My Soul to Keep (11 page)

She studied him, wariness bright in her eyes. “Friends?” She uttered the word as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard and not where they had once been in their relationship. Her hands held the edge of the countertop behind her, knuckles white and bloodless where they gripped.

Without a word, he rose and rounded the table, walking in a hard line toward her, stretching out his arms and caging her between himself and the counter.

“Friends,” he murmured, watching the light in the centers of her brown eyes start a steady smolder. He cocked his head and breathed in the scent of her neck, marveling at how easy, how natural it felt to have Sorcha back in his life again. Even if the way he was feeling toward her was decidedly new and
more
than friendly.

Is this your plan, then? Subjugate me through seduction?” Sorcha asked breathlessly, squeezing past him and moving out of the kitchen and into the larger living area. Much-needed space. Distance from him.

Outside, the wind howled, gaining force. Snow fell past the living room window in thick, white sheets.

He stared after her with a hungry look in his eyes. The way she had prayed for him to look at her as a girl, so that he might sweep her off her feet and run away with her. That had been an especially favorite fantasy following any unpleasant encounters with her father. A foul taste coated her mouth. Yes, she'd come a long way from those days. She was not about to go back.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I'd hardly call it subjugation.”

“No? What would you call it? Rape?”

His head jerked back, eyes changing, glittering like ice, colder than the arctic winds outside.
“Don't be dramatic. We are what we are.” He flipped a hand in the air. “I'm only saying that there are more enjoyable ways to spend our time than fighting, Sorcha.”

“Pleasant for
you.
”

“And you, too.” He leaned closer and sniffed near her neck, as if he smelled her even after her bath. “Even you see that. You're not a little girl anymore. You must feel it between us …”

Her breath locked in her lungs. She had craved such attention from him years ago. And the way her heart beat a little faster, she had to admit that maybe she craved it still. Just a little.

“I'm sure you're a real stallion,” she mocked, “but I prefer the human variety.”

He blinked and she knew she'd surprised him. It took him a moment to reply. “I suppose they're easier for you to manipulate.”

She laughed lightly.

His eyes narrowed.

“Is that the reason, you think?” she asked.

He stepped nearer, until his chest brushed against her. She tried not to shrink back from the contact, the imposing size of him, the overwhelming maleness. “Yeah. That's what I think. Being with someone like me requires trust. Both in me and in yourself. Clearly, the years have robbed you of that. Too bad.”

Her smile slipped as his words sank in, too close to the truth.

He continued, “How about taking on someone who can give as much as he takes? Someone you can't dominate? Or is that too risky?”

“No. I simply want a man with a soul.”

“You think I'm not in possession of a soul?” His jaw hardened. “I'm not lycan. I've not—”

“You're no better … just someone who values the life of a demon witch like Tresa.”

His gaze raked her up and down, his scorn palpable, something that reached out to slap her. “You have no idea the hell that will break loose if you kill Tresa. Killing her sets her demon loose.”

“I'm aware of that.”

He blinked, then looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “And you don't care?”

“I fully intend to kill her demon.”

“You couldn't even kill the witch! What makes you think you could destroy a demon once it takes form?”

She swallowed down the hot thickness in her throat. Her anger was too great. She felt that. Recognized the swarming heat in her face. He was nothing to her, and she should act that way.

She shook her head and took several steps away. “You don't know me anymore, Jonah. And I don't want to know you.”

He stepped closer. His gaze flicked over her. “Really? I don't believe that. You know I'm speaking the truth. You're just afraid to hear it, though. To find out your mission is over. To accept that you're out of your league here.”

“It's not over,” she hissed, thinking of when the demon had possessed Maree. He'd told Sorcha he'd been warned that she could destroy him. Clearly, there was a way. She could do it. She
would.
“You've delayed me, sure … ruined my plans. For now.”

He moved before she could even register his intent. Hard hands seized her by the arms. “Get over it. She's gone. Move on to something else.” His eyes glowed brightly, twin torches dancing at the centers where dark pupils should be. Her heart pounded against her chest.

“You mean
you
?”

His gaze swept over her face, clearly digesting her words. “Why not? Like I said, you're not a little girl anymore, Sorcha. You felt something for me once.”

“Yeah,” she spit out.
“Once.”
She struggled in his arms, amazed—even as she knew his strength rivaled her own—that she could not simply break free. It had been years since she'd been around anyone like herself, someone who could physically overpower her. The realization both terrified and exhilarated.

His head descended, inching toward hers. The old insecurities rose inside her. Even now she wondered if any of this was genuine. Was Jonah truly interested in her, truly attracted to her? Or was this his way of distracting her from her purpose?

She jerked her head out of the way and cut a swift circle out of his arms. He grabbed her and hauled her back, colliding them chest to chest. Seizing her by the back of the head, he held her still, his face so close their noses almost touched.

They glared at each other, chests heaving hard. She tasted his breath then, his lips so near hers. When his eyes dipped toward her mouth, her stomach clenched. She bit her lip to keep a sigh of longing from escaping. It was too much.

In that moment, she could think only that this was Jonah. Jonah, whom she'd wished for, dreamed of, all those years ago. Who made her smile when her father made her cry. Jonah, whom she'd wept for when she thought him dead.

While she was trying to summon the strength to push him from her, he made the final move.

He kissed her.

The strong hand at the back of her head slid to her face, his palm rasping her cheek as he swallowed up her cry, drank deep of the sound.

His lips burned, a scalding shock in the cabin's pervasive chill as his mouth devoured hers.

She was not inexperienced, had not lived as a nun. Even though she and Gervaise had a platonic marriage, men had passed through her life, through her bedroom, since his death. She'd hoped a lover would end the loneliness. Or at least offer some solace from it. Of course it hadn't worked.

Jonah's kiss felt new. Like the first. The brush of his warm lips robbed her of all struggle, weakening her knees. Like an easily awed virgin, she clutched his shoulders, clinging, fingers curling into the hard muscles of his body so she wouldn't drop. She held on for dear life, the mere texture and taste of his mouth completely devastating her.

This.
This was what she had been missing. What she'd never had.

After a moment of shocked stillness, she kissed him in return, giving back with all the fervor that he treated her to. She couldn't help herself. Her body burned, skin pulling and rippling, overcome and ready to shift. For the first time she didn't have to worry about that. She didn't have to fear liking a guy too much, responding so much that she shifted without thought or control.

With him, there was no secret to protect. She could let go.

Her lips moved over his, nibbling the top lip first, then sucking on his bottom lip, moaning
when he slid his tongue inside her mouth. He skimmed his hands down her back, grasped her and lifted her off the ground.

She wound her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. Weaving her fingers through his hair, she deepened their kiss, not even minding when he strode across the lodge with her locked in his arms, his each step jarring. In the bedroom, his full weight fell hard over her, sinking her into the soft mattress.

Her legs parted, instinctively inviting him to settle into her body. He ground down against her. Her core clenched in need, for more of his hardness, more of his driving heat. More of him.

He held her head, kissing her thoroughly, biting at her lips in sharp nips. His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of her cheeks, holding her face in place for him.

Growling, she struggled to move her head, to sample him as he sampled her, but he held her, trapped her for his enjoyment … a delicious torment.

It wasn't enough. None of it was enough. Her body burned. She wanted to lick him, bite him, kiss him all over. She whimpered in protest at the barrier of their clothing. When he slid a hand between their bodies and palmed her between the legs, she cried out against his lips, surging into
him, into that pushing hand. Hunger burned a fiery trail to her core.

Her zipper sang out, and his hand dove beneath the waistband of her jeans, slipped inside her panties and touched her. His fingers parted her folds, played in her wetness and found that small nub of pleasure.

She screamed, her cry echoing off the wood walls as he rolled it with increasing pressure. A sob shattered from her lips. She arched, tearing her lips free. He dragged a blistering kiss down her throat, his tongue tracing the tendon there.

His mouth lifted from her neck. Cool air caressed the exposed, wet flesh.

He stared levelly at her, eyes glittering, his hand still on her, pressing against her intimately. She gasped as he traced her opening, her gaze devouring the perfect beauty of his face, the hard-etched lines and masculine angles. The eyes that could see right through her. She marveled that this was Jonah. With her, touching her. Doing such delicious things to her.

For a heartbeat, she saw his face flash in and out, the beast a shadow there, hovering just beneath the surface. In response, she felt her own face do the same, flicker in and out, and was struck with how perfect they were for each other. Two of a kind.

That thought echoed through her with dangerous familiarity, striking her like a slap to the face. As a girl, that was what she'd constantly told herself … what she'd believed, why she let her father convince her that they were each other's destiny.

But this wasn't her destiny. Fate had
not
brought them together. Life had taught her that she alone controlled her fate. Not her father, not forces beyond her power … no matter how close they lurked. Always close. Dark shadows creeping near.

She was a dovenatu who must forever pick her steps carefully through a roomful of broken glass. One misstep and she falls, loses her soul, loses herself.

She'd convinced herself Tresa would be an end to all of that. Killing Tresa would bring her the peace she craved. Now Jonah had ruined that dream for her. Her face grew hot, ears burning, eyes stinging. He was good at that. Excellent at ruining dreams.

“Get off me,” she hissed, clawing his hand free from between her legs.

His expression darkened, glowering down at her. Seizing both her hands, he forced them on either side of her head, on the bed. “Why do you fight it?” He pushed his erection against her, and her body reacted, clenching with need. “When
we both want it? Maybe your father was right,” he charged. “Maybe this is the way it should be between us.”

If her hands had been free, she would have struck him. “My father was wrong about everything. Especially us. For one moment of insanity I let common animal lust cloud my head.”

“This isn't insanity. It makes perfect sense. It's there. It's what we are, why would you deny—”

“I'm more than an animal eager to rut with one of its own kind on the first encounter. Maybe that's all
you
are, but I'm more than—”

“Better,” he spit out. “You think you're better than I am.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Yeah, you did.” He flung himself off the bed and away from her. “You know the difference between you and me, Sorcha?”

She scrambled to a sitting position, zipping up her slacks and ignoring the throbbing pangs at her core that begged for satisfaction. For him. “Oh, there's a difference? I thought you would have me thinking we're the same lust-driven animals perfectly suited for each other.”

“The difference is that I know what I am. I accept it. I don't
play
at being human.”

“I'm not playing at being human!”

“You take only humans to your bed,”
he charged. “You said as much. You're afraid of what you are. Afraid of what I am and what might happen if you let yourself go with another dovenatu.”

“Don't psychoanalyze me. You don't know me at all.” That much was true.

And yet he'd hit unerringly close to the truth. Being a dovenatu was like living in a cage. Never getting out, and never letting anyone inside.

He cocked his head, his lips curving in a cruel smile. “So why don't you tell me who you are now, Sorcha? Besides someone who lets vengeance fool her into thinking she can take on a demon witch.”

She clung to anger, let it mask her unease at how he seemed to delve beneath her exterior and doubt herself. “Why don't you go to hell?”

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about those curving lips. He prowled close, climbing back onto the bed, forcing her back, caging her in. She inched away, pulling herself along with her arms. He followed, his arms twin bands of muscle straining against the fabric of his shirt.

She fell back down on the bed, her head landing on a soft down-stuffed pillow. She inhaled and caught a whiff of earthy woods. Tresa. The smell of her lingered, surrounding her. A bitter reminder of what brought Sorcha here—and how she had failed.