My Soul to Keep (15 page)

Sorcha's head snapped up at that question.

The moment Sorcha had first seen Darby she'd felt a hot flush of jealousy. Horrible considering she thought all feelings for Jonah dead. All softer feelings anyway. The soft, warm kind that led to emotions like jealousy.

“Brother?” Sorcha echoed, mulling over the word, letting it sit like bad food on her tongue, a foul bite she resisted swallowing. She'd never viewed him as a brother. Not even when she was
five. Especially not when her father reminded her every day that she and he were destined for each other in order to increase their race. “Not exactly. Is that what he said?”

“Something like that.”

She wouldn't characterize the things Jonah did to her in Alaska as brotherly.

Maybe that's why his eyes looked so coldly at her. Like frost over a darkened lake. Maybe he saw only the girl he'd turned away from all those years ago. A girl he never wanted in his bed then. Or now.

She slammed the lid of her suitcase shut. “We grew up together.”

“Huh,” Darby replied, looking at her speculatively. “I bet that was interesting. Jonah's kinda tight-lipped about his past.”

“I suppose,” she replied, feeling that familiar stab of jealousy. Clearly the witch was attracted to him. It was written all over her and in the drip of every word. Sorcha didn't miss the slight hitch in her breath or the skip in her pulse when she mentioned his name.

“I'd like to hear about that someday.”

Sorcha frowned. “What?”

“You and Jonah … as kids.”

She didn't bother explaining that Jonah's youth hadn't been hers. She doubted Jonah had ever really
been a kid. At least she hadn't known him when he was. “You'll have to ask him about that.”

“Yeah.” Darby snorted and lightly punched at the pillow balled up under her elbow. “Because Jonah's all about letting it hang out. He's a real open book.”

Sorcha pulled open the bathroom door, wondering why it bothered her so much that this female appeared to be half in love with Jonah. It wasn't as if Sorcha had any claim on him. It wasn't as if she wanted that. Those feelings had died long ago. She wouldn't travel that dark road again, fantasizing that one day the two of them would live out their own fairy tale. Fairy tales didn't exist. She wouldn't let herself believe in what wasn't real ever again.

W
HEN
S
ORCHA EMERGED FROM
the bathroom later, her only thought was of falling into bed and sleeping off the last several days.

Rubbing a towel against her wet head, she jumped at Jonah's deep voice rolling across the air. “What are you doing here, Sorcha?”

Clutching the towel close to her silk pajama top, she faced him with as much composure as she could manage.

“Where's Darby?” she asked, scanning the room for the redhead, suddenly eager for the sight of her.

“She went to sleep.” He sat on the bed, hands dangling off his knees as though he had been waiting for her for some time.

She wadded up the wet towel in front of herself. “Don't assume that because I'm staying in your home you can walk in on me whenever you choose. I realize this is your room, but I expect my privacy.”

He rose in one swift motion and approached her with the slow stealth of a jungle cat. “You're the one who barged in here uninvited. You're in no position to place requirements on me. You don't know what you're getting involved in here, Sorcha.”

“Should I be so scared, then?” She tried for an edge of mockery, but her voice gave out at the last minute and shook a little. He was just too damn close. So overwhelming. So big. So male. So …
everything.

“You should be,” he said in a voice like smoke.

She crossed her arms, hugging the damp towel to her body, letting it soak into her silk top.

He stared at her for a long moment, standing closer than she wanted him to. His eyes flickered, roved over her hurriedly. “What are you doing here?”

“I have to
do
something.”

“So it's let me train you or else … what?” His
eyes scoured her. “You still want to hunt down Tresa, don't you? That's what this is all about. Why should I train you to go after her?”

She shrugged. “
You
don't have to train me. I can go home with Darby. Learn from her … help her coven. You won't, after all.”

“Darby is none of your affair.”

Her throat tightened at what she imagined she heard in his voice. Possessiveness. “What? I think she's a nice girl. Why don't you marry her?” She spat the words out, surprised at how they stuck in her throat.

He scowled at her. “Funny. Darby and the others … the witches in her coven—” He stopped and dragged a hand through his hair, feathering the strands back from his forehead. “They're not my responsibility. I don't want anyone needing me.”

“Afraid you'll fail them?”

He inhaled sharply, and a grim look crossed his face. “They expect too much from me.”

“C'mon, Jonah.” She shook her head, her chest tight with envy for what he had. “Don't be a fool. At least you're needed, wanted. They know the real you and still want you. Do you know how lucky you are?” The only person who ever knew her, loved her and accepted her was dead.

“I like it alone. Like living alone.” He punctuated each word, his eyes distant.

“Well, I don't. So I want this. I'll take the life you don't want. A life with purpose.”

He studied her thoughtfully, angling his head, as if wondering whether to believe her. Moonlight slanted in through the window. Even in the dim light of the room, his hair gleamed a lustrous dark gold. “Is that what you've been looking for, Sorcha? What this whole Tresa thing has been about?”

“At least I'm living and not hiding.” She stared at him pointedly.

“I don't hide,” he replied quickly. “I'm simply a realist. I'm not human.”

“Darby and her coven need you.”

“And I've helped them. I simply prefer not to mingle with them as though I'm an average guy. I'm fine with hunting and slaying demons.” He laughed harshly. “What would you expect of me, Sorcha? A house in the burbs? A nine-to-five job? Minivan?”

“I don't expect anything of you.” She paused, bit her lip. “But what would be so wrong with any of that?” It sounded a bit like heaven to her. A slice of normal, forever unattainable for her. Something she'd had for a too brief flash of time with Gervaise. God, was she back to dreaming about fairy tales again?

“Is that what you've been doing? Trying for
normal?” At her silence, he pressed, his voice hard and intent, an unforgiving lash. “How does hunting down Tresa do that exactly?”

“I lived a normal life.” Her lips twisted, pain stabbing her heart. She glared at him, the emotion hot in her throat as she thought of her life with Gervaise. “As normal as I could get. I married. I lived the dream, had the great house, companionship, dinner parties …”

For a moment, something passed over Jonah's face. A flicker of emotion she could not identify.

“You married?” he asked, his eyes distant.

She paused. His voice sounded strange. Subdued. “I was.”

“You're divorced?”

She lowered her gaze and walked across the room to her luggage. “He died. Tresa took him from me. For that, I will end her life. And her demon's.”

He didn't acknowledge this. Instead, he asked, “He was human?”

She nodded, wondering at the tightness in her chest. It had been a long time since she'd wept over Gervaise. She wouldn't do it now, in front of him. She'd show no weakness.

He sighed heavily. “Sorcha. I'm sorry.”

“Yes, well, that's what humans do.” Finding her robe, she tugged it from her suitcase and yanked
it around her. Facing him again, she added, “They die.”

He nodded grimly, his mouth hard. “You loved him.”

“Very much.” For some reason, she resisted adding that she'd loved him like a father. Like the father she'd never had.

Jonah looked her up and down before glancing to her Louis Vuitton luggage. “It appears that he left you with a comfortable living.”

“Gervaise was a wealthy man. Quite a bit older. I doubt I could spend his money in several lifetimes.”

A muscle rippled in his jaw and he suddenly didn't look so sympathetic. “How fortunate for you.”

“It's given me freedom, true. Before I met him, I was barely surviving on the streets.”

He arched a dark gold eyebrow, his expression smug, as if he understood, knew why she had married Gervaise, which of course he didn't. He couldn't understand. Couldn't understand their relationship, the connection they shared. “I'm glad for you. Hope the price of marrying some old man made it all worthwhile.”

Anger rolled through her. “Gervaise taught me a great deal,” she defended hotly.

“I bet.”

Heat fired her cheeks. “About life, and the arts … how to dress and comport—”

“I get it. You were a rich man's toy—”

Her hand itched to slap his face. She curled her fingers inside her palm. “Get out.”

He shrugged. “I never thought you would give yourself so cheaply.”

She opened her mouth to deny the charge, to convince him, to explain. She stopped, shaking her head. He would believe whatever he wanted to. Let him.

“Why not?” She thrust out her chin. “I gave myself to you. Offered myself freely. Remember that, Jonah?” Even as she asked, she hated herself for mentioning it. Still, the dam had opened and she couldn't stop the flood of angry waters. “In exchange I received only heartache. Why not make sure the next time I put myself out there for a man, I get something out of it?”

His eyes glowed, pale light twisting at the centers. “What's happened to you?”

“Life.” Her lips curled. “I've grown up.”

“I liked you better before.”

She laughed hoarsely. “Yeah. Well, I couldn't tell. You certainly didn't show it. Not that I care what you think of me anymore.”

Then something came over her. A bold, brazen part of her she'd never thought to expose to him.
Tossing her towel to the floor, she untied the sash of her robe and shrugged it off her shoulders.

Cool air rushed over her. Her nipples pebbled against the damp silk of her top.

She approached him slowly, with measured steps and a seductive roll of her hips. “Really, Jonah? You don't like what I've become?” Looking down at him where he sat on the bed, she brought her hand between the vee of her breasts, brushed her fingers down her silk-covered belly. “Don't you want me? Men do.”

“And you love that.” His lip peeled back from his teeth in a snarl.

She stepped between his splayed thighs and dropped her voice. “C'mon, Jonah.” She stroked her hand back up her belly, slowly, palming her breast, gratified to feel her nipples crest against the silk. “You didn't expect me to stay fifteen forever, did you?”

His eyes grew brighter, more intense. “I thought you were dead. In my mind, you were always fifteen. I could never have imagined you like this.” His gaze deepened, clung to her, the bright flame writhing in his eyes.

Her fingers moved to one thin strap, sliding it down her shoulder so that her left breast lay exposed, peaked and wanting. He angled his head, studied her, stared hard, devouring.

“You liked me well enough in Alaska.”

“Yeah. Well, that was before you moved into my place and declared yourself a demon slayer in training.”

“Why should that matter?” she demanded, feeling an unreasonable flash of anger. Would he reject her again?

With determination burning inside her, she sucked a finger into her mouth, intent on proving him wrong. On breaking him, ruining him for any other.

Locking her gaze with his unflinching stare, she slipped her wet finger from between her lips and rolled it over her bared nipple.

“What are you doing?” he rasped, his voice quick.

Trying to show him she wasn't the inexperienced girl he had brushed aside before.

Trying to prove to him that he wanted her.
Her
—Sorcha.

Words weren't needed. Sucking her finger into her mouth again, she repeated the process, laving her nipple until it stood glistening wet and engorged.

Her breath fell faster, the sound ragged and wet. From his hard stare or his presence or the simple act of arousing herself, she couldn't know for sure.

He lifted his hand toward her. Not quickly but not slowly either. She held her breath, waiting for his touch.

His fingers grasped her bodice, clutching the flimsy neckline in his curling hand. In one move, he ripped the silk clean down the center.

Sorcha stood before him, naked from the waist up. She fought the urge to cover herself. She knew men liked her body. They'd told her before. Being a dovenatu gave her a certain advantage … provided her with the kind of body women visited gyms and plastic surgeons to achieve.

She was all lean lines and hollows with curves where they should be. High-tipped, swelling breasts and flaring hips that had eluded her at fifteen.

He looked her over slowly, leisurely.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked in a voice that sounded far more confident, far more seductive, than she felt.

His gaze snapped back to her face. “Who wouldn't? You're perfect.”

Men had said that to her before, too, but from his lips the words sounded different. Hoarsely deep, he sounded as though he meant it. As though he had never seen anything as lovely. She shivered.

Flattening her hands on his warm chest, she pushed him back on the bed. He dropped easily, willingly, watching her intently with his unblinking gaze.

She stared at him for a moment before turning toward the cracked bedroom door and closing it.