Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1] (2 page)

down her hips. He hunkered down behind her to move his

palms down the outsides of her legs. Bringing his left hand to

join his right, he hooked his hands around her ankle then

slowly brought them up her leg.

Bailey tensed, knowing he was going to touch her

intimately, shamefully, and she bit her lip hard enough to

taste blood but he stopped just short of the junction between

her legs and moved his hands to her other leg to repeat the

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procedure. His hands were warm and calloused as he dragged

them along her flesh. As he once again neared her privates,

he stopped with his hands circling her upper thigh. She could

feel him looking up at her.

"Right now, there are thirty-seven men incarcerated at the

Doinsiún," he told her then released her thigh. He stood up

and put his hands to her hips again. "Those aren't good odds

for a soft piece of fluff like you."

The moment his hands cupped her ass, Bailey quivered

from head to toe. He was kneading her, crushing her flesh in

his strong hands.

"You know what those men do when they get a fresh piece

of cunt, wench?" he purred into her ear. He tugged up the

skirt of her short gown and insinuated his fingers into the leg

band of her panties. "They fuck them until they can't walk."

He touched her and Bailey thought she would scream. No

man had ever touched her there and his fingers were sliding

over her folds, swirling into the pubic curls, grazing

something that made her jump.

"Are you virgin, little coroner?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said. Her voice broke and she whimpered.

"Then they would hurt you badly," he said. "They would

thrust into you..."

His fingers slid into her so quickly, so unexpectedly she

jerked against him and tried to break away, but he pushed

forward, jamming his body into hers to press her tightly to

the wall. He went deep inside her, his fingers twisting gently

but insistently. "They'll fall on you like a hoard of ravaging

dogs, baby," he said, his voice gruff and hard. "Your sweet

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little body will tear beneath that assault." He moved his

fingers in and out of her. "They'll thrust and thrust and..." He

slid a finger into her anus. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Please don't

do this!"

His tone turned harder still. "Do you think they'll listen to

you when you beg them to stop, Bailey?" he snarled. "You'd

be down on that dirty floor with your arms and legs spread

wide while man after man after man falls on you and stabs

his dirty, diseased cock inside you."

"Please," she whined.

He pushed as deep into her as his finger would go. "And if

you survive the fucking that night, the chances are good you

might survive the next night and the next but then again, you

might not."

Bailey was gasping for breath and when he snatched his

finger out of her, she thought he was finished but he touched

something else between her legs, plucked at something there

that made her knees go weak and caused her womb to

flutter.

"You won't like the Dungeon, baby," he said, worrying that

part of her that was doing strange things to her insides. "By

the gods you are wet! I could fuck you right here."

It was that last comment that snapped her eyes open and

she twisted violently in his arms, bringing her hands up to

rake his face but he moved quicker than she could have

anticipated and she was slammed back against the wall, his

knee wedged painfully and tightly between her thighs.

"Please, Milord, let go of me!" she said, her eyes wild now

and her lips skinned back from her clenched teeth.

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His body was crushing hers, his hands on her wrists as he

pinned her arms above her head. The slow, merciless smile

that tugged at his lips sent waves of fury through Bailey but

she stamped down on that anger, knowing he could—and

most likely would—hurt her badly if she fought him.

"Stay away from the shapeshifter Kona Doyle, little

coroner," he said, staring into her eyes. "If you don't, you'll

wind up having your sweet little cunt and your virginal little

asshole stretched by men a lot less gentle than me."

He released her wrists and moved back. With one upward

flick of his dark left eyebrow, he pivoted on his heel and

walked casually out of the alley.

Bailey slid to the wet pavement in a heap and buried her

face in her hands, sobbing hysterically. She barely felt

Striker's arm around her and only dimly heard his soothing

words as he tried to comfort her.

* * * *

Crevan Byrne—better known to his friends and enemies

alike as Van—barely glanced at the Senator who had joined

him on the park bench. The Modartha agent's long legs were

stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His arms were folded

over his chest as he lounged there beneath the sweeping

shade of an elm tree.

"I came as soon as my assistant said you'd called, Milord,"

Senator Earnon Flynn said, taking a seat. "All went well, I

hope."

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"I believe so. I scared the hell out of your niece, Senator,"

Van replied. "I don't believe she'll be tempted to attend

another Resistance rally."

Flynn breathed a loud sigh of relief. "Thank the gods. I

worry about Bailey," he said. "I've been her guardian since

her parents were killed and sometimes she's a bit hard to

handle. She is such a headstrong girl."

Van snorted. "She's no girl, Senator. Your niece is a

woman."

"She's twenty-three years old, Milord and has shown no

interest in boys. She..."

"It isn't a boy she needs," Van interrupted. "She needs a

man."

Sweeping his gaze surreptitiously over the commander of

the Modartha, Flynn knew he could do worse for his beloved

charge. Byrne was the kind of man women found appealing.

His physique was superb. He had power and authority. He

was well-respected.

"What would it take for you to be that man?" the Senator

inquired.

Van was staring across the park at the pond where black

swans were gliding. It was a warm spring day and the wool

fabric of his dark colored uniform felt oppressive. He wished

he could be swimming alongside the waterfowl.

"Milord?" Flynn nudged.

"I heard you," Van replied. He reached up to scratch his

lean jaw. "Are you offering her to me?"

"I understand you do not have a woman of your own," the

Senator commented.

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"I've never wanted one," he snapped. "What are you

proposing?"

"I would, of course, provide a very handsome dowry for

her," Flynn told him.

"Money means nothing to me, Senator," Van stated. "I

have more than I'll ever need."

"Property, perhaps?" Flynn inquired. "I have several

estates from which you could choose."

Van grunted. "I have property. I don't need any more

gods-be-damned property to have to look after."

Flynn's forehead furrowed. "Then what can I offer to tempt

you to court my niece?"

A chuckle erupted from the Modartha's chest. "I'm not

about to court her, Senator," he said then turned his head so

he was looking directly at Flynn. "I'll ask you again. Are you

offering her to me?"

Flynn nodded. "Yes, Milord, I am."

Van looked away. He thought of the woman he'd

encountered the day before and unconsciously rubbed his

fingers together. He could almost feel the warmth and

wetness of her and it made his groin clench.

He had undertaken the assignment asked of him by

Senator Flynn and had gone to confront the man's niece

whom the Senator suspected was getting involved with the

Resistance. Stunned to find Bailey MacKenna was startlingly

beautiful with silky light brown hair and large green eyes that

pulled him down into their bright depths, he had been

immediately drawn to her. Full coral lips, high cheekbones,

and a lush figure had only added to her allure. Possessive

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instincts he didn't even know he had had coursed through him

the moment he touched her and the thought of other men

putting hands to her drove an arrow of intense jealousy

straight through him. Against his will, some wayward part of

him reached out to stake claim to her. Fear of something

happening to her, of her being sent to jail, had caused him to

behave in a way completely out of character for him and—to

a degree—he felt shame at what he'd done.

"Will you at least think of my proposal, Milord?" he heard

Flynn ask.

Van smiled to himself. He'd done nothing but think of

Bailey MacKenna. Last night, even his dreams had been about

her. He had awakened with one hell of a hard on. As he'd

showered that morning, his hand had strayed to his cock as

memories of Bailey had loomed out of the steam from the hot

water. At the moment he had climaxed, he'd been shocked to

hear her name tumble from his lips. He had leaned against

the shower wall, trembling from the depth of his release, as

the water beat down on his shoulders and her lovely face had

drifted sweetly behind his closed lids. All morning, his

thoughts had been about her. He couldn't get her out of his

mind.

"Milord?"

"All right," he said. He unfolded his arms and uncrossed his

long legs, drew them in and stood up. He held his hand out to

the Senator. "I accept."

The Senator got hastily to his feet and clasped the

Modartha's hand. "You won't regret it, Milord. She will make

you a good wife."

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Van frowned, his silver eyes narrowed.

Flynn felt the weight of that canescent glare. "Y ... you will

make her your bride, won't you?" he asked, hope filling his

face.

"We'll see," Van replied. He let go of the other man's hand.

"But say nothing of this to her. Do you understand me,

Senator?"

"I do, Milord," Flynn said.

Without another word, Van strolled off. He knew more

about Senator Flynn's motives than the senator realized.

Flynn had found a very rich woman he wished to take to wife

but the woman didn't want the added baggage of a niece

tagging along to complicate matters. Before he could ask for

the woman's hand, the senator needed to find a man—and

find him quickly—who he could both trust and respect to take

Bailey off his hands.

Van chuckled. Even before Flynn had come to request his

help, the senator had done a thorough background check on

him. Flynn knew the kind of man the Modartha was and the

senator also knew gods-be-damned well Crevan Byrne would

never take a woman as his own without the sanctity of

Joining.

It was closing in on noon and the park was filling with

people. He noticed them moving out of his way, ducking their

heads, looking down at the ground as he passed. It was one

of the things he hated about being a Modartha. The populace

trembled in fear of him and his men. Although he knew it was

because of the job, because the Modartha possessed almost

unlimited power within the Slándáil Phoiblí, he tended to take

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it personally when people shunned him though rationally, he

knew he shouldn't. Having people scurry away from him as

though he had some communicable disease just simply made

his hackles rise. It made him feel like an outcast.

And it made him feel mean. He wanted to shout at them

that the full moon was another day away and unless they

really pissed him off, he would shift into his lupine form right

then and come scurrying after them.

That thought made him laugh and those who heard that

evil laugh, protectively crossed themselves.

As he walked—or as his handler had once remarked,

strutted—across the park, there were other eyes that watched

him with absolutely no fear. Those eyes were filled with

loathing and fury and they followed his every move.

"He is heading south on the causeway," the owner of those

dark blue eyes said into the Vid-Com badge hidden beneath

the lapel of the owner's coat.

"I see him. I'll take over from this side of the causeway,

sir," was the reply from the V-C.

As he walked Van Byrne's mind had gone once more to

Bailey MacKenna. She was proving to be a distraction he

could not shake. He frowned, unable to dislodge the image of

her frightened eyes staring up at him as he mauled her.

He stopped walking and just stood there with his hands on