My Soul to Keep

by Sharie Kohler

  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.

  Resisting the urge to close that hairsbreadth distance and taste his mouth again, she reminded herself that he was her enemy now. That maybe he always had been. She’d just been too young and naive to know it.

  “Go to hell, huh?” He stared down at her, his expression more perplexed than offended. With a soft voice, he whispered, “I still see you in there. You haven’t changed that much.”

  “Please get off me.”

  A long moment passed before he finally moved, rolled off her.

  For a while neither of them moved. They both lay looking up at the ceiling, side by side but not touching.

  Lacing her fingers over her stomach, she struggled to even her breathing … to stop herself from rolling over and pouncing on him as every fiber of her being screamed at her to do. Damn dovenatu instincts.

  He flung an arm over his forehead and released a heavy sigh. “You’re determined to make me the enemy.”

  She inhaled shallowly. Before she said anything more that she might regret, she shoved herself off the bed. Looking down at him, she tried not to let the delicious sight of him, with his rumpled gold hair and wild eyes, entice her.

  He might not serve her father anymore, but he worked at some other foul purpose now. She’d left the shadow behind and had stepped out into the light. Clearly, he had not.

  “I’m going to get my things together and leave. Don’t try to stop me, Jonah.”

  He stared at her, his expression hard as concrete, the white flames twisting at the centers of his eyes telling her he wasn’t going to go along with that. “It’s not that simple.”

  “You pointed out that we’re practically invincible.” She nodded once before striding away from him, calling over her shoulder, “Practically. Don’t make me put it to the test with you.”

  TEN

  Sorcha …” He drew out the sound of her name, his voice heavy with warning.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder, sending him a slanted look, her brown eyes peering out beneath a fringe of dark lashes.

  “You’re not going anywhere until we reach an understanding.” And even then, even if she did see reason and agreed to give up hunting Tresa, he struggled with the idea of letting her go. Letting her walk away as if he’d never seen her. As if he’d never learned she was still alive. “Don’t take another step.”

  A sudden stillness came over her. Her eyes intent, deep and fathomless as any he’d ever seen.

  His nerves tightened, squeezed dry. He watched her, devouring the sight of her. Something rippled across her face. Confusion maybe. Or maybe something else. Something more. The light at the centers of her eyes arrived, burning bright and clear, eclipsing the dark irises.

  He lifted his hand to scratch his jaw. The move flared her to life and ignited her in a way he had not anticipated.

  She bolted.

  With his heart in his throat, he sprang after her, vaulting through the bedroom door. His fingers snatched a handful of her ink-dark hair.

  They crashed onto the floor in a tangled pile of flailing limbs. Her strength was no match for his, especially after her recent attack. He flipped her over. Straddling her, he pinned her to the ground, his hands locked down on both her shoulders
. “Sorcha! Enough!”

  She thrust her chin out and shouted, “Get—off—me!”

  Not the sign of surrender he was looking for. He shoved his face close, staring into the hard glitter of her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Her eyes raked him as if he were the lowest sort of vermin. “Right now the only thing wrong is that you didn’t die in that explosion,” she hissed, surging up from the waist, trying to buck him off her.

  Her words continued, lashing him like a whip. “Now you’d rather see me dead, hold me prisoner to protect some—”

  “Sorcha,” he growled, staring at her flushed face for a long moment before the rest of his words exploded from his lips in a rush. “You think I’d kill you now? I still see that explosion when I close my eyes. I see you!”

  The hostility faded from her eyes. Tension ebbed from her. She felt soft, yielding beneath him. He remembered those moments on the bed together and grew hard again. He’d never allowed himself to think of her in that way before, when she’d been alive to him. It seemed disrespectful when he cared for her the way he did …

  “I’m a demon slayer,” he began. “Well, in a way. It’s not like I wanted to be … it’s just … what I am. I can detect witches and demons, the goal being to protect white witches from demons … to keep demons from possessing them and turning them into demon witches.”

  “A demon witch like Tresa.”

  “Like Tresa,” he confirmed.

  “Then why are you trying to protect her? She’s already possessed. Already a demon witch.”

  “You can’t kill a demon witch without releasing her demon. And you can’t handle this particular demon.”

  Her tension returned. She stiffened beneath him. “I’m no weakling—”

  “Do you even know how to kill a demon?” he challenged. “What it involves? It’s not easy. Practically impossible.”

  “But possible,” she stressed. “That’s good enough for me, then. I’ll take the chance. I want Tresa dead.” Her jaw locked, a muscle feathering the delicate flesh.

  He glared down at her, not sure if he wanted to shake her or take her in his arms. He still couldn’t get over the sight of her … the knowledge that this was her. His Sorcha.

  No, not his, he quickly amended. She’d never been his. And yet, this close to her, his blood pumped hard in his veins, eager to possess her.

  At that moment the wood floor began to shake beneath them, vibrating as if the earth itself had just awakened, hungry and roused with temper, ready to devour all and everything.

  “What’s happening? Is it an earthquake?” she called over the breaking of glass.

  A roaring beat filled the air, accompanied by a whistling wind. He shook his head, realizing at once what it was. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to her feet. He opened his mouth to answer, but he never got the chance.

  The door burst open, shattered off its hinges, breaking into splinters as a dozen armed men flooded the room.

  SORCHA’S NOSTRILS FLARED AGAINST the sudden crowd of strange men. All armed to the teeth. Instantly her flesh rippled and burned, crawled with an awareness of the sudden danger. Her core vibrated, smoldered.

  Jonah took position before her like a great barrier. Her protector. The gesture both rankled and comforted her. She’d done without a protector for over ten years. Too little, too late.

  One of the men spoke into his mouthpiece. “Two subjects located.”

  A scratchy response crackled back, “Status on the witch?”

  Suddenly another chopper arrived outside, beating the wind and whipping freezing air inside the house. Icy snow sprayed through the busted door and broken windows. Even with the mounting heat inside her, the subarctic temperature was difficult to tolerate. Rising back to her feet, she fought to hide her shivering, hating the idea that they might read her shaking as fear.

  She pressed closer to Jonah’s hard back, exhaling cold breath on him. Tossing her bangs from her eyes, she surveyed the group of mercenaries. “Um, friends of yours?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Quiet,” one of the dark-clad men barked, jabbing a weapon in their direction.

  The pounding chopper blades slowed outside, then stilled to a stop. In the sudden quiet, a new figure emerged, walking through the door as if he were strolling into a dinner party and not into a cabin in the Alaskan tundra.

  His booted feet thudded on the floor, crunching over glass. A dark floor-length coat brushed his ankles as he stopped in the middle of the room. A hissing breath escaped Sorcha’s lips. Even before he removed the dark sunglasses from his eyes, she knew, she felt it, smelled it on him. Lycan.

  Jonah’s hand reached behind him to seize her arm, and she knew he felt it, too.

  The dark-haired stranger cocked his head, the motion predatory. His silvery eyes narrowed on both of them. Like pewter ice, able to freeze, to kill with a glance. He was old, maybe even ancient, despite his youthful good looks. She got that at once. Inhaling, she smelled death from his every pore. It curled its tainted tendrils around her.

  “Two lycans?” he murmured with a deep inhalation, scenting them in turn. His hard features gave nothing away, not pleasure or concern at finding them here. “Didn’t expect to find a pair of my brethren—” His nostrils flared sharply, a muscle rippling across his square jaw. “No.” He stepped forward, looked over Jonah’s shoulder, directly at her, blasting Sorcha with the full intensity of his cursed stare.

  She tried not to flinch beneath his pewter gaze, letting her father’s hated voice roll over her … taking courage from the memory of his words—the only thing she had ever agreed with him about. Lycans are dogs. They have not our strength, nor our intelligence. They lack all will, all control. They’re fit only to be our slaves.

  Well, maybe she didn’t agree with the last part. That had been her father’s madness talking, after all. In her mind, lycans needed to be destroyed, wiped from the earth.

  Yet somehow her father’s words failed to ring true gazing at this lycan. He hardly smacked of weakness or stupidity. No, surrounded by gunmen, he looked very organized. Deadly and systematic. Not an opponent to underestimate. Unlike any lycan to cross her path before.

  “Not lycans,” he murmured, clicking his tongue as he realized just what she and Jonah were. “Dovenatus.” He laughed then, the sound dark and deep. “How interesting. Fifteen years ago I did not even know dovenatus existed, now I seem to run into them everywhere.” He sobered, tilting his head to allow his gaze to slide over her.

  She shivered beneath that stare. There were few men who could inject her with fright. Well, no man really. There hadn’t been since that night years ago when she’d first transitioned …

  She was in danger here. She knew that at once, read his unhealthy interest in her.

  A lycan was a formidable opponent, but mostly during a full moon. Their inability to shift at any other time put them at a disadvantage against a dovenatu … that’s what made them so easy for her father to enslave.

  But this one … he was different.

  He wasn’t your average lycan. He made her feel decidedly unsafe even in the absence of a full moon. She looked him up and down, fought to hold his icy stare, to show courage. This one her father could never have taken.

  Her skin rippled, burned, ready to fade out. Ready to give way to the beast. Her best shot at protecting herself was in full shift.

  She reached up, gripped Jonah’s shoulder, forgetting that moments ago she had considered him her enemy. Now he was the lesser evil.

  The lycan angled his head, assessing her over Jonah’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for either of you. You’re safe. Why don’t you come out here, sweetheart, so that I can better see you?”

  Jonah made a growl-like noise in the back of his throat. His arm shot out around her, stopping her, holding her in place behind him in case she decided to comply. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Ah, yours, is she?”

  “I�
�m not anyone’s!” she hissed. “Would you mind getting these guns off us?” A bullet might not kill her, but it was no less unpleasant. She’d already endured enough pain and wasted time regenerating.

  “You heard her,” Jonah commanded. He motioned to the mercenaries. “Find somewhere else to point those rifles before I unleash myself on your thugs here.”

  “Easy,” the lycan soothed in a voice that did nothing to put her at ease. He strolled a short path back and forth in front of them. “I’m not here for either one of you. As interested as I am in what the two of you are doing here, I’m more interested in where the witch is.”

  Sorcha’s fingers dug into Jonah. They were here for Tresa.

  The lycan glanced around, as if she was hiding behind a piece of furniture. He inhaled and, if possible, his eyes glowed brighter. “She was here. Where is she now?”

  “Gone,” Jonah bit out. “You missed her by a couple of days.”

  “Hmm.” The lycan approached, stopping beside the gunman nearest Jonah. “Now why would she have left? Anything to do with either one of you?”

  Jonah and Sorcha exchanged glances.

  The lycan continued, “Because that annoys me. Very much. I’ve invested a great deal of time and energy into tracking her down.”

  Sorcha nudged out from behind Jonah, tired of hanging back. She wasn’t about to start hiding behind someone now, after years of being on her own. “Yeah? You and me both.”

  “Sorcha.” Jonah’s voice rang heavily with warning.

  She spun to face him. “Don’t say my name like you know me or something. We’re nothing to each other.” Spinning back around, she glared at the lycan. “You want to know what happened to Tresa?” She jabbed a finger in Jonah’s direction. “Ask him. He’s the one who ran her off.”

  She stormed back into the bedroom, found a heavy coat in Tresa’s closet. Shrugging into it, she snatched up her gear. Sword in hand, she strode back into the living room. All guns swung back on her.

  “Take it easy, fellas.” She gave her sword a little shake in the air. “I’m not planning on using it on any of you. Just passing through on my way out.”