by Vin Stephens
“She’s wet mae appetite. I just tupped Claire but mae prick’s still stiff. Making it fucking hard to keep this pace with a fifth leg wanting its own action. Mae attention isnae just divided. Tis shot tae hell.”
“Then ye have just cause to continue interrupting Claire’s bathes. But no one touches Willow. Now stay down-wind from the prey and stop thinking with the head in ye pants.” Nostrils flared as the he halted, a magnificent stone statue in the moonlight. “The scent of elk is in the air. Let’s feed.”
Years old instinct kicked in. The shadows melded with gray fur as he hung back. A flash of silver and stygian black sped ahead until they too separated and dropped to their haunches. Watching his pack with pride, the gray advanced on padded paws, silent as the dead.
Tall grass barely rustled yet each displaced blade was a clear telltale signal to the leader’s twitching ears and finely attuned senses. Dense hair prickled at his nape absorbing every vibration. Like lightening preceding thunder the white wolf moved first. His move was so swift the nocturnal eye caught only a blue blur across the expanse. The elk, still drowsy from its standing sleep lifted their heads and bulked. They stampeded, trampling stone to dust in their need to survive. Patience provided the perfect opportunity as the snowy wolf took his pick from the straddlers and gave chase.
The black shadow emerged from his hiding place, large and menacing like thunder promising a storm. The elk skidded to a stop at this new threat and changed course. Belly pressed tightly against the earth, the gray wolf lay in ambush. The ground thundered at the approaching hooves, matching the tempo of his pounding heart as exhilaration and life strummed through his veins. His claws dug in for purchase, waiting the perfect moment. His pack would herd the unsuspecting animal straight to him.
The moment came fast, lasting a heartbeat. Everything happened in calculated detail. The gray wolf savored that first instant as the prey caught sight of him and then that last look—the precise moment the light of fear in its wide eyes dimmed and flickered out, replaced by defeat. The elk threw his head back and bellowed his war cry before taking a last stand, brandishing branched antlers. The alpha moved in for the kill. This was wolf territory. Here the pack always won.
* * * *
Willow shot upright. Sweat drenched her sleep-shirt. Her heart rammed painfully in its cage. She swiped her damp forehead with the sheet edge and peered furtively at the gathering shadows. Beyond the window, the sky’s flaming orange ball set behind the hills.
She’d taken to afternoon naps. Sleep eluded her once the dark set in since that night she’d been roused by an inhuman scream followed by wolves vicious howling. Dark hours were now endless minutes of wary vigilance.
Downstairs she found the household already retiring. Settling for a plate of cold cuts, cheese and crusty bread because the highlander cook’s cuisine played havoc with her eyes, mouth and stomach, she enjoyed a solitary supper at the kitchen table.
“Get some rest tonight, coo-ca-loo. You’re carrying a Louis Vuitton luggage set under your eyes.” The dragging feet and laden voice made Willow pause. Asking the older woman for some company was out of the question.
“I will.” After a customary yet contradictory goodnight and fake smile, she hurried back to her room. The rattle of the minivan carrying the staff to the nearby village was fading away. She hated that sound. It preceded the stone, cold silence of isolation.
Her shoes squeaked on the newly polished floors. Everything was coming along well. Had the staff agreed to spend nights at the manor, she would have gladly recruited them for midnight cleaning. But they were adamant in leaving before dark.
She wasn’t sure if Altair noticed their efforts. Once, she thought she’d spied a solitary figure lurking in the pre-dawn mist. It reminded her of that passing memory of a young man watching the study window. But the shape vanished quickly leaving her to wonder if it had just been imagination. As for any compliments on his once ramshackle house, there was nothing. A time or two she found a used coffee mug at the breakfast table or crumpled newspaper by the fire. Altair left no other sign that he’d been home.
After trying once again, unsuccessfully to get her father on her mobile phone, she whipped out her laptop. The Google prompt inspired her fingers.
Up until the age of eight she’d believed all fathers were like hers, able to change shape at will, disappeared for days at a time to return with the stench of death and capable of superhuman strength and speed. She believed, Lucien Catelli had once been a formidable foe and attentive friend—a long time ago before her mother’s death.
Now she read up on the shape-shifter legends. Female shifters were thought to be extinct. Killing of rival mates had been common practice among the were-species. Desperate to save their breed led to procreation with human women. These women, the ones with only recessive genes were not strong enough to carry the unique life forms to full term. After giving premature birth they rarely lived to see the fruit of their labor. Strictly males carried the rare gene now, to be passed exclusively onto sons.
Willow snapped the case shut. No wonder her father didn’t like her. A child was not a worthy substitute for the wife he’d lost in the delivery room. Being born female and human dropped her value to less then worthless. She rocked slowly letting the information sink in. If she succeeded in falling pregnant by the seed of a shifter, would her father’s esteem for her rise? Would her death and birth of her child eventually win his approval? What if the child was not a male? She had to at least try. There was now more at stake then saving her people from obliteration. She had to try to win her father’s love.
The knock on the door was soft but it made her jump. She called, “Enter.”
He was an impressive six foot, all brawn and muscle specimen who blocked the entire entrance. There was resemblance to Altair’s built, however this man’s hair was pin straight that matched dark, opal eyes. “Tis time.”
Willow figured she could go willingly, or be carried out, sniveling and quaking. She didn’t approve of cowardice.
“That willnae be necessary.” His voice was deep and made her tremble. It was the voice she’d heard about being drooled over by women the world over but never had her ears had such pleasure. It was a voice made for illicit nights. Almost as though he could read her thoughts, his midnight eyes began to glow. His hand clenched the door knob, cording the tendons all the way up his arm.
“Who are you?”
“Jhor, distant Cameron cousin, at ye service. The Laird doesnae like tae wait so ye best hurry along, Red.”
Red? Willow dropped the nightgown that was deemed unnecessary. Jhor inclined his head to sniff deeply of her hair as she passed. It was the most uncivilized thing under such formality. It made her giggle nervously. Nonna’s advice flitted through her mind. Her unruly locks were not such a bane to her existence after all.
Jhor slammed the door. Willow squealed and leapt a whole foot away.
“Tis third world this land of ours but tis well oiled and nimble our guillotine.”
It took her a moment to figure his accent then meaning before bursting into genuine laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”
“Tis good ye are. Fer were ye nae then we havenae done our work weel.”
“You’re intimidating, all right. And you didn’t even say ‘Boo!’”
“Thank ye kindly fer the compliment.”
The words “gentle giant” came to mind. He was courtly and otherworldly in manners but also a man of humor and quiet intellect. As for sex drive and hot bodies, it thrived rampantly in this family like wild thistle in the meadows. The shape-shifter power was there too, simmering just beneath the calm exterior. His need to pursue, to battle and to dominate was an almost tangible force field.
They made many twists and turns. Willow was eventually lost. The narrow passageways were dank and decorated in cobwebs. This was not an arena she would ever inflict on her efficient cleaning crew.
Without pausing, Jhor drew out a huge, ancient-looking
key and unlocked an enormous door. It shuddered and scrapped from age and disuse.
“Been a while has it?” quipped Willow.
“Lucky fer ye it hasnae. Although these chambers havenae been the venue of late.”
Willow felt anything but lucky once she entered. “It’s a dungeon.”
“Struth, tis the only worthwhile chamber in this heap of rubble.”
“Right.” Willow ran her fingers over a large contraption. Oddly there wasn’t a speck of dust. “What is this?”
“Flogging horse.”
She bypassed the cruel-looking gadgets, all strategically arranged according to size, attached to the wall until another structure caught her attention. “And that?”
“Whipping post.” Another enquiry had Jhor raising his eyebrows before responding, “Saint Andrews Cross. Have ye nae experience with any of this?”
“This? You mean selling sexual favors in exchange for survival? None.”
From the dual lines marring his forehead, Willow was sure Jhor didn’t appreciate her candor. He reciprocated with directness of his own. “Ye’re the daughter of a wolf-shifter, widow of another. How is it ye ken so little of our need for sexual domination?”
Willow flinched. “I speak no ill of the deceased. Only truth. All the tools Murdock needed for his show of dominance were his two hands and alter ego. As for my father, he was seldom around to be any sort of role model.”
Jhor considered her answer, his black eyes piercing into her. “Tis not good at all.”
“Don’t say that.” Uncertainty laced through her. “Don’t you dare say that. I need this. My people need this. Don’t send me away. Teach me. I’m a fast learner. Please.” She grabbed his arm and forced him to see her desperation. “Please.”
Chapter 3
“The Laird gave his word. Is a man’s vow meaningless?” Willow saw a crack and pressed harder, “My people will die. They’ll slaughter us all. Women. Babies.”
“Ye doonae ken what our beasts could do tae yer. I willnae have ye hurt.”
“You think I don’t know pain?” She lifted the hem and showed him one of the unsightly reminders that remained of her rotting husband. “I will take a thousand years of this physical pain but don’t ask me to accept the mass genocide of my people. Let us at least try. Please Jhor.
He sighed in resignation. “Ye will keep chewing this bone till ye suck out its marrow willnae ye?” Willow nodded resolutely. He concentrated, then swore. “Damn these thick walls.” He stalked to the wall and pushed the intercom.
Altair barked back, “What?”
“We have a problem.”
“Tis nae mae problem but yers. Fix it.”
Jhor turned his back on Willow and whispered. Altair roared back, “Son of a fucking bastard. I’ll fucking kill him with mae bare hands.”
He continued to curse most affluently until Jhor cleared his throat and interrupted, “He’s already dead. And Red has ears. Two. How do we approach the novice problem?”
After a terse pause, he replied, “Prepare the prey. Tonight we hunt.”
“What does that mean? Ye’re leaving again? To go hunting?” Willow panicked. Was Altair reconsidering helping her?
Jhor shook his head. From a cupboard he produced specific items. “Best ye learn tae crawl fast ‘cause ye’re tae run this night. Now put these on. We’ll play a little game.”
“A game?” She studied the articles uncertainly and tried to attach what looked like a belt to her midsection.
“Nay.” Reflex made Willow drop the belt and raise a defending arm at his angry tone. He swore and softened, “Pardon. I arenae the right one fer this.” Again he stabbed the intercom and shouted, “Get down here.”
Willow stood still. Jhor chose a large chair and leaned back. He became lost in thought, unpleasant ones by the fierce look on his face. She’d really done it now. Jhor didn’t appreciate her inexperience, her fear even less. Altair had exploded. What would she do if they gave her the boot without extending their protection, without granting her an heir? She had nowhere else to go. She knew no one else with the Cameron clout. Suddenly the door flew open and in strolled beauty personified.
Willow gasped. She had never seen such likeness to an archangel in the flesh before. Silver hair streamed over broad shoulders. Clear aqua eyes were framed by delicately arched brows. His lips were sculpted by loving hands for the benefit of any woman with sight.
“Ye may as weel stare. Tis Garret, our fair angel.”
His body, tall and lanky, moved with the grace of a slender cheetah. She could stare at that perfect face all night, between infrequent sighs and lusty moans. “Are you—”
“Nae. I arenae an angel.” Garret scowled. “Tis my curse to be Jhor’s twin. Divine Aggelos and the hideous Apollyon.”
Jhor grunted. Garret grinned.
“O. M. G. You have dimples and a cleft.” She curled her fingers into tight balls. How did women keep their hands of such magnificence? “Please don’t send me away.”
Garret tossed a confused glance at Jhor. Their silent stare held too much heat. It had to be twin or pack communication. Her suspicions proved correct when Garret turned understanding eyes on her. He cooed softly, picked up the fallen band and gently stroked her cheek. The softness of his tone and touch soothed her. So lost was she that she hardly spared a glance for Altair’s entrance as he sat across from Jhor. She smelled Rum and Maple tobacco and heard the clink of ice on glass but nothing could have broken the spell that Garret had woven. “That’s it my baby. Ye’re relaxed now. Take off ye clothes, Willow. I want tae see yer glorious body.”
Willow slipped the straps free and let the sleep-shirt tumble to the floor. They gasped. She crossed her arms to hide her shame.
“Ye poor, poor baby. What horrors has he done tae ye. Nay, doonae cower. Drop ye hands, Willow. Tis arenae scars but battle wounds. Tis your show of courage. Ye’re a survivor.” A tear caught on her lash as he lovingly stroked the worst of her disfigurement, a hideous bite mark atop dual trails of claw scratches. It extended all the way down her right side. Garret tasted her tear and whispered, “Ye’re verra beautiful mae Willow. Never, ever doubt that. Now take off ye bra.” He swallowed as she complied. “Now yer panties.”
Painful breath caught in Willow’s lungs. She was completely naked before three fully dressed men. The air was punctuation by heavy breathing, panting. Their attention was riveted on her. In that moment she believed she was the most desirable woman on earth, her flesh more porcelain then unsightly crinkles. It hadn’t taken petty flattery. Their hungry stares said it all.
“Ye’re blushing.” Garret stroked her heated throat and carefully affixed the item she’d mistaken for a belt. The leather was butter soft circling her neck while the metal spikes cold. He knelt on the cement and tenderly kissed lacerations behind her knee before encasing each knee with padded guards. “Ye will never be hurt like this again, baby. I swear it.” Likewise he licked both palms and slipped on stiff leather mittens. They prohibited her fingers from curling. “Have ye ever craved being anything other then who ye truly are?”
Garret smiled softly as she nodded. “Nay, Willow. Ye’re far too bonny tae be a mon. Tonight ye’re tae be a wee, purring kitty. But within ye’ll have the heart of a lioness. Do ye understand me, baby?” He clipped a strap onto a metal loop at the back of her collar. “Ye will have a demanding but rewarding master. Would ye like that mae precious pet?”
She was rather found of felines. Garret inclined his head to Altair who crushed out his cigarette and approached. He accepted the leash and produced a gorgeous half-mask. The perked ears were fluffy, the eyes narrow slanting slits against rich crimson velvet.
In contradiction, Altair’s voice was commanding, “Know my face, my voice. Ye will be my pet and do exactly as I ask. Ye do want tae please ye master, doonae ye?” Her nod was cut short as he used the trailing end of the leather to whip her bare buttocks. Just once and she stiffened her back. “I would hear ye mewling. Pu
rr fer aye. Growl fer nay. Is that clear?” Willow caught on quickly. She purred softly. Altair’s features tightened. He tied and adjusted the mask until she could see clearly through the slits. “Ye’re a soft sex-kitten. Such striking green eyes. I’ll show ye off tae my brethren. Their cocks are already primed just fer ye.”
Willow followed the jerk of the leash to watch Jhor and Garret. They languished back in their seats. Another jerk had Willow dropping to her padded palms and knees, placing her at eye level with their bulging crotches.
Altair petted her hair and took her for a stroll around the room. The action exposed her butt to an appreciative audience. “Ye gentlemen stare overmuch at mae little kitty.” He pressed the torturous leather between her ass cheeks and played there. “She ken many tricks, can lick the cream clean of anything.” He stopped her show-boat prancing. “What price will ye gentlemen pay fer a piece of mae puss?”
“Three thousand.”
Garret upped the offer with another ten. Higher and higher the bidding went until Altair slapped her ass and shouted “Sold.” He led her to the winner. Jhor slowly lifted his kilt, exposing an engorged penis. Willow discovered she was very partial to Scot attire—more so its men. Altair controlled her as she began to suck on Jhor’s swollen head.
“Oh aye. Ye puss ken the trick.” Jhor joined Altair in petting her. He trickled a few drops of brandy on his cock’s head and let her slake her thirst. Their hands were all over her, pinching her nipples, fondling her clit. Jhor thrust harder into her mouth, grabbing her hair, angling her to take him deeper.
Altair knelt behind her and stroked her pussy. He whispered in her ear as he finger fucked her with delicious strokes. “Ye’re such a good puss. Ye deserve a reward. A cute, fluffy tail.” He played with the rim of her ass. Something cold and stiff made her flinch. “Hush. Open ye arse for me, sweetling.” Using her own juices as lubricant he slowly inserted the bulbous anal plug. The fluffy top tickled her sphincter muscles with every rocking motion. Willow whimpered.
