My Soul to Keep (10 page)

She shook her head, then stopped, wincing at the lancing pain the movement caused. She struggled up onto her elbows and glanced around the toasty-warm bedroom. Outside the wind howled.

He'd changed since she'd earlier seen him, had removed his outer gear and wore a long-sleeved gray thermal shirt and dark pants. He looked relaxed, refreshed. As if this were a winter retreat and not some reunion from hell.

She moistened her lips, determined to drop
the subject, to move on as if it were no big deal. “How long have I been out?”

He watched her with bright-eyed intensity, assessing. “About a day,” he answered.

“What?” Tresa would be long gone by now!

She jerked upright, gasping as air brushed her bare breasts. She made a mad grab for the comforter that had covered her. She glanced down, peeked beneath it to confirm that she was in fact naked. “Where are my clothes?” she hissed.

He shrugged. “There wasn't much left of them.”

She adjusted her arms around the comforter to better shield herself. Hard to look dignified wearing a comforter. “I suppose I should thank you for saving me … and bringing me back here.”

He smiled mockingly, his teeth a flash of white in his tan face. “That would be nice.”

“Thanks,” she snapped.

A smile twitched his lips. “That's a thank you?”

“Didn't you just hear me?”

“You might want to work on that.”

“If it wasn't for you, Tresa's head would be mine. Take what you can get.” She glanced around the bedroom again, spying the bathroom through an open door. She tossed her hair, grimacing at the grimy texture. She tested a tendril. It crunched between her fingers with dry blood.

He snorted, looking her over, arching
a dark eyebrow. “Really? You think so? If it wasn't for me,
your
head would have been hers.”

She stood, whipping the comforter around her. “I would have managed,” she blustered. “And now, thanks to you, she's long gone.”

“Good.” He crossed thick, muscled arms over his chest.

“No,” she choked out. “Not good. I'll have to start all over again trying to find her.”

“No. You won't.”

Deciding to just hurry up and be on her way, she opened Tresa's closet. A minimal amount of clothes hung there. Sorcha grabbed a heavy black sweater from a hanger. A built-in set of drawers stood at the back of the closet. She found undergarments and a pair of slacks within, all one size too small. Apparently women born two thousand years ago didn't possess much body fat. Still, the clothes would have to do.

Stepping from the closet, she faced Jonah with Tresa's garments tucked close to her chest, a sense of urgency humming through her. To pick up Tresa's trail. To get as far from Jonah as she could.

He'd moved. Stood closer. His breath a soft fan on her skin. Uncomfortably near. She resisted the urge to step back but held her ground.

They studied each other until the air grew charged, electric. She moistened her
lips. His gaze followed the movement of her tongue and the centers of his eyes grew brighter, glowed in a way they never had when looking at her before.

The sight disturbed her, made her feel raw and exposed, awakening all those feelings she'd thought buried. Entirely unacceptable considering they were on opposite sides.

Staring down at her with his unnervingly intense gaze, he murmured, “The bathroom might not be up to your usual standards.”

She almost laughed. Were they really discussing bathrooms when all manner of unspoken words flowed between them?

“I'll make do.”

Turning, she moved into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her with a sigh. She grimaced at the single copper tub. Okay, no running water. She ran a hand through her blood-sticky hair and glanced at the blurred glass of the mirror, grimacing again.

“I've heated water on the woodstove.”

She jumped at the low sound of his voice, close behind her. Turning, she gasped. He'd opened the door and come up right on her, as quick as a stalking cat. For a moment she'd forgotten just how fast he could move. How silently.

He was everywhere, it seemed, the pull between them inescapable.

“Can't you knock?” she rasped out, her fingers clutching the comforter until they ached, white-knuckled and bloodless.

He smiled then, the curve of his well-formed lips making her belly clench. That light at the centers of his eyes flickered with amusement and something else. Something dark and sensual that made her blood heat. “I remember a time when you would never close a door to me.”

“The years change things,” she replied in a strangled voice. “I was just a stupid kid.”

His gaze crawled over her face. Desire settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. “You were never stupid to me.”

“Yeah? Well, what's a kid know?”

“Sometimes everything.”

Having nothing to say to that, she stepped back from the magnetic heat of him, her jaw clenched tight with the strain of his nearness, a ghost from her past, alive and breathing and dredging up impossible feelings.

The corner of his smile twitched. “I'll fetch the water for you.”

Before she could tell him that she could get it herself, he was gone and soon back with two steaming buckets. Dumping them in the tub, he moved to the buckets of lukewarm water she had not noticed sitting along the wall. Had he
planned ahead for her? The thought made her uncomfortable. Made her remember the way they used to be, the way he'd always looked out for her.

“I can do that,” she offered.

He ignored her and dumped the remaining buckets, his biceps rippling against his shirt.

She looked away, releasing a small breath as he turned to leave, glad for a moment to herself.

With one hand on the doorknob, he paused. “Notice,” he said with a nod at the bathroom walls, “the lack of windows.”

She narrowed her gaze.

“When you get out, we'll eat. I imagine you're hungry.”

Famished. Evidently she hadn't eaten in days. “And after that, I'll be on my way.”

His lip curled. “I don't think so.”

Her fingers folded into fists at her sides.

“We've got a lot to talk about,” he continued. “You're not going anywhere until I'm convinced you won't take it into your head to hunt down another demon witch.”

“Just Tresa,” she spat out. “She's the only one who matters.”

“Whatever the case, we need to be straight on this point or …”

Or what?

What did he leave unsaid? That he would kill her? So much for playing hero and saving her.

A sick, wilting sensation flushed through her, dampening her misplaced ardor for him. She trembled with the horrible realization that someone she had admired so much before, respected for being different from her father—compassionate and decent,
better
—would now protect and shelter evil.

His eyes grew chilly, hard as marble as they looked down at her. “You're not leaving until we settle this—” He broke off without saying anything else, but the words were there, the threat hanging in the air. If she didn't relent and give up hunting Tresa, he would stop her … keep her prisoner—or worse. She clenched her jaw, ground her teeth together. He could try.

Pressing her lips together, she pressed a hand against his chest and pushed him from the bathroom, fighting to not appreciate the play of muscles beneath her palm. Without saying a word, she closed the door in his handsome face. Turning the lock, she sagged against the hard wood, the slight click making her feel strangely better. For now, it was the only barrier she had.

She took a long time before emerging. Jonah didn't know if it was to avoid him or if bathing in two feet of water presented a challenge. He paced, anxious to see her again, to piece together the enigma she had become … starting with why she was so determined to destroy Tresa.

When the door finally opened, he had to stop himself from crowding her, from demanding information, from learning all there was to learn about her. From breathing in her scent. He shook his head. He'd have all the time in the world to learn about this new Sorcha. She wasn't going anywhere.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

Nodding curtly, she wrapped a fist around her hair and tugged on it as if she were readying it for a ponytail, but then dropped the wet strands.

He watched her dark hair fall in a rhythmic sway past her shoulders. The black sweater she wore looked thick, plush. The loose collar was gathered around her neck, revealing an enticing
strip of creamy throat. All in all, she looked thoroughly touchable.

“Where's my gear?” she asked, her voice all business.

“I set it by the front door.”

She still thought she was leaving? A tight smile curled his lips. Shaking his head, he moved into the kitchen where a pot simmered on the woodstove. “Hungry?” he called out, forcing back a knowing smile when she followed, entering the kitchen, watching warily as he opened a glass cabinet door and removed two bowls.

He caught her uncertain expression as he dished up two bowls of soup. She sat down on a bench at one side of the kitchen table.

He sat across from her, studying her closely. “You need to eat if you want to regain all your strength.”

They ate in silence. He didn't mind it. He'd eaten a few times with Darby and her coven and their chatter gave him a headache. They were greedy for him, making certain he knew that slayers commonly married white witches. Covens encouraged it, seeing it as a way to strengthen a particular slayer's bonds to them.

He had no intention of marrying. Ever. And certainly not to some mortal white witch like Darby he would have to bury at the end of her life.
And how unpleasant would it be for her to age while he remained forever young? It might tempt her to accept the dark promise of a demon in order to gain immortality.

Sorcha's voice broke the silence as he was finishing the last of his soup. “So. You're dead set on keeping me here.”

He glanced at her swiftly. “Did you think I had a change of heart?”

She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, her voice mocking as she said, “But we've been playing so nicely together, Jonah.”

“Have we?” He cocked his head.

She shrugged one slight shoulder. “We aren't fighting.”

“Not at the moment, but if you insist on leaving, we're headed in that direction.”

She leaned across the table, her expression earnest and so beautiful he could only stare, marveling at what changes time had wrought in her. Both inside and out. She was hardly recognizable. “She's long gone by now. Why are you doing this?”

“It's what I do—” he started to say.

“Hold other dovenatus captive? Protect evil witches so that they can keep on killing and springing curses that fate millions to death?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “And aren't you even a little curious as to why? Because you're right. She's
all of that. So don't you want to know why I care to keep her alive?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, her brown eyes gazing at him coldly. “I know why. You're a bastard.”

“Come now.” He smiled without humor, her words angering him as they shouldn't—as he shouldn't
let
them. “You know there's a reason I'm here and that's not it. You know me. I wouldn't protect her unless I had reason to.”

With a snort, she propped her elbows on the table and stared at him intently, her expression tough and vulnerable at the same time. God, if the look didn't affect him … didn't send the beast prowling through him, searching for release. “You keep talking as though I should know you. It's been what? Over ten years? We don't know each other, Jonah. I'm not sure we ever did.”

“Then why are
you
here?” he asked abruptly. “Since you won't hear me out, why don't you explain what you're doing here.”

After a long moment, she confessed, in a near whisper, “She took someone from me … Tresa, her demon, whatever. I want them both gone.”

He cocked his head, reading the bleakness in her gaze. “Who? Who is this someone?”

She swallowed, the tendons of her neck working. Rising, she took her bowl to the sink, moving
away as if she couldn't stand his gaze, or the reminders his question provoked. “I won't talk about him,” she murmured. “Not with you.”

Him.
Her answer only inflamed him. As if Jonah weren't good enough to know about her special
him
. His hand rolled into a tight fist where it sat on the table. “Then is it my turn now?” he began. “Are you ready to let me explain my reasons?”

“Not really,” she replied casually. “There can be no justification for protecting the likes of Tresa.”

“You won't even listen? You're right. You have changed. The Sorcha I knew had more sense. She wasn't mule-headed or blind to the truth.”

“The Sorcha you knew was a fool!” Dishes clanked in the sink and she whirled around on him, her doe eyes bright. “She thought you were honorable! Worthy of respect and love.” Hot color stained her cheeks and she quickly bit her lip, looking away.

Ah.
So she wasn't as immune to him as she pretended to be. She remembered him as well as he remembered her, for all that she appeared unaffected by him.

Her gaze turned back to him, cool and distant as the stare of a stranger. “You're just the mercenary dog you always were.”

He inhaled sharply the sting of her words. The air smelled different, adrenaline-laced, and he knew she was braced for a fight again.

He swallowed a growl, not eager to knock heads with her once more. There were other things he would much rather do. Other ways he could distract her and make her forget her vengeance for a demon witch he could never let her kill.

His gaze roamed over her slowly, assessing, enjoying the way her too-tight slacks hugged her legs. “We don't have to fight at all, you know. We can be friends. Again.”