Spider-Touched g-2

by Jory Strong

  “I killed them in the end, the night I was branded.”

  He sucked. Bit. Left his own mark on her. “If they still lived, they would meet the same fate at my hands.”

  She whimpered in protest as his fingers left her channel. Closed her eyes as they plunged in again.

  The sharp sting of his teeth preceded his command. “Watch.”

  She watched. Her breath growing short with each fuck of his fingers into her sheath. Each rough caress of his palm against the tiny head of her clit.

  Her hips jerked. Her skin grew slick with sweat.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  And he asked, “Would a demon beg?”

  “No.” And as if to prove she was no demon, he made her beg repeatedly, taking her to the edge of release and backing away, tightening his grip on her to keep her a prisoner in front of the mirror until need was her only reality.

  But even when he finally allowed her to orgasm, the need wasn’t satisfied. She turned in his arms and pressed her mouth to his, rubbing her passion-slick folds against his cock as she undid his braid so his hair cascaded down his back. “The sheets on the bed are clean. I want you inside me. Take me there.”

  Tir cupped her cheek and the spider came to him. His cock bathed in her liquid desire. His buttocks clenched as he fought the temptation to lift her in his arms and carry her to the bed.

  Her command was nearly impossible to disobey. He wanted to feel her underneath him, wanted nothing more than to slide into the heated paradise of her channel.

  A glance at the waiting bed nearly undid him. Punishment can wait, his cock urged.

  Tir touched his lips to hers. “I told you to remain here. There’s a price on your head. And despite the spider, you’re mortal. Human.” And I can’t lose you.

  “I had to go.”

  It was her lack of remorse that tipped the scales. His hands went to her sides, then pushed under the curtain of her hair.

  She shivered when his fingers traced over the first of her scars. Fear spiked through her, but he knew it wasn’t memories of being whipped as a child that prompted it.

  Her fear was erotic, the emotion generating it primal, dark, exquisitely feminine—and he felt the instant she controlled it, backed away from it. “Did you recover the Constellation?”

  Tir laughed, both at her question and her mistaken notion he’d allow her to escape the hunger that mirrored his own.

  “Of course. The vice lord guards your boat, though he was careful to limit his obligation. It begins and ends with protecting the Constellation from theft or damage. He’s not responsible for determining who has a right to board or for keeping its occupants safe.”

  “That’s good enough.”

  “Yes.” His hands caressed her back, his fingers hesitating over each scar ridge to count them.

  “Fourteen,” he murmured when he reached her shoulders, his eyes settling on the pants she’d left draped over a chair, on the thin leather belt she wore. “No one will ever have the right to touch you this way again. Except me.”

  “Tir—”

  “Tell me you don’t want it. Tell me you don’t want to replace the memories of those whippings with the punishment I intend.”

  She shivered. Her scent intensified, as did the desire surging back and forth between them, unchecked by any mental barrier.

  A step, a quick tug, and he held the belt. “Put your hands on the mirror.”

  Dark, dark eyes met his. Flashed with the brief consideration of defying him, then were hidden by her lashes before she turned and obeyed.

  He stepped forward to push her hair over her shoulders and nearly came at the image of her in the mirror. She was the picture of submission with her head bowed. But she was also primal woman, the original seductress with her hair caressing the curves of her body, drawing his eyes downward to her glistening, swollen folds.

  If he touched her again, he wouldn’t have the strength to resist taking her. Already the delay was costing him, punishing him with testicles pulled tightly against his body, with the threat of greater agony if he didn’t find his own release soon.

  He stepped away from her. Lifted his arm and brought the belt down across her back, checking his strength so pain bled into pleasure for her.

  “One,” he said, then struck again, continuing to count out her punishment with each rise and fall of his arm.

  Her soft cries were a white-hot lash across his soul, the sight of her wet inner thighs and eager, trembling body a torment that turned it into a feat of endurance to reach the number he’d settled on.

  With each strike, the past lost its power over Araña. Each of the lashes Tir administered was like a lick of flame, burning away her memories. Eradicating the pain and humiliation. The fear and overwhelming guilt of having her soul tainted.

  Beatings given in chilly silence or ranted condemnation, done with a cold heart and unforgiving hand, were a nightmare replaced by fantasy.

  Need spiked through her each time Tir brought the leather of the belt across her back, his harsh breathing echoing her own, telling her he was just as affected by the punishment as she was.

  It was freeing. Equally enslaving. And as her nipples tightened to the point of pain and her channel spasmed, she could smile while thinking about something that had once terrified her. She could look forward to something that had once made her hang her head in shame.

  From Tir, she would welcome punishment. Come to crave it.

  “Fourteen,” Tir said, finally able to drop the leather belt.

  His skin was slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling as quickly as hers. With a groan he pulled her against him, buried his face in the silky blackness of her hair and pressed kisses to her neck, her shoulders, the scars and heated flesh of her back.

  Her shiver mimicked his. Her hunger was part of his.

  “Please, Tir,” she whispered. “Don’t make me wait any longer. Come inside me.”

  He carried her to the bed and followed her down onto it, rolled so she straddled him, the silky length of her hair against his thighs and stomach an erotic whip making his penis pulse and leak. Her fingers entwined with his, holding him to the mattress in sensual enslavement, and he allowed it.

  She leaned forward and his mouth answered the silent summons of hers. Their tongues tangled in an ecstasy of reunion as she positioned her opening against his cock head. It was like being engulfed in flame, caught in a primordial force that could level mountains or create them. A thrust and they were joined, mindless to anything but the urgency to move, to lose themselves in each other, to become a single entity bound together in pleasure.

  REBEKKA had paced the walkway on top of the inner wall for so long the lions no longer looked up as she passed their enclosures. She’d agonized and argued with herself—not just about Eston’s fate, but hers as well. She’d tortured herself with images of what would happen if the patriarch decided to turn her over to Father Ursu. Gifted or not, in the end The Iberá would do it if she didn’t accept his aid and his cause.

  What was it about the prisoner that made him so important? Anton Barlowe’s interest she attributed to his desire to strike out at the Church and the Iberás, because between them, they’d clean up the guard and work toward revoking the sanctioned lawlessness of the red zone.

  But what was Father Ursu’s interest in the prisoner? It was more than simply helping a wealthy patron attain something he wanted, it had to be for the priest to be so insistent on questioning her.

  Rebekka closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the sun, hoping it would warm the ice at her core. Images played through her mind, starting with the messenger arriving at the brothel with the witch’s token.

  It all seemed like a delicately woven trap, yet looking back on it, she couldn’t have made any other choice but to help Araña. If she hadn’t, then Anton would be in possession of the dragon lizards and Levi’s brother would be dead.

  She opened her eyes at the sound of an approaching car. Her hear
t rate sped up at the sight of the sedan bearing the emblem of the guard.

  The gate leading to the section of the estate reserved for the private soldiers swung open as the car reached it. A uniformed officer emerged from the building, as if he’d been expecting the car’s arrival.

  He opened the back door and Enzo stepped out. “Are the men gathered for the briefing?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll get started as soon as I speak with The Iberá. It might be advisable to take the healer, and arrange for Father Ursu’s involvement as well.”

  Rebekka’s breath froze in her chest. The general handed the officer a folder.

  “There are aerial photographs of the gifted area inside. Go ahead and show them to the men. I’ve marked the healer’s house. We’re in luck. She lives close to the red zone border and in an area that’s not been extensively reclaimed.”

  Rebekka remained motionless, not even daring to breathe. Her heart thundered as she tried to convince herself there was nothing in her home that would lead to Levi or the brothel.

  Enzo disappeared through the trees shielding the main house from view. The officer retreated into the soldiers’ building.

  Only then did Rebekka dare leave her position on the wall, hoping to hide. Hoping that if a search was initiated for her, she’d somehow manage to get into the patriarch’s study and have enough time to use the token to summon help.

  Twenty

  ARAÑA lazily traced one of Tir’s tattoos. In his arms she felt safe, complete, at peace. Time stopped when they came together physically, forming a wall of contentment that separated her from fear and reality.

  “You were gone a long time,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

  “Are you hoping for additional punishment by reminding me of your own absence?”

  Her cunt spasmed, and the telltale escape of arousal answered his question. Feminine pleasure surged through her when he rolled on top of her with a moan, as if he couldn’t resist the call of her body to his.

  Tir pinned her hands to the mattress. The feel of her underneath him never failed to stir his possessiveness. The sweet smell of her desire was a distraction he seemed destined to battle endlessly.

  He should have been completely sated, but the more he had her, the greater his craving became. “I came back for you after healing Rimmon’s daughter, Saril. You weren’t here, though since then you’ve cleaned the healer’s house.”

  “Matthew’s habit. He cleaned when he worried. Where did you go?”

  “Saril is a Finder.”

  Araña’s heart leapt against his chest as she understood the significance of his statement. Her joy washed through him, only to be followed by a wave of confusion as her gaze went to the sigil-inscribed band continuing to enslave him. “The translations didn’t hold the answer?”

  A muscle spasmed in his cheek as he thought of the unexpected arrival of the woman and child, and the image of Araña that had flashed into his mind in the shop. She weakened him. Because of her, he’d stayed his hand. He’d walked away instead of using a weapon presenting itself to him.

  “I wasn’t able to see the book containing them. They’re in a safe and the shopkeeper claims only the buyer and his servant have the combination to it.”

  Araña’s smile was sunshine arriving in a burst of joy. “What kind of safe?”

  Her excited happiness was infectious. “You can open it?”

  “Safes are what I do best. And alarm systems. They’re the only things I could do faster than Matthew and Erik.”

  Tir realized that for the second time in as many minutes, she’d spoken of her family and the mention of their names didn’t rake her with guilt and pain. He’d felt only a fleeting sadness, barely a shadow of emotion. Her visit to Annalise Wainwright had done some good then. “The witch helped you with your gift?”

  “Yes.”

  “At what price?”

  “None to me.”

  He didn’t like the answer. “Whose then?”

  Araña shivered. “A demon’s, I think.”

  He liked that answer even less. “Promise you won’t visit the witch again unless I’m with you.”

  “I don’t intend to go back.”

  The truth but also a refusal. He rose onto his elbows, acutely aware of the feel of her flesh against his own, the ready willingness of his penis to lodge itself in her wet channel and extract a promise from her in a most pleasurable way.

  “Araña,” he started, only to feel the sharp spike of adrenaline piercing his mental shields and coming from beyond the house.

  Tir acted instinctively, rolling to his feet and pulling Araña to hers. “Get dressed. We need to leave.”

  She obeyed without question, her movements smooth, efficient, well practiced.

  They left by the back door, crossing the street in order to take cover among the houses too badly damaged to be reclaimed by other gifted. A moment later they heard the rumble of diesel engines approaching, converging on the house from all directions.

  “We can’t risk getting caught out in the open,” Araña said, climbing through a thin curtain of vine covering what had once been an upper-story window.

  Tir followed her into the cramped space. His fury stirred to life. If the Were had betrayed them—

  Two sleek cars came into view, traveling toward the healer’s house from opposite directions. Tir’s attention was drawn to the flags fluttering from their antennas. Each bore a red lion rampant in an elaborate shield set against a gold backdrop.

  The cars stopped at either end of the healer’s house. Uniformed men got out of them and stood at the ready, the red lion sewn onto the front of their black shirts visible from a distance.

  A final man joined them, this one wearing a guardsman’s uniform, the decorations against his chest indicating he was a man of high rank. “Everyone is in position,” he said. “Those of you using live ammunition fire only as a last resort. We hit with tranquilizers first—especially on the primary target and any Were that might be in there with him. Tasers are for backup. Use with caution. They might make the situation worse. Understood?”

  There was a murmur of assent. Tir glanced at Araña to see if the words had carried to her as well. She gave a slight nod.

  Moments later another car turned onto the street, black with heavily tinted windows. It stopped directly in front of the house. A chauffeur got out and opened the passenger door. Tir stiffened at the sight of the cassocked figure who emerged.

  “Your men are ready, Enzo?” the priest asked in the same power-filled voice he remembered from the trapper’s compound.

  “They’re ready.”

  The high-ranking guardsman drew his gun and signaled his men forward. They moved on the house with professional precision.

  The locks on Rebekka’s doors were no match for the tool one of the uniformed men used on them. And despite the seriousness of the situation, Tir smiled when he felt Araña’s unwilling admiration of the man’s skill and her covetous desire to possess the tool allowing for such easy access.

  It was over within minutes. The men seemed to exit the healer’s small house almost as soon as the last of them had passed through the doorway.

  They took up positions near the cars they’d arrived in. The high-ranking guardsman was last to emerge, carrying the drawings Araña had done.

  He stopped next to the priest. His face was grim.

  “Cabot Lavene was killed the other day near the Mission,” the guardsman said, showing the priest the first of the images before sliding it to the bottom. “This is Jurgen Reichs. He’s one of those I’ve been watching. It won’t be hard to prove his involvement with the maze.”

  That picture went to the bottom. The priest visibly stiffened at the final image, the one Tir knew belonged to Tomás. “Have your grandfather turn the girl over to the Church for questioning. Impress on him how dangerous it is to delay.”

  “I’ll speak with him. In the meantime, I’ve left four of my men insid
e and ordered others into positions where they can watch the approaches to the house.”

  “Good. You’ll be in touch with me later?”

  “Yes, by phone if not in person. I’ll press my grandfather to make the transfer before nightfall, but I suspect he’ll put off a decision until the morning, arguing Tomás is safe enough as long as he remains at the estate.”

  The priest nodded then climbed into his chauffeured car. The others got into the cars that brought them, and a moment later the street was empty, the house left as a false beacon of security.

  “They’ll probably have men stationed near the red zone,” Araña whispered. “And they’ll position themselves along the most direct route, expecting us to come that way. If we keep to the ruins, we can cross the border—”

  “There’ll be no need to worry about them at all once the bookseller’s safe is open and the translations are in my possession.”

  “And what about Levi? What if he comes here and walks into a trap meant for you?”

  Tir’s nostril’s flared as he felt the weight of her judgment against him. He leaned forward abruptly and tangled his fingers in her hair. “What of the Were? In the forest he left me shackled for the guardsmen to find. He argued against freeing me.”

  “And you would have risked your life if your positions had been reversed? Your freedom when it seemed like a foolish waste? He could have turned us away last night or betrayed us. Instead he told you about Rimmon and what you might face when you went to recover the Constellation.”

  “Unless he provokes the men waiting in the house, he’ll be tran quilized and captured. What then, Araña? Do you think he won’t betray me in exchange for his own freedom and the healer’s?”

  The sting of her disappointment in him lashed across his soul. She said, “These are your enemies. Not theirs. When I drew the picture of Tomás, you guessed who might have Rebekka. You—”

  Guilt slapped him, making him snarl. “Even now I don’t know who or where, though with time she can be found.”