Read Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1] Online
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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