Tears of the Reaper Read online

  “Say my name,” he said, his breath heavy as her fingers continued to caress him.

  “Lord Owen.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Only Owen.”

  “Owen.” His name on her tongue was the sweetest thing he had ever heard. It rivaled the soft soughing of the wind on a cool autumn day.

  “Put your hand around my cock.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut. This was wrong! What the hell was the matter with him? How could he be so crude? He started to ask her pardon for his behavior but it was too late. Her fingers curled gently around his shaft and he was lost.

  A trembling, shuddery breath left the Reaper’s lungs and his fever soared but it was not from the illness that his temperature climbed but from the intense pleasure her soft hand spread through his burning, aching groin. He couldn’t have spoken then if their lives depended upon him doing so. Her fingers flexed around him and he went perfectly still.

  Rachel cocked her head to one side as words slithered like a nest of snakes through her mind.

  “Ease your hand up and down his staff.”

  Gently, she did as the voice bid, lightly squeezing his flesh as she was bade to do. She increased the rhythm, her hold, until the organ sheathed in her hand was as hard as stone.

  “Put your thumb over the head of his staff and spread the moisture you will find there.”

  He lifted his head as her thumb moved over him. The edge of her fingernail was trailing along the slit and another bead of pre-cum oozed up.

  “Taste it.”

  Owen was so amazed when her tongue flicked across the heard of his swollen shaft that he had to forcefully stamp down the urge to arch his hips up in invitation.

  “Take him into your mouth.”

  He could not hear the carnal instructions being sent to Rachel so all he could do was lie there in astonishment as her lips closed around him.

  Rachel shifted her eyes to the Reaper’s face for he had groaned so loudly, so forcefully, she thought perhaps she had hurt him but the voice inside her head told her she hadn’t.

  “Suckle him. Draw upon his shaft with your mouth as you sweep your tongue over the tip. Cup his sac with your free hand and massage it gently in counter-time.”

  Blood was pounding in his temples but the pain of the headache was forgotten by the hot, moist sensations as she slid her lips to the base of him and his shaft eased slowly down her throat. He feared she would gag but her mouth was relaxed around him, pulling on the essence that ached to spurt forth.

  Rachel knew she had control over this man. He was lying there with his hands gripping the sheet as though his life depended upon it. His neck was arched back, his dark hair tousled on the pillow. Though his eyes were wide open, she knew he was staring unseeingly at the ceiling as she gently palmed his scrotum and swirled her tongue around his staff. It was a heady feeling that she had such power over him for the females of her acquaintance had no authority in their male-dominated society.

  “Release him and stand. Remove your garment that he may touch you as he wishes.”

  Unaware the beautiful woman sitting there beside him was receiving subliminal messages from the amused entity sitting unseen in the corner of the room, Owen gasped as Rachel removed her mouth from him, stood and jerked the shapeless black gown from her body in one fell swoop. He stared at her lush, perfectly crafted female shape and felt his cock harden to the point of bursting.

  Obeying the commands only she could hear, Rachel put one knee on the mattress and pushed her hips toward him, giving him a good view of the patch of pale hair at the apex of her thighs.

  “You are beautiful,” he sighed, and put a hand to her soft flesh.

  His fingers trailed along her inner thigh and then he turned his palm to cup her sex, tenderly rubbing his hand back and forth between her legs, abrading her soft folds.

  Rachel felt moisture seeping from her body and let her head fall back, her eyes close, to the exquisite awareness she had never known existed.

  “By the gods you smell so sweet,” he said, the scent of her womanly folds drifting to him in intoxicating waves. He gently stroked her sensitive nub, spiraling two fingers like rasps over her clit.

  “Ah…” Rachel said with a hiss. She rotated her hips in entreaty.

  Owen slid his hand farther between her legs, spreading her cunt lips apart as he V-ed his fingers. His warm, calloused fingers found her wet for him and when he slipped them inside her channel, he heard her suck in a harsh breath.

  Bright light seemed to be dancing behind her closed eyes and every sensation, every emotion, was centered in a heated pool low in her belly. Her womb flexed and her juices flowed and she clamped her inner muscles around his questing fingers.

  “That’s it, baby,” he growled. “Grip your man. Let him know you want him.”

  As though her mind had a will of its own outside her ability to control it, Rachel found herself rotating her hips, pushing them then withdrawing them from the hard fingers impaling her. When he slipped a third finger insider her, curled them upward and touched something residing in that virginal territory, she cried out, slamming both her hands down on his wrist to hold him still with her.

  Owen’s eyes flared as the muscles of her sheath vibrated around his fingers. Her body was shivering as she came and she pushed down so hard on him—seemingly wanting every inch of his flesh within her—his hand began to cramp. The climax went on and on in sharp little waves then began to ripple away in long spasms that had her gasping for breath when the last one undulated away.

  Rachel jerked as the last of the pleasure drained from between her legs. She shuddered when his free hand molded around her breast and he lightly stroked her nipple.

  “Did you enjoy that?” he asked, feeling his shaft so hard he thought it well might break away from his groin.

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  “Take yourself from him and put on your dress.”

  Owen groaned when she pulled free of him and bent down to retrieve her gown. He was disappointed when she covered the beautiful breasts and heated sex. He ached with need and wanted that sweet cunt wrapped around his engorged cock.

  “Turn, clasp his rod and jerk it gently upward several times. He will then know the satisfaction he gave you.”

  “Would you…” he began, but she stunned him when she reached for his rod and began pulling forcefully yet gently upon it. Her touch was so firm, so—just right—that after three such expert tugs, his seed burst forth to ooze like an erupting volcano over her hand. Digging his heels into the mattress, he rode out the pleasure until the final pulse and then collapsed, more spent than he could ever remember being.

  “Clean your hand.”

  Rachel let go of his flaccid shaft and took up the washcloth. She removed the cum from her flesh then dropped the cloth into the basin.

  “Awake and remember what you did to him.”

  Rachel blinked, blinked again, and then stared down at the naked man with horror stamped over her lovely features. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes squinted with disbelief. Her cheeks bloomed with scarlet color and she slapped a hand over her face, uttering a cry of shame.

  But Owen didn’t recognize that look as one of utter mortification. He saw it as a half-lidded look of satiation. He smiled. “Any time you want it, it’s here for you, baby,” he said, and could have bitten off his tongue when she gasped and ran for the door, snatched it open and ran from the room.

  “You idiotic bastard!” Owen labeled himself, and slammed his palms over his eyes. “What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with you, Tohre?”

  It had to be the tenerse and the fever, he decided. Never in his life had he ever said such things even to the whores he’d paid to service him, whose sultry lips had caressed his shaft so thoroughly. Never had he forced a woman to his bed and taken such brazen liberties without her knowing consent. It fair boggled the mind for him to believe himself capable of doing what he’d jus
t done. Lucky for him he had stopped in time.

  Groaning, he scrunched down in the bed and once more clasped his hands to push them between his raised knees. In that fetal position, he felt less vulnerable but it didn’t help the raging pain—and now the overpowering shame—that was gnawing away at him. He was fairly sure he’d never see Rachel again but no doubt a male member of her family would be visiting him soon enough to beat the shit out of him and deservedly so.

  As he lay there, it began to hit him that he couldn’t get the woman out of his mind. It almost felt as though he’d met her before, that he had known her and known her intimately, that she had willingly shared her body with him. Despite the blinding pain, all he could think about was her lovely face and the hint of ash blonde hair hiding behind the ugly head covering. Her eyes were a wondrous shade of violet that had mesmerized him and her lips so full he ached to taste them.

  Shifting uncomfortably for his cock was throbbing and as hard as an iron rod, he cursed beneath his breath. Now was no time for the gods-be-damned treacherous thing to remind him it was there. The knowledge that he could get erect again was a relief but it was totally inappropriate and had not only embarrassed Rachel, it had frightened her.

  “I am a virgin, Lord Owen,” she had told him.

  And no doubt had never seen a man’s shaft with an erection.

  “Bastard,” he named himself again, but why did he have the feeling he had once tasted her sweet flesh?

  When the door opened, he stiffened, opening his eyes to see Elder Barrow standing at the foot of his bed.

  “Lord Owen, it seems we have a problem,” the elder said, his face devoid of the friendliness that had been there before.

  “I know,” the Reaper said on a groan, and reached down for the blanket to cover his nakedness.

  Elder Barrow blinked. “You do? Who came to tell you?”

  “Who?” Owen repeated, his forehead crinkling.

  “About the balgair,” the older man said. “Who told you about him?”

  At the mention of a rogue Reaper, Owen sat up, striving to push aside the stabbing pain that flashed through his head. “What balgair? I thought you meant Rachel.”

  Elder Barrow’s face filled with confusion. “Rachel?” He shook his head. “The woman has nothing to do with this but if she has caused you a problem…”

  “No,” Owen said with a sense of relief that the man wasn’t there about Owen’s disrespectful treatment of Rachel. “What about the balgair?”

  “Elder Carlton—he was the one who brought you to us from the Forbidden Zone—was found murdered in his field this morn. He had been drained of his blood. It was his eldest son who found him and Matthew came in to the village to tell us.”

  “Drained of blood?” Owen echoed. “How do you know?”

  “There were two puncture wounds on his neck, here,” Elder Barrow said, pointing to his jugular. “He was as white as parchment when Matthew discovered him and Elder Carlton was a man born with a dark complexion.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “Balgairs usually don’t kill in that manner unless they have turned rabid and that’s rare.”

  “What else could it be if not a balgair?” the Elder asked. “One of your kind would not do such a thing.”

  “No, they wouldn’t, but our kind isn’t the only one who drinks blood to survive,” Owen said. He looked around the room. “Where are my clothes?”

  Elder Barrow rushed to the side of the Reaper’s bed. “You are in no condition to be up and dressed, Lord Owen. You…”

  “If you’ve got someone or something out there killing your people, I need to go after it.”

  “Elder Dayton was leaving for the Bastion in the morning. He can ask that a member of the Míliste accompany him back to the Colony.”

  “And how long will that take? A week to go and come?” Owen asked. “How many more of your people will be attacked while you wait for help?”

  Chewing on his lower lip, Elder Barrow’s face puckered with apology. “We can not ask for you to leave your sickbed to give us aid.”

  Owen wanted to ask why the man had even told him then, if that was the case, but he could see—and feel—the older man’s fear. “Get me my clothes and my weapons.”

  At the mention of the weapons, Elder Barrow winced. “I had hoped you could give us instruction on what to do to protect ourselves until help arrives. I did not mean for you to involve yourself in our troubles, especially with you so ill.”

  “It’s my duty to help,” Owen said. “Are your people spread out in the countryside?”

  “Aye, we are a farming community,” was the reply.

  Owen swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat there fighting a sudden dizziness that disturbed him more than the headache. “Then send word for everyone to come into town until I can find whoever killed your man. I’ll need to see the body.”

  “The body?” Elder Barrow echoed. “May I ask why?”

  “I need to see what kind of puncture wounds there are and hopefully get a sample of the killer’s DNA from the bite.” He held up his hands. “Where the hell are my clothes, Barrow? I don’t have the energy or strength to fashion new ones for myself right now.”

  “Fashion new ones?” Elder Barrow repeated.

  “Just get me my clothes!”

  The elder went quickly to a large armoire and opened it, taking out the freshly laundered black silk shirt and the black leather pants that was the Reaper’s uniform. He brought it over to Owen. “We found no underwear except for your socks.”

  “I don’t wear any,” Owen said. “What about my boots?”

  “You don’t wear…” Elder Barrow blushed and turned away, going back to the armoire to fetch Owen’s boots.

  Though he was having trouble sitting—the room kept wanting to canter off to one side—Owen managed to lift his legs high enough to thread his feet into the leather pants then stand up to drag them over his nakedness.

  “What is DNA?” the elder asked.

  “For lack of a better explanation, it is what makes up the life force of all living things. Reapers can track their targets through taking a sample of their DNA, sort of like a scout can track from signs. In this case, hopefully there will be a trace of saliva on Elder Carlton’s flesh that I can taste.”

  Elder Barrow looked sick at that statement and had to sit down in the room’s only chair. “Such things are beyond my ability to understand,” he confessed.

  Owen was buttoning his shirt. “About Rachel…” he began.

  “If she offended you in any way, she will be chastised,” the older man stated firmly. “Our womenfolk are not permitted…”

  “It was I who offended her,” Owen interrupted him. “I would be grateful if you would apologize to her for me. I can only think it was illness that made me do what I did.”

  A strange look entered the Elder’s eyes. “What was it you did?”

  “Ask her. If she wants to tell you, that’s up to her,” Owen said, tucking his shirt into his pants. “I need my weapons.”

  Staring at the tall man in black, Elder Barrow could not suppress the shudder that ran through his lanky body. Reapers were killers, men bred for violence, but in the Lower Lands they were the law. “Come with me,” he said, and led the way out of the room.

  Owen felt awful and nausea was lurking in the back of his throat. It had been days since he’d had Sustenance—his caretakers had not thought to offer him such—and he was so hungry he could feel his belly grumbling. But it was the hellion in his back who was buckling beneath his flesh to punish him for not feeding Her and Her nest. He staggered beneath the brutal onslaught of her wrath.

  “Lord Owen?” Elder Barrow said, reaching out to steady the Reaper. “You should not be doing this. We will make do until the Míliste comes.”

  “I’ll be all right. I just need Sustenance,” Owen told him, and could have kicked himself for his stupidity.

  Elder Barrow let go of Owen’s arm as though he’d been burnt and jum
ped back, face pale and eyes huge in his craggy face. “I… We…”

  “I can get it from my horse,” Owen said, although human blood would be best and it would go a long way in making him feel better.

  Searching the Reaper’s eyes, there was no way Elder Barrow could miss the crimson spark in the amber depths. “Will that be enough?” he asked quietly, trembling.

  “It would be better if it was human blood but I’ll not ask that of you or your people,” Owen replied.

  “We can not ask you to aid us and then refuse to aid you,” Elder Barrow stated. “Tell me what needs to be done and we will do it.” He was no doubt unaware that he had put a shaky hand up to his throat.

  Owen smiled. “Are you familiar with transfusions, Barrow?”

  The elder nodded.

  “That’s how it’s done.”

  Relief spread like wildfire over the older man’s face. “Oh,” he said. “That we can do!” He frowned. “How much will you need?”

  “As much as you can give me,” Owen admitted. “I’ve not fed for quite some time.”

  Elder Barrow flinched. “Then let us be about it. I will take you to the infirmary. We can get your weapons later.”

  Going out into the bright light of the late morning, Owen had to shield his eyes with his hand and not for the first time wished he’d take Lord Kheelan up on the offer of a pair of the dark spectacles that Glyn Kullen was known to wear on occasion. At that moment, he could see the wisdom in shading his sensitive eyes from the glare of the sun.

  “It isn’t far,” the elder said, seeing how the brightness was affecting the man beside him.

  Owen got a look at the compound as they walked across a cobblestone pathway from what Elder Barrow told him was the bachelor men’s barracks to the infirmary. He saw women gathered in front of another long building beside the infirmary and rightly surmised that was the bachelor women’s living area. Other buildings must be the school, the church and the meeting hall. At the far end of the compound he saw the stables and smith, which Edward owned.

  The people of the Colony stopped what they were doing to stare at the Reaper as he walked beside the elder. He did not feel the same dislike and fear he felt from the people he was sworn to protect but rather a deep disapproval and perhaps a touch of pity. No one looked away from him when he met their eye but neither did they greet him with the feigned respect his own people did.