise. He held her gaze even as his thumb swept over her nipple,

causing it to harden.

“I need you,” he whispered, and moved his hand so he could insinuate it beneath

the fabric, could touch the softness of her breast, could center the puckered nubbin in

his palm. He cupped her. “More than I need breath, I need you.”

There was so much hurt in his amber eyes, so many injuries streaking his soul, that

she would have moved heaven and earth to bring joyous light back into those bleak

depths. Her heart ached for this man—wounded so deeply that the scars had become

badges of honor to him. She could see the loneliness in his gaze, feel the barrenness of

his very being looking back at her. She knew something of such loneliness, such

emptiness, and it called out to her—like unto like.

Yet she hesitated.

“What worries you, sweeting?” he asked gently, sensing her reluctance.

“I don’t want to be like you,” she said.

“You can’t be like me,” he said. “Not unless I give you a fledgling and that I will not

do if you are against it.”

She nibbled her bottom lip, eyes locked with his and filled with quiet desperation.

“But when you… Will what is in you…?” Her face burned scarlet and she ducked her

head, breaking eye contact. “You know.”

Bevyn’s brows drew together then understanding lit his golden gaze. “You think

that what is inside my cum will contaminate you?”

If possible her face turned redder still and she bobbed her head in silent agreement.

“Look at me,” he said, and reached out to tilt her face to him. He smiled softly.

“Sweeting, while it is true my seed is rife with Revenant spore, it will not infect you.

You can not become a Reaper in that way. Only extracting one of my hellions and

implanting it in you—”

“I don’t want that!” she said as her face leached of the blush that had been there

only moments before.

He caressed her cheek. “Then you have nothing to worry about for I will never

force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her

bottom lip. “Do you understand?”

A fleeting smile touched her lips. “Aye, milord. I understand.”

“There is no reason to fear what is inside me.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“All right.”

“And no reason to ever fear me. If you don’t want to do this…”

“What if we m-make a baby from this?” she asked. “Will she—”

“He,” he corrected her. “Reapers can only give their mates male children.”

She asked why that was.

“My hellion, my Queen, is a jealous thing,” he said. “She would see to it that one of

the spores destroyed a female…” He flung out a hand, searching for the word. He did

not think she would understand what zygote meant. “A female…”

“Embryo?” she provided.

“Aye!” he said, pouncing on the word with relief. “She would destroy it in the

womb.” Such talk disturbed him and he stirred her away from it, having no intention of

ever getting her pregnant.

“But if you don’t want to lie with me, I will understand.”

“Would a child of ours be like you?” she asked, and Bevyn wanted to groan with

frustration. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, aye, he would, but only when he comes of age,” he replied uneasily. “After

he reaches puberty. Hell, I may not be able to give you a baby, sweeting. Did you think

of that?”

She considered his handsome face. A man as sensual and powerful as this one

could not be anything but virile and—she blushed—potent. “If he will be like you in all

else, I think I could live with that. I would love him despite the thing inside him.”

Bevyn’s heart twisted and he gave her a look that he was certain had made her

womb clench for she drew in a tremulous breath.

“That’s a long way off. Let’s not worry about it,” he said, wanting this conversation

finished. “But like I said, if you don’t want to make love with me…”

“I belong to you, Milord Bevyn,” she declared, chin raised defiantly. “Take what

you want.”

For a long moment he stared at her then took a deep breath, pushing all his own

worries aside.

“I will pay for it,” he said. “By the gods, they will make me pay for it, but I can no

more stop making you wholly mine than I can cease to breathe.”

He rose up in the bed and knelt there on his knees, sliding her chemise from her

shoulders and down her upper body, waiting patiently as she arched her hips up so he

could pull it free. She lay there beneath his scrutiny as he swept his gaze over her

nakedness, claiming it for his own.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, holding his hand out to her to help her sit.

She cocked her head to one side, wondering at his motive until he put his hands to

her hair and began to take the pins from the blonde curls, pulling the long locks over

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Her Reaper’s Arms

her shoulders, fingering them, lifting them to his nostrils to inhale the scent of lemons

that clung to the tendrils.

“So beautiful,” he said with a sigh, letting the lock he held fall to her shoulder.

“I am as you see me,” she said. She held no illusions of how she looked. To her, she

was nothing special—simply an ordinary woman with commonplace looks. She had no

way of knowing that to him she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of

the earth.

He wanted—no he
needed
—to lose himself in her soft, wet folds. He knew it was

wrong, that he should not do it. He knew the consequences but he didn’t care. All of his

life he had been denied what he wanted, had his needs and hopes and longings laughed

at, subjugated, pushed aside, denied.

No more!

He wanted and he would take, penalties be damned.

Lowering his head to her breast, he drew her nipple between his lips, glorying in

the feel of her hands threading through his hair to hold his head. He plied his tongue

across the swollen tip—tasting her, suckling her, drawing strength and courage from

her sweet offering. He laved her, swirled his tongue around her engorged peak, planted

soft kisses along the firm globe he held in his hand.

Shifting until he was atop her, pushing her legs apart with his hips, he settled down

into the sweet valley between her thighs and clasped her other breast, holding it as

lovingly as he did its mate. Alternating his attention from one silken mound to the

other, he licked her nipples, gently nibbled them and raked them softly across his lips

and cheek and chin. All the while, his eyes were on hers—melded, fused, locked.

“You are an incredibly handsome man, milord,” she told him. Her fingers plowed

slowly, sensuously through his dark curls.

“I am as you see me,” he repeated her words back to her. He flicked his tongue over

her nipple then drew it into his mouth.

Lea stared into those beautiful amber eyes with their long, thick lashes and

shivered. His face was flawless without a nick or a cut to mar the flesh. Not one blemish

showed on those fine features except for the dark blue tattoo. She traced the sweep of

one stylized wing with her fingertip.

“What manner of bird is this?” she asked.

“It is the Coure crow,” he replied, his teeth lightly clamped to her nipple. “It

symbolizes good judgment although there are those who would argue I possess such a

trait.”

She smiled. “What trait would you say you possess, milord?” she asked.

He snorted and released her nipple with a loud pop. “Stubbornness perhaps?”

“And are the Coure men known for being stubborn?” she inquired.

“Stubborn and willful, I’m told. The reason the Coure clan has the tattoo is because