Lord of Rage & Primal Instincts

by Jill Monroe

  Osborn added his tongue.

  Wetness rushed where her thighs met. Her whole body seemed to be curving toward him, craving more of what he could give her. She lifted her knee, and ran the tips of her toes down his molded calf. She gasped when his fingers sank between her legs, the feeling of his gentle invasion exquisite.

  “You’re so wet for me.” His voice was little more than a growl. With a swipe of his tongue to her earlobe, Osborn began to slide down her frame, stopping to give a gentle nip to her breasts, and he continued lower.

  He tasted the skin under her breasts, circled her belly button with his tongue. Went lower still.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Changing the energy.”

  She felt his warm breath on the curls between her thighs, and she began to shake. He nudged her knees farther apart, exposing her woman’s body to his gaze.

  “So slick for me.”

  With one tiny kiss, her every muscle locked. His head descended, and he licked. Her moan filled the clearing around the lake, echoing off the trees.

  “I love to hear your pleasure.” Then he gave her more. He laved every part of her, and plunged his tongue within her. Every muscle, every part of her that could feel, tightened and narrowed, just waiting for more of his touch.

  He began to seek inside her with his finger. The tip delving where she ached to have him fill her.

  “So tight.”

  “That feels so good.”

  “It’s about to get a whole lot better.” He lowered his head again and began to suck where her sensations seemed to be the most centered. And her world burst.

  Breena dug her fingers into Osborn’s shoulders as crest after crest of pleasure slammed her senses. Her cry sailed up to the trees and she arched herself toward him until the amazing sensations died away.

  With one last kiss, he rolled to his back beside her, and stared up at the sky.

  She rolled toward him, draping her arm over his chest, and cuddled as close as she could. She’d remember this forever.

  Osborn tensed when she began to play with the fine hair covering his chest. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

  Breena shook her head. “That was incredible. You made me… I felt… It’s hard to find the words.”

  She expected Osborn to bask in her praise. Encourage her for more. If anything, his expression grew grimmer than when they’d first returned to the lake.

  “Before the invasion of your home, what was your training? What were you meant to be?”

  “Be? I don’t understand what you mean.”

  He pushed her hand away from him, and braced himself up on his elbow so he could look down at her, not up. “You’re not a servant, or someone who works out in the field. We’ve already established that. You’re something more. You’re meant for something. Someone. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” His tone sounded accusatory, like he suspected she kicked small animals for fun.

  Unease settled just below her heart. She nodded, confirming his question. Breena didn’t like the direction this conversation seemed to be taking. She didn’t know what she was hoping for after an experience that was so intense and personal for her—maybe a hug, but certainly not an interrogation.

  Osborn scrubbed his hand down his face. “Should have known. You had that wholesome look about you.”

  Wholesome?

  Men didn’t teach women battle skills they found…wholesome. It was a loathsome word.

  “You’re meant for another.” His words were low, spoken into the ground.

  “What?” she asked, not sure she heard him correctly.

  He aimed his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead. “Get dressed. You’re meant for another. Not me. Never me.”

  Breena snapped her legs together. A wave of embarrassment and confusion shuddered through her. “You’re not making me leave you?”

  His breath came out in a heavy sigh. “No, you’ll learn what you need to, and then I’ll send you on your way.”

  Relief chased away the confusion, but the embarrassment still warred inside her. She reached for her discarded pants, and quickly stepped into them.

  “And, Breena?”

  They were back to that. “Yes?”

  “Remember the warning I first gave you?”

  Maybe. Which one? There were so many.

  She nodded instead. Seemed a safer response now that he was back to being so prickly.

  “Don’t be alone with me. I don’t want my touch to defile you.”

  Tears filled her eyes, but she quickly blinked them back. “How could what we just shared be defilement?” His caresses had brought something out in her. She felt connected to him. Intimate.

  He obviously did not feel the same way.

  Osborn finally locked his eyes on her. Her lips. Her breasts. Between her legs. Then his gaze clashed back with hers. Hunger and desire and passion so carnal and raw blazed in the brown depths. “What I want to do with you, yeah, you’d definitely come away defiled.”

  And she bet she’d have a smile on her face, too. Turning her back to him, she tugged the shirt he hated on her back in place. What did he want her to wear? They were shirts from his household.

  “And, Breena?”

  And again just to make sure she was truly flustered. Now it was her turn to sigh. “Yes?” she replied sweetly.

  “Stay out of my dreams.”

  “I wasn’t in your dreams,” she told his retreating back.

  AFTER THE MORNING CHORES, Bernt and Torben met them on the practice field. Osborn paced across the grass, once more the stern and frightening man she’d woken to days ago.

  “Balance is the most important aspect of your fight. Once you lose your balance you lose the opportunity to protect yourself, defend…and lunge, your offense. And then you die.”

  He pointed to three large round stones, each with a plank of wood beside it. “Place the wood on the stone and step on. Balance until the sun is directly overhead.”

  Osborn stalked away and both Bernt and Torben shot her accusatory looks. Breena just shrugged. They knew their brother didn’t need any actual real provocation to be grumpy.

  The three of them did as they were instructed. Balancing didn’t seem too hard. She’d seen plenty of dancers at the palace, and one even walked along a rope suspended between two chairs. Fifteen minutes in and she hated those dancers, and knew the rope balancer had to be a fake. She fell off her plank over and over again. At least she was having better luck than the two boys. They spent more time on their backs than they did standing on their plank. By the time Osborn returned, she was hot, sore and really, really anxious to grab her stick so she could whack him with it during their mock swordplay.

  He tossed each of them a green apple and a pouch of water. “Water first.”

  Despite the fact that their backsides must be sporting a permanent imprint of the ground, Bernt and Torben laughed and teased each other while they ate. Osborn wouldn’t look at her, and even though she was surrounded by three other people, Breena felt the loneliest of her life.

  Their taskmaster couldn’t have given them more than ten minutes of rest. The core of her apple had barely shown itself when he had her up and holding a sword. A real one this time, no sticks. Maybe he’d suspected she’d been entertaining dark thoughts with that stick.

  “Take it out of the scabbard,” he told her.

  She slid the blade from its holder, the sun glinting off the silver edge. There was nothing ornate about this weapon. No jewels encrusted on the hilt, no elaborate carvings marring the blade. A simple weapon. So unlike those of her father and brothers.

  “It was my first sword,” he told her. “Take good care of it.”

  And even though she looked up to meet his gaze, Osborn never lowered his eyes to meet hers.

  “Thank you,” she said. The steel in her hands meant something to the man who’d given it to her. She’d always protect it.

  He shifted to face all of them. �
��In a surprise attack, the fatal blow is often struck before the victim’s sword is even drawn. The rest of the afternoon, I want you to practice pulling your sword from its scabbard. Quickly. Quietly. Over and over again until it’s second nature to you. You should be able to do this in your sleep. One day you may have to.”

  For hours they honed this particular skill. She stood still, and pulled the sword from the scabbard; while running, with her scabbard at her side, she pulled the weapon out; when the scabbard was beside her on the ground, she unsheathed the sword. Breena performed the maneuver until it was perfect. Then Osborn instructed her to switch sides and use the hand she didn’t favor.

  “If you’re injured, you may be able to fight off your aggressor.”

  Every muscle of her body ached by the time Osborn called a halt sometime before the late-afternoon chores. If she thought she was sweaty and dirty after the balance torture Osborn had conceived, she wouldn’t be fit to sleep in a stable tonight. She followed him back to the cabin, barely able to hold her sword and scabbard, but not about to ask Osborn for help.

  What she would seek his aid in was finding a bar of soap. His lips firmed and that hungry look returned to his eyes when she told him she wanted to take a bath.

  “Naked?” he asked.

  “That’s generally how it’s done. How do you wash off?”

  She watched as he swallowed slowly. “I usually hop into the lake.”

  Breena shook her head. “Probably should avoid that place, now that the energy is less…magical. It’s too bad you don’t use a tub. Sitting in sudsy warm water in front of the fire is one of life’s real pleasures.”

  Osborn looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in this conversation. Too bad. “I’ll just grab a basin and wash off in back. Soap?”

  “In the cabinet under the window.”

  “Thank you,” she told him with a smile. “No one comes outside,” she yelled, so the boys would know to stay inside the cottage. When had she become a yeller? Since meeting up with a family of berserkers, the rage must be rubbing off on her.

  The water she’d pumped into the basin was cold, but she knew it would feel fantastic against her hot and sticky skin. The soap, however, was another matter. It smelled like Osborn. Warm chestnuts. She breathed it in deep, rubbed the soap between her hands until she built a lather, then began running the smell of him all over her body.

  OSBORN SPENT THE REST OF his day wondering about her bath. How she took off her shoes. Her shirt. Her pants. How the fading sun must have glinted off her naked skin. Her hair. He imagined wetting her skin with a sopping cloth, grasping his soap and rolling it along her arms. Over her breasts. Down her stomach. Between her legs.

  He envisioned stepping behind her, shedding his clothes and standing before her naked. He felt the slick soap and her soft hands along his chest, over his back and gripping his cock. He was in performance mode in record time. She’d slide her hands up and down the shaft of him as she slid her tongue into his mouth. The movements of her hands and mouth mimicking one another. She’d rinse away the soap and sink to her knees. Kiss the head of his cock, tongue the shaft, then slide him all the way into her mouth.

  He groaned, nearly coming with the erotic visions. He was going crazy. Osborn had to get her out of his cottage. His life.

  But how could he when he wanted her more than almost anything in his life?

  He found her later that night, curled on her side in front of the fire. The blanket lay at her feet and he crouched down low to tug it back over her slim frame. Her hair was still damp, but would soon dry before the fire. She shivered, and he worried that she might be cold. Rolling to his side, he fitted her back against his chest. The way her soft curves formed to his body was sweet, sweet torture. One he’d gladly endure over and over.

  Breena smelled fresh and clean, and…a little like him. His soap. Possession arced through him, and he curved an arm around her waist. She snuggled toward him in her sleep as though it was natural. Where she should be.

  He buried his nose in her hair, the delicate strands sliding over his cheek. Breena shouldn’t smell like a man. And he shouldn’t be holding her. Wanting more. Needing more. But he’d steal just a few moments. Then he’d pick himself up and go to his bedroom and shut the door. Firmly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BREENA IMAGINED A DOOR in her mind. Two doors. The second door was new. Menacing. While the first stood familiar, opening that door and walking through had been forbidden to her. She went to it, anyway. Leaned against the closed entry. She longed to go inside. Days had passed since she’d last crossed the threshold and found pleasure. And passion.

  But she could not go in.

  She turned to the second portal. The entrance was ornate while the other gate was plain. Timeworn carvings in the ancient Elden language adorned the mahogany door. Jewels and rubies, sapphires and diamonds, were embedded in the knob. It should be the most desirable doorway in the world. Instead, she looked again at the simple entry, but that was not her path. That way had been barred to her.

  Steeling herself, she gazed once more upon the door that should be inviting. A crimson haze seemed to surround it on all sides. The color of blood. Breena didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to know what lay beyond once she turned that bejeweled knob.

  Yet this was her destiny.

  Her fingers shook as she reached for the handle and turned. A film of oppressive hate dropped over her, smothered her. Her legs buckled, and she wanted to turn back, but knew she couldn’t. Steeling herself, Breena stepped inside.

  She was in the great hall of her home in Elden. Beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, and fat tapers illuminated the room, just like always. But instead of the friendly chatter of people, the bustle of the servants and the laughter of the king and queen, she heard only agony. The wailing of the wounded. The fearful cries of those left behind and being rounded up by creatures of unimaginable horror. The smell of blood was heavy in the air. It sickened her, but not as much as the sight of her people, dead and dying on the cold stone of the castle floor.

  Breena reached to pick up her skirt to rush to their aid, but found she wore pants instead. The outfit of a boy. Strapped to her waist was a sword and scabbard. Her fingers sought the timepiece she wore around her neck. She examined the gift her mother had given her at the age of five. A sword was stamped into the face, such an odd symbol to entrust to a little girl. Breena slid the sword out of its scabbard. It was identical to the image on her timepiece.

  She was on the path of her destiny.

  The queen. She thrust the sword in its scabbard, and raced across the room, avoiding the pools of blood and the dead that she could not help. She ran until she reached the dais upon which her parents always sat during the formal times at Elden. She found them strapped to their thrones, a mockery of their honor. More blood flowed at their feet. Thickening.

  They were dead. A slash at both their throats. The pain of it so great she sobbed.

  Something warm and soothing patted her shoulder in her dream. On instinct, Breena drew her sword quickly and with intent. But no one stood behind her. She returned her sword and braced herself to look at her parents one more time. One last time. They’d each managed to work a hand free from their bonds. They’d died with their fingers intertwined.

  Tears began streaming down her cheeks. So many. Too many to wipe away. But someone gently dabbed the moisture away, and soothed her with a soft whisper. “Sleep, Breena. No more dreaming.”

  She followed the voice out of her dream. Warmth enveloped her, and she crushed herself toward the soothing strength. And she followed the voice’s command and went to sleep without dreaming further.

  Breena woke up with her memory restored.

  OSBORN WATCHED BREENA sleep until the birds began to sing. Her sob had jerked him awake. She still lay in his arms, but she thrashed about and she began to cry. He’d never seen a woman cry before. He’d never expected it of Breena, who’d proved she could take as much traini
ng and work as a young man learning the ways of a warrior.

  Her tears did something to him. Made him feel weak. Made him want to fix or kill or change whatever made her cry. Instead, he could only cradle her to his chest, wipe her tears and try to soothe her with his voice. She finally calmed and settled against him. Her breathing eventually turned steady, and he could relax then, but never sleep.

  As the sun broke over the horizon, Osborn knew continuing to train her to fight would only prolong her pain. After last night, he couldn’t bear to see her hurt any longer. Today was the last market day of the week in the village. Breena couldn’t continue to stay with three men. Surely there was some sort of position, something completely safe, that would keep her employed.

  The blood scout had not returned. Had not brought reinforcements, and Osborn doubted the creature would be back with the change in energy at the lake. Blood scouts were little more than mindless drones, obeying only limited commands. Osborn’s cock grew uncomfortable as he remembered how he and Breena had chased away the trace magic. He shifted his legs to relieve the pressure, and glanced down at the beautiful woman in his arms. She was gently reared. Perhaps she could be a nanny or maybe a companion to an elder in town until he sorted out everything. Found where she belonged.

  Why was no one in her family looking for her?

  He feared he already knew the answer.

  Osborn gently slid his arm from around her waist and, after one last glance, left Breena to her sleep. He quietly walked toward his front door and slipped outside without waking anyone inside. His brothers wouldn’t worry; he often left the cottage early to train, or to run or secure and inspect the perimeter of the sacred lands.

  Without the three of them, Osborn stood on the border in no time. The village marketers were just opening their booths when he crested the hill. He quickly made his way down the incline. The first stall he sought sold soaps and perfumes and fancy concoctions used to wash hair.

  “For you or for your lady?” the saleswoman asked.