Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Prisoners of the Wind (6 page)

“Aye,” Ensign Villarreal reported. “Come to break him out.”

“Fools,” Tarnes observed with a twist of his handsome mouth.
“They should have known better than to come after us.”

“Won’t make that mistake again,” Villarreal said. He
grinned. “Ever.”

Every man except the captain accounted for, Tarnes could
have gone back to his duty station, but he waited for the Tiogar to return. He
spoke quietly with the chief engineer until the buzz from the pad began,
signaling the captain’s return.

No man on the engineering deck cared to view what might
materialize upon the pad. Their eyes were turned away, a hand to their noses to
help mask the smell that always accompanied the manifestation. Only Tarnes
stood facing the pad, his hands clasped behind his back in parade rest, his
chin up, jaw clenched and his eyes straight ahead. He snapped to attention when
dark amber eyes flicked casually over him.

“All accounted for, Captain,” Tarnes reported. “No
casualties. A few cuts and bruises but nothing of consequence. I’ve given the
men a few days off to recuperate.”

“At ease,” Taegin Drae growled as he moved off the pad. He
was tired and badly in need of the bath he knew Tarnes had waiting for him.
“The woman?”

“Lady Marin is well, sir.” He fell into step beside his
superior.

“I, too, will need a few days off, Tarnes. I’m getting too
old for this shit.”

“I will see you are not disturbed, sir.”

“I’m close enough to retirement to taste the Balikian rum,
Tarnes,” Drae stated, thinking of the highly potent amber liquid he had only in
the last few years been able to afford. “And I’m more than ready for it.”

Tarnes mentally calculated the captain’s age. Since all
Fleet Command members began their service at age fifteen, he realized the
Tiogar had to be close to thirty-five. To Tarnes—at the ripe old age of
twenty-six—that was almost ancient. “Any other orders, sir?” he asked.

“Keep a close watch while I’m down, Tarnes,” Drae ordered.

“Anything in particular I should be looking for, sir?”
Tarnes asked, his face scrunched with concern.

“Anything that looks like it means us harm,” the Tiogar
replied. They had reached the elevator and he waited for Tarnes to punch in the
number for the deck on which the captain had his quarters. “That’s the only
reason I’ll accept for you disturbing me.”

“Aye, sir,” Tarnes replied. He made no move to enter the
elevator with his captain and was still standing there when the doors closed on
the blood-splattered face of the Tiogar.

Ensign Villarreal let out a long breath. “I don’t think I’ll
ever get used to the smell of spilled blood on him,” he confessed.

“You will. It took me awhile but I barely notice it
anymore,” Tarnes told him. “It’s what he calls the kill stench and it bothers
him a lot more than it does us, believe me. That’s why he insists on a long,
hot bath after one of these interludes.”

“Interludes,” Villarreal muttered. “That’s a genteel way of
putting what he does. At least he didn’t come back this time as the big cat.”

Tarnes laughed. “I’ve got to tell him that one, Villarreal!
He’ll get a kick out of it. If I remember the last time he did, that when we
had a new crewman onboard, the man slimed himself trying to scramble away from
the transport pad.” He fanned the air in front of his face. “Now
that
was
a smell!”

“The shape change doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s the
not knowing if he’s going to be a man or a beast that makes me uneasy,”
Villarreal said. “But it is a bit unsettling when you look and there he is
snarling at you with those wicked fangs still stained with an enemy’s blood.
That I don’t care for.”

“Umm, aye, I must confess that startles me when he appears
in Tiogar form. Thank the gods he doesn’t do it all that often.” Tarnes thought
about it for a moment. “You know I think that only happens when he’s too tired
to shift back. And it might have something to do with how ferocious he’d been
during the hunt.”

Villarreal shuddered. “The hunt,” he repeated. “Now that’s a
term to make a man have nightmares.”

Tarnes nodded. “Let’s hope we never
do anything to have him on our trail!”

Chapter Five

It was two days before Marin saw the Tiogar again. She had
been sitting listlessly in her cell, staring at the dull gray walls and feeling
more claustrophobic with each passing hour she was awake. Her sleep had been
troubled with images of violence she knew came from her captor. The rivers of
crimson blood flowing through pristine green valleys, rocky ledges littered
with bleached bones drying in the sun had long since ceased to upset her.
Violent scenes of horrendous death and devastating destruction no longer
surprised her when they intruded. Something told her the Tiogar wasn’t even
aware he was transmitting such atrocities to her. Something told her she was
intercepting his dreams.

She had asked the steward, who brought her two meals of the
day, if she could have some small measure of freedom outside her cell, but he
had shaken his head in denial.

“The captain would drain me drier than a husk if I so much
as let you step one foot outside this cell, ma’am.”

“May I at least have a basin of warm water and a cloth so I
can wash up?”

“I’ll have to check with Mr. Tarnes,” the steward had
replied.

But no basin of water had been brought to her. There was
nothing in the cell with which to pass the time and the dull gray walls were
beginning to close in on her. Luckily, there was a stainless steel toilet and
tiny sink with cold running water for her sanitary needs.

Marin drew her legs up onto the cot and lowered her head to
her knees. She was a prisoner and she had to reconcile herself to that fate. If
her mother knew where she was, she apparently didn’t care, else she would have
sent someone to rescue her. Feeling sorry for herself, she was crying quietly
when the door to her cell snicked open.

“Miss me, wench?” he asked.

“No,” she said, wincing at the peevishness she heard in her
tone.

“Not lying there wondering when I’d next appear to ravage
you?” he inquired.

“You’ll do what you’re going to do,” she said. “What good
would it do me to worry about it?”

The Tiogar chuckled. “You’ve got spunk, wench. I’ll give you
that.”

She sat up and leaned against the wall. “Were you keeping
away from me so I could sit here and worry about your next visit, Captain?” she
asked. “If so, I hate to disappoint you.”

He grinned. “I just bet you do, but no, it wasn’t by choice
I kept away from you, wench. We had a slight run-in with a band of pirates or
I’d have been back sooner.”

Slowly lifting her head, Marin looked up into the
expressionless face of her warden. “You look none the worse for wear, Captain,”
she said. “I assume you won the day.”

“I fed well,” he stated, his eyes hot.

Images of the blood and destruction that had been assailing
her the last few days rose up in her mind’s eye and she frowned, realizing
she’d accepted his bestiality as a matter of course and was surprised it no
longer bothered her.

Drae cocked his head to one side, reading her thoughts. “I
wasn’t aware I had broadcasted my deeds to you.”

“Well, you did. Please be more careful next time,” she said.
“I don’t care to see what atrocities you perpetuate.”

Straightening his shoulders, Drae arched one thick brow.
“You prefer more erotic sublims, do you?” When she didn’t answer, his grin
turned nasty. “Now that I’ve had my fill of Feasting, I’m ready to satisfy my
other appetites.”

Marin had had time to accustom herself to the inevitable.
She knew there was nothing she could do to prevent or stop what was going to
happen. There would be no last-minute intervention by her mother, no reprieve.
She was on her own and at the mercy of the man ogling her with single-minded
intent.

She reached up to push her tumbled hair back from her face.
“You are going to rape me,” she stated.

He simply smiled brutally, his eyes locked on hers.

“What if you get me pregnant?”

He shrugged. “You’ll have the bantling, what else?”

“And if I fight you?”

He shrugged. “It won’t stop me from taking what I want.
Hell, it might even add spice to the venture.”

Stated so boldly, his words sent a shaft of terror through
Marin’s soul and she knew he was telling the truth. Either she could give into
him and get it over with or she could allow him to ravish her, cause her untold
pain. The outcome would be the same.

A few years earlier, Marin had taken a course on the effects
of long-term incarceration of Tribunal prisoners during times of war. One of
the most effective weapons used against the prisoners was rape. Being made to
undress before the violator was one of the primary purposes of psychological
torture. Meant to degrade, to humiliate and to bring home to the prisoner his
or her inability to control what happened to them, such an act seared the soul
and took away any will that might be left.

With her hands clasped in front of her, she met his amused
stare. “Then get it over with.”

Drae’s lips twitched. “Ahhh,” he said, drawing the
exclamation out. “We are playing martyr, are we? Are you going to lay
there—arms and legs outstretched—while I do the nasty to you?”

“You’ve made it clear I have no choice in this matter,” she
said. “I would be foolish to allow you to hurt me so I won’t fight you.”

“Well, hell, it won’t be much fun then, will it?” he mused.

Marin kept her jaw clenched tightly although she wanted to
scream at him, beat him with her fists and demand he stop tormenting her.
Instead, she lifted her chin.

“What is it you want me to do, Captain?”

He grinned, shrugged, and then turned his back on her. “I’ll
have to think about that.”

Marin stared at the spot where he had been standing, unable
to believe he’d simply turned and left her. She waited for him to return and
when—after ten minutes had passed—he had not, she picked up her pillow and
threw it at the door, calling him a name she’d heard Simone use many times when
referring to men.

Another day passed before he turned up at her door. She
looked up to see him lounging against the doorjamb, not having heard the
pneumatic door swoosh open.

“More torment, Captain?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“I thought about what it is I want to do to you,” he said
after a long moment of silence.

Marin lifted her chin. “And what is that?”

His eyes narrowed only a fraction before a tight, lazy grin
stretched his full lips. “I want you,” he said, shifting his shoulders, “to
strip for me. If I have to rip off your jumpsuit, I promise you it will not be
gently and I might not provide you with a new one.” He cocked his head to one
side. “Although having you naked all the time would expedite matters.”

She held his stare for a long moment then unclasped her
hands and reached for the zipper that ran from neck to crotch. Her heart was
pounding so loudly she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She wanted to
get it over with, for the suspense was rubbing her nerves raw.

“Slowly,” he ordered.

Grinding her teeth, Marin began to lower the zipper.

Unconsciously, Drae cocked a dark brow as the zipper came
down. He caught a glimpse of white lace behind the opening at mid-chest level
and had to school himself not to smile. As the metal teeth separated and the
appliance moved lower, he felt a stirring in his groin that made him shift his
shoulders again.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice deep and throaty.

Marin looked up. “What?” she asked, but he had disappeared
again, the door shushing to behind his departure.

The Tiogar was standing just outside her cell door, pressed
up against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. He was ready for her, so
completely wrapped up in the needs driving his body, he had forgotten to plumb
her thoughts, had not been paying heed to what was going on in her mind and
that was foolhardy. He needed to know she feared him. His had become a
single-minded pursuit and that quest was to have her writhing beneath him,
enslaved to his masculinity. He needed to know she was dreading the moment he
took possession of her. That was part of his plan—a plan that was quickly
unraveling by the lust that had overtaken him.

Unaware he did so, Drae reached up to wipe the sweat from
his upper lip. He passed his palm over his mouth, annoyed that his hand was
trembling. He slammed his hand down to his side, standing there trying to get
his erratic breathing under control, fingers curled into fists.

“This was to be revenge,” he said to himself. “Nothing
more.”

Unbidden, the thought of her lovely face floated before him.
He could smell the sweet scent of gardenia that seemed to cling to her. His
palms itched with wanting to run his hands over her silken flesh, to heft the
weight of her breasts. His cock throbbed with a need of its own that all but
drove him to his knees.

“Stop it!” he ordered himself, pushing away from the wall.

Since when had revenge become desire?
he asked
himself.

He had set out to punish Neala Acet by sending her graphic
images of Marin being ravished but that had not seemed to have the effect he
had intended. He soon began to realize Acet viewed the images of her daughter
being brutalized for what they were—phantoms of vengeance. She knew Marin was
safe and unlikely to have such things happening to her. Fleet Command would see
to the young woman’s safety, but…

Images of Marin, true images of her in the thrall of
unbridled passion, taken straight from Marin’s own fevered mind proved to be a
weapon of supreme power. By turning Acet’s innocent, virginal daughter into a
writhing mass of wanton craving, to have that cosseted daughter yearning for
sexual release in the arms of a man, was a vengeance so devastating, Neala Acet
began communicating with him. He knew to a man-hater like the Madras leader
nothing could be more abhorrent, more repulsive than to have her own flesh and
blood shamelessly giving herself willingly to the enemy, but…