BlackMoon Reaper (27 page)

whore. In retaliation, Spiosyn swore vengeance on his friend, summoned
Yn Drogh

Spyrryd
and sold his soul to him in exchange for settling the score on the man who had

cuckolded him.”

“That’s what destroyed Rysalia Prime?” Phelan asked. “A woman two men

wanted? If the other warrior needed to stray, why couldn’t he have picked some other

man’s wife and not his best friend’s?”

“And that was back when Rysalia Prime had more women than men, long before

their scientists accidentally murdered every female on the planet so he would have had

his pick of the litter,” Cynyr said.

“Precisely,” Phelan said. He deliberated over what Cree had said then thought he

understood the reason his friend had brought it up. “Cyn, if you’re worried about

Aingeal falling under the High Lord’s spell…”

“The other man?” Cynyr interrupted him. “That other warrior whose name escaped

us?”

“Aye?” Phelan said, drawing out the word.

“Was Kheelan Ben-Alkazar.”

It took a moment for that news to settle in and when it did, Phelan’s eyebrows shot

up and his lips parted.

“Aye, that Kheelan Ben-Alkazar,” Cynyr said, a muscle bunching in his cheek.

“You don’t think he would…”

“I know the son of a bitch better not,” Cynyr snapped. “By the gods I’d do my

gods-be-damned best to tear him apart piece by piece if he so much as laid a finger to

my woman!”

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“Cynyr, think about it,” Phelan said, pushing up in the bed. “Lord Kheelan is our

lawmaker, the man who wields those laws. He’s such a stickler for making us toe the

line and observe the laws he wouldn’t dare break them himself.”

“
Mo Regina
stood before us all a few days ago and told everyone in the room what

that bastard had done on Rysalia Prime, what a prick he’d been. She made it clear She

wouldn’t allow him to step over the line, but if he did it once he could do it again,

goddess be damned!”

“No, I don’t think so. If he had been going to seduce Aingeal, he’d have tried it

before now and she would have told you.”

“He’s a fucking Shadowlord, Kiel!” Cynyr yelled. He lowered his hands, doubled

them into fists. “Who would know what he did? Who could stop him? Would she even

be aware he was using her?”

Two healers came running at the loud words but neither came any closer when

Cynyr whipped around to shoot a heated glare their way. They backed away but

remained nearby.

“Calm down, my friend,” Phelan said. “Let’s talk about this. We…”

“I’m telling you right now, Kiel,” Cynyr said. “If he goes after my woman, I’ll bring

the fucking Citadel down around his gods-be-damned ears!”

“Don’t you trust Aingeal?” Phelan asked.

“Aye, I trust her. It’s him I don’t trust!”

Phelan opened his mouth to say something else but Cree spun around to storm off,

shoving the healers aside as he made his way for the vestibule door.

“Is everything all right, Lord Phelan?” one of the healers asked.

“Aye,” Phelan said. “I hope so.” He closed his eyes. “I pray so.”

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No one had seen the High Lord for several days. Lord Kheelan was keeping to his

quarters, leaving instructions he was not to be bothered unless it was a dire emergency.

There were two other Shadowlords who could handle things in his absence.

Cynyr and Aingeal likewise had made themselves scarce. No one dared speculate

why.

On the day Phelan was released from quarantine—twenty pounds lighter—

Fontabeau showed up to fetch him. Lucy was a bit under the weather, had stayed in

Phelan’s quarters.

“She’s pregnant,” the gunman said as they took the stairs to the Reapers’ floor. “I

know gods-be-damned well she’s pregnant. She puked.”

“She couldn’t be. Not this soon,” Phelan said, stunned by the suggestion. “Must

have been something she ate.”

“It only takes one load of shot to hit the target, Kiel,” Fontabeau said.

“It could be yours,” Phelan said, and the thought made his heart ache.

“I can’t father children, son,” the gunman told him. “They saw to that long ago

when I was working on the pleasure planet. They snipped me.”

Raking an unsteady hand through his thick hair, Phelan tugged at the tousled

strands. “I’m not ready for this,” he said.

“What man ever is?” Fontabeau asked. “I was talking to Eanan Tohre. Now that

man is in deep shit. He’s got three women and all three are pregnant with twins!”

“Poor bastard,” Phelan agreed.

“Poor bastard, nothing,” Fontabeau scoffed. “He’s having the time of his life

screwing those three little beauties, and they can’t keep their hands off him. By the time

this lockdown is over, they’ll have worn his pecker to a nubbin!”

“What a way to go though, eh?” Phelan laughed.

“Aye, well, he’s starting to walk funny, but that’s to be expected I guess,”

Fontabeau observed.

“I suppose,” his mate agreed.

Lucy was feeling better when the two Reapers entered Phelan’s room. She’d

brushed her teeth and hair, dressed demurely and was seated on the loveseat with a

book of poetry in her lap.

“My handsome man,” she said. She laid the book aside, rushing to Phelan to throw

her arms around him. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too, sweeting,” he said, squeezing her. He kissed her.

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“Lady Aingeal and Lady Danielle are planning the Joining for us. It will be at the

end of the week,” Lucy said, her eyes bright. “We’re becoming good friends and Lea is

a real sweetheart!”

Phelan looked to Fontabeau. “Did you get permission for the Joining as I asked

you?” he asked.

“Aye, I did,” Fontabeau said. “From Lord Dunham since the High Lord seems to be

incommunicado at the moment.”

“Hiding is more like it,” Lucy said then when her lover shushed her, she turned to

him. “Everyone is talking about it, warrior. They all know how he feels about Lord

Cynyr’s lady, but everyone is also in accord that he’d never do anything about it. Not

just because Lord Cynyr would retaliate, but because the High Lord has suffered a long

time for the mistake he made. He’ll not make that same mistake again.”

“Even if he thought he could get away with it?” Phelan inquired.

“The people of the Citadel feel pity for him,” Lucy spoke up.

“That’s the last gods-be-damned thing he wants,” Phelan said. “A proud man like

him?”

“The women feel sorry for him. I’ll wager there are more than a few who’ll be after

him now. Tortured hero stuff,” Lucy stated with a nod. “Gets women every time.”

“So the people aren’t blaming him as the goddess no doubt intended?” Phelan

asked.

“I saw it as Her way of warning him to leave you-know-who alone,” Fontabeau

said, “and I didn’t even know the lady in question at the time.”

“You may be right,” Phelan said. He looked down at Lucy. “There’s something we

need to discuss, sweeting.”

Lucy curled her arm around him. “I’m all ears.”

“That’s my cue to depart,” Fontabeau said. He winked at Lucy before strolling

away.

“Well?” she prompted.

He swallowed hard then asked if she had anything she needed to tell him.

“Like what?” she countered, her eyes sparkling.

Phelan ran a finger under his collar, which felt much too tight for his neck. “You

know,” he said.

“I’m not a mind reader, Phe,” she said with exasperation. “Spit it out.”

“Are you pregnant?” he asked in a rush of breath.

“Aye.”

Phelan Kiel paled, staggered from the answer. All he could say was, “Oh.”

“And if you’re worried who the father is, I can tell you for a fact that it is you

because like I told you, I only slept with one man in the last three months and that was

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Beau. I imagine he told you he’s sterile,” she said, and at his nod started forward,

leading him toward the bed. “Now no more talking.”

He balked, digging in his heels. “Won’t that hurt the baby?” he asked.

“No, silly.” She tugged him forward, put her hands in the center of his chest and

pushed him to the bed.

She was over him before he could protest anything else and when she rolled with

him, bringing him atop her, he stared down at her with wonder.

“I dreamed of you every night I was in quarantine,” he said. His gaze wandered

over her face. “In my dreams there wasn’t a part of me you didn’t touch. Now I want to

return the favor.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, turned her wrist so he could place a soft kiss on the

underside, his eyes never leaving hers, and lowered his head. His lips pressed against

her flesh, his tongue darted out to sweep fleetingly along the vein pulsing in her wrist,

and then he raised his head.

“I want you with every breath I take, every beat of my heart. All I think of is you.

My entire being ached to be with you when we were apart.”

“Do you know why?” she asked softly.

“Aye, wench. Your man has fallen so hard in love with you he is completely lost.”

His words made her groan, brought tears to her eyes. She reached up to return his

lips to hers. Her breasts were pushing against his chest as she clung to him. His kiss

deepened and he slid one hand to her rump to mold her tight to him, grinding his

swollen cock against her belly.

He shifted down her so he could clasp her breast through the bodice of her gown.

The fullness of it in the palm of his hand made his head swim. He pulled back and

lowered his head, arched his body almost painfully so he could plant hot, fevered kisses

down her neck and onto the plain of her chest, tugging the bodice down as he went. He

strained to get his mouth on her nipple, but he couldn’t jackknife his body that sharply.

Frustrated, he pushed himself up, grabbed the bodice with both hands and ripped it

open to reveal her lush breasts.

Lucy writhed beneath him, the wiggling doing spectacular things to the bold

erection that was straining so desperately between his legs.

“Bad Reaper!” she accused, and shoved him off her, straddling him before he could

stop her. “Gowns don’t grow on trees, Phelan Kiel!”

“I’ll buy you a thousand gowns, wench!” he countered with a growl, and reached

for her but she batted his hands away.

“Behave!” she warned, the cleft of her ass directly over his shaft. She jerked the

ruined gown over her head and tossed it aside.

Full with dark areolas and taut nipples he longed to suckle, her breasts were made

for a man’s hands. He covered them gently—feeling the hard little nubs pressing into

his palms—and massaged them. Her head fell back and her chest pushed toward him

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as she offered herself to him like a virgin sacrifice. He wanted the taste of her in his

mouth.

Lucy squealed as he reared up and flipped them over, sprawling beneath him as he

poised over her, his hands still upon her breasts as he switched positions with her. But

instead of sitting astride her as she had him, he slid his long legs down hers until he

was reclining atop her, his head at her chest. When his lips closed around one aching

nipple, she writhed beneath him and he moved a leg to wedge it between hers and push

her thighs apart.

“Phelan,” she sighed, and threaded her fingers through his thick brown hair.

For the longest time he worshipped at the altar of her breasts—moving from one

nipple to the other. He laved those dusky tips, plucked at them with his teeth, licked

them, and suckled hard then gently then hard again as he molded her breast in his

hand. All the while he kept his heaviness from completely crushing her, putting most of

his weight on his left hip. His knee had crept up to press firmly between her legs and

she was unconsciously rubbing herself against him even as her hands tugged at his

brown locks.

He knew it was time to move on.

His hand inched lower until the tips of his fingers touched the springy curls at the

juncture of her thighs. Her loud groan sent chills down his spine and he had to force

himself not to thrust into her. He moved his hand onto her belly. He was aching, his

cock a burning brand in his pants as it pressed against her but he took his time, rubbing

her abdomen, fanning his fingertips over the top of the wiry thatch. With each lift of her

hips he moved a tad lower until he was almost to the area between her legs he knew

touching would drive her wild.

He took possession of her mouth again to distract her, thrusting his tongue deep,

allowing the weight of his chest to press her down. He dueled with her tongue—

breaching her defenses on two levels at once, not giving her a chance to enjoy one

before he alternated to the other.

He moved lower still until the very tip of his middle finger touched that tight little

bud.

Lucy gasped and groaned and her hips shot up as he touched her. She clawed at his

shoulders in an attempt to drag him over him. He took that moment to slide one finger

down the soft crease of her folds and into her hot, wet heat. He flinched for her

fingernails raked down his arms but he moved his finger inside her, going as deep as he

could.

She pulled her mouth from his and stared up at him with eyes wide as saucers.