Rogue Soul (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 3)

by Hall, Linsey

  “What, you’ve got business down there?”

  “No, just thought you’d like to go out. Live a little.”

  Her head swung toward him and she took in his not-quite-casual stance. “Just for fun?”

  He nodded.

  Huh. He’d really been listening when she’d talked about her trips to earth and wanting to live as much as she could. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “They’ve got some local whiskeys I’ll bet you’ve never tried. But no getting drunk.” He smiled. “One glass only, so we stay alert.”

  It felt warm and fuzzy and strange to do something so normal with him. But maybe that was the point. They had no idea what was coming tomorrow. She knew what she hoped for. But there was no guarantee. One last night—the only night—when they wouldn’t think about what was coming.

  She smiled. “Yeah, all right.”

  They walked into the crowded pub in the basement of the hotel a few minutes later and managed to find a seat by the old wooden bar. The beauty of the hotel’s protection charm was that if someone sought out another with ill intent, he wouldn’t be able to find them. Not even if they were standing right in front of his face. The place was dark and low ceilinged, all wood and leather, dingy in the way of a beloved old pub that hadn’t needed to change to keep its clientele coming.

  Clientele which, she noted while looking around, were quite strange. Most were human-passing Mytheans, but more than a couple looked like creepy movie extras. But then, it was the only Mythean watering hole in town, so if they wanted a drink, this was it.

  When she finally turned back to the bar, Cam was holding out a heavy glass of golden liquid. One corner of his mouth was kicked up in a sexy grin. She swallowed hard and reminded herself that she had the control of a saint.

  Sure.

  “Thanks.” She raised her glass to his, caught his eyes and then her breath, and finally found the focus to take a sip. “It’s good.”

  He nodded, and they sat on the barstools with their backs to the bar so that they could people watch.

  “Not too different from your jungle bars, is it?” she asked.

  “Nah. Just needs a fight ring out back to be perfect. A few of these fellows could stand to work out some of their aggression.” He gestured to a group roaring over a football match on the telly.

  “Work out something else, more like,” Ana said as she caught sight of a couple groping each other in a darkened corner. A flash of jealous heat streaked through her. She glanced at Cam. Her state of mind was contagious, and the dark heat in his gaze made her turn away from him and sip her whiskey to get control of herself.

  But when had alcohol ever made one wiser or less prone to their baser instincts?

  A man stepped up next to her on the side away from Cam. He caught her eye and grinned. He was handsome, and nearly as big as Cam. But he left her cold.

  “Buy you a drink when that’s finished?” he asked.

  Cam made a low noise in his throat, but didn’t intervene. He didn’t treat her like property that the other man was encroaching upon, and she liked it a hell of a lot.

  “No, I’m good,” she said.

  “Come on. One drink won’t hurt.” He put his hand on her back, and her skin prickled uncomfortably. Didn’t this moron understand no? Or that she was with Cam?

  A low noise, like a growl, sounded from her side. It was Cam. She caught sight of his fists on the bar, the knuckles whitened.

  “Seriously, I’m not interested.” She scowled up at the man, who hovered too close.

  “Come on, bird.”

  That’s it. She set down her whiskey tumbler and shoved the man so hard that he flew across the room and slammed against the wall. She grinned darkly. Being a god might suck, but the strength was a real bonus.

  The man righted himself and surged toward her, his scowl-twisted face red as a sunset. “You bitch.”

  She stood, but before she could face him, Cam slipped around her side and collided with the man. He lifted him up by his shirt collar, and Ana caught sight of Cam’s face in a mirror on the wall. Pent-up aggression twisted his features. She hadn’t seen him in a fight ring in a while, but the fighter was still there.

  He shook the man, and Ana swore she heard teeth rattle.

  “You sure you don’t want to rethink your approach?” Cam growled.

  Ana moved to stand next to Cam, unsure of whether or not she wanted to kick her annoying suitor or save him from possible death. “I can handle my own fights!”

  Cam glanced down at her and growled, “No doubt. But I’d like to help.”

  Warmth spread within her. She liked to handle her own battles, but something about having Cam fight for her was undeniably appealing. She wanted him, more than she’d ever wanted anyone else. All it took was a glance from him, much less a fight on her behalf, to send her toward the deep end. Anything else—anybody else—was just fleeing from the very real thing that was developing between them.

  “I think we’re done with him,” Ana said, nodding at the man, who had gone limp in submission.

  Cam dropped him and turned to her. The man caught his balance and scrambled away.

  “I didn’t like seeing you with him,” he growled. Something like jealousy or desire glinted in his eyes. Maybe both.

  “Then with who?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Me.” Cam stepped forward until he’d caged her against the bar. He wanted to grab hold of her and never let her go. He’d tried to resist. He didn’t deserve her, but even that couldn’t stop him now. With every passing day, he was reminded of all the reasons he’d grown to care for her in the past. Seeing that bastard come at her with violence in his eyes had thrown his situation into sharp relief.

  He cared for her more than he cared for himself.

  “You?” Ana was breathing so quickly he could see the pulse flutter in her throat.

  “Yeah. What we have is better than anything you’ll find anywhere else.” He knew that for sure now. Knew that everything in their past hadn’t been a fluke.

  “Maybe that’s not what I’m looking for.” She didn’t sound like she believed her words.

  “You’re looking to run away, that’s what you’re looking for.” He pulled her toward him, his hands on her waist. “I remember what it was like when I first left Otherworld and came to earth. Getting close to anyone was strange as hell, even if I didn’t feel things quite as strongly as mortals.”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes wide.

  He leaned down to her ear. “Didn’t you say you wanted to live dangerously?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  His hand engulfed hers and he pulled her down a darkened hallway in the back of the pub to an alcove off the end. Probably once used for storage, it was now empty and dark.

  “What?” she gasped as he pressed her against the wall and cupped the back of her head.

  “You said you wanted excitement,” he said against her lips. And he didn’t know if he could wait to get back to the room.

  “I—” she panted. “I was joking.”

  He kissed her, reveling in her sweetness, and the high-pitched moan that escaped her mouth when he pushed up her shirt belied her words.

  “I don’t think so. I think you like this.” He cupped her small breast, circling his thumb around her nipple until she arched into his hand.

  She gripped his shoulders and he pressed himself hard against her, to keep her upright but also to feel the heat and softness of her belly pressed against his cock. He stifled a groan when she rubbed against him.

  The sound of revelers in the pub a mere ten yards away clashed with his harsh breathing and her low whimpers.

  He pressed his mouth to hers, parting her lips and tasting the bite of whiskey on her tongue. Desperate to feel more of her, he ran his hand down her stomach to her shorts. He unsnapped them and slid his hand inside, easing into her underwear until his fingers dipped into her heat.

  She made an animal nois
e in her throat, tore her mouth from his. “We could be caught.”

  Her breath was coming hard and fast, the lightest tinge of fear to it, but she arched into his touch. Her hands ran over the muscles of his chest and arms, squeezing and petting and making him feel like he could move mountains.

  “Maybe.” He parted her sex and pushed two fingers inside her, his cock twitching jealously as her muscles closed around him. He moved his thumb in small circles around her clitoris. Damn, she was soft.

  “I want you inside of me.” Need was thick in her voice, as was fear. But the edge of excitement to it had him fucking her more slowly with his fingers as he rubbed her clitoris.

  “Fuck, I want to kiss every inch of you. Taste you.” His voice was scratchy.

  “Cam, hurry.” Her hand ran down his abs to the fly of his jeans. But her fingers were uncoordinated, fumbling with the buttons.

  Footsteps and raised voices sounded from the entrance to the hallway. Someone was coming. Cam started to withdraw, but Ana stiffened, then moaned. Her pussy clenched on his fingers.

  “That gets you hot,” he said, and her whimper confirmed it. He thrust his fingers harder, making her moans come faster and closer together until her fingers failed on his jeans and her hands fluttered to her sides.

  The voices faded away as the revelers changed direction, but Ana was already close to the edge.

  “Come for me, Ana. Let me feel you.” He watched her head drop back against the wall as her hands gripped his shirt. Her lips had parted and her body was tensed for that final flight into oblivion.

  His cock twitched as he felt her inner muscles begin to clench around his fingers. So good.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle her moans and he caught sight of the scar striping down her wrist. He didn’t think, just grabbed her hand and raised her wrist to his mouth. He’d barely pressed his lips to the surface before she jerked her arm away.

  “No.” She tensed in his arms, the flutters of her impending orgasm fading away. Her eyes were intense on his, another type of desperation all together. “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

  Shit. He’d blown it with his careless kiss, a reminder of all that stood between them. But he wanted this. Wanted her. Too much to stop even when they should.

  “You’re on something?” he rasped against her lips. Disease couldn’t affect immortals, but pregnancy was another matter.

  She nodded frantically, reaching between them to free his cock. The feel of her hands on him made his knees weaken.

  Keep it together.

  They were still in a pub, he reminded himself. He struggled to keep an ear out for anyone approaching while she stroked him. Roughly, like the situation called for and how he liked.

  He pushed her shorts to her ankles. They slipped off easily when he yanked her into his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he inhaled deeply of her arousal.

  “Fuck, you smell good.”

  “Hurry, Cam.” She rubbed against him.

  He squeezed his arm between her and the bite of the stone wall, then slipped his other hand between them, yanking aside her underwear and inhaling deeply of her scent.

  “Fuck, you’re wet,” he growled.

  “Now, Cam.”

  He wanted to look at her, to make this last and make it important. But he couldn’t. Not with Otherworld standing between them. He’d chosen the dark hallway for this because he thought she’d like it, and because it wouldn’t allow the intimacy that would suck him under and make this all harder when it was over.

  “Please, Cam.”

  He obeyed, sliding into her. She was tight and hot and wet and so good that his mind blanked out from the pleasure. She buried her face against his neck and keened long and low against him as he fitted himself inside her. He didn’t move, not yet, taking a too-brief moment to revel in the feel of her before his body took over.

  “I need you,” he muttered. He thrust, slow and deep, savoring the feel of her, the sound of her, the smell of her.

  He slipped a hand between them to find her clitoris, an awkward maneuver that was made worth it when she stiffened in his arms. The crook of his neck stung where her teeth bit into him to stifle her cries, though he couldn’t have given less of a fuck if she screamed the house down and brought the Pope in.

  A low growl, animalistic in its intensity, was dragged from his throat when she spasmed around him, squeezing his cock as he thrust into her. He tried not to focus on how good it felt to have her shivering in his arms, or his desire to see her face, and finally withdrew his hand when the spasms faded.

  He gripped her hips and thrust hard enough that he forced a noise from her throat each time he seated himself so deeply within her. Yes. More.

  It must have driven her up again, because she whimpered, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” against his neck, a desperate mantra that broke the last threads of his control.

  His hands bit into her hips as his thrusts lost coordination. Roaring need made him heave over her, lost in the feel of her pussy squeezing him. Hard and fast and frantic, he went over the edge with her in an orgasm that reached within him and twisted with outrageous pleasure.

  Later that night, Ana lay in the small bed next to Cam. They didn’t cuddle or kiss, which was good, because she didn’t think she could handle it. After stumbling up from the pub, they’d both fallen into bed exhausted. Physically, and for her, emotionally as well. Tomorrow he would have his charm. And he’d go on his way.

  She glanced at Cam to see him asleep on his back, his brow drawn as if he were having a vaguely miserable nightmare. The yellow glow of the streetlights gleamed in his hair and highlighted the harsh planes and angles of his face. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but drew her hand back. Damn.

  That hadn’t been nothing. Just scratching an itch? Yeah right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Highlands of Celtic Scotland, 634 BC

  Long before Andrasta met Camulos

  Druantia stood on the hill, the howling wind whipping her hair and cloak behind her, and surveyed the bloody chaos in the valley below, where two Celtic kingdoms collided. Blood spilled into the grass, the screams of men and horses drowned out the clash of iron, and the dead lay scattered. But her side would prevail. She’d made sure.

  “High Priestess, the king has sent a message from the front.” The voice of Alban, one of the lesser Druids, broke through her concentration.

  “What?” She glared at him. She’d worked long and hard for this moment, rising from the lowliest ranks to High Priestess of her people.

  “He wants to cease fighting. They are outmanned.” Alban cowered at her feet and she barely resisted kicking him.

  “Do not cease.” Her voice, low and hard, carried on the wind. “I have ensured our success with Camulos, god of war.” For she was gutuatri, one who spoke to the gods.

  “Yes, mistress.” Alban bowed his head, once, twice, then spun away to run down the hill and into the fray. King Suibhne would heed her, for while he was king, she ensured his victory in all respects. Were she ever to feel the need, she would replace him. But in good time.

  She stood on the hill, impervious to the cold and the wind, and watched as the battle turned in favor of her people. Soon, the last of the enemy fled over the horizon. Rough cheers rang up from the battlefield, male and female warriors alike surging to take the heads from the bodies of their bravest foes. An honor, for her people believed that the soul resided in the head.

  She swept down from the hill, heedless of the blood and mud that stuck to her shoes as she strode through the chaos. The women who had not fought ran from their vantage points on a nearby hill, bringing torches to light the now-darkening sky.

  A cheer rose up from the warriors as she neared the center of the grisly scene. Men and women, covered in their blood and the blood of others, waved their swords in victory and cheered her name. Power and pleasure surged through her. Some of her disciples said that her power went to her head.

  T
hey were wrong. She, Druantia, caused victories such as this. Druids all over their great isle were revered for their power and wisdom. But she—she was their leader.

  She stopped in front of King Suibhne, her gaze flashing over the victorious scene. He bowed to her, his eyes cast down, and a smile curved over her face. His second-in-command brought her the head of their bravest foe, slain not an hour past.

  She nodded. “Take it to the altar.” It would sit there, to honor the warrior’s bravery and skill. For one day his people would be hers as well.

  A woman handed her a torch and Druantia grasped it, thrusting it into the sky. She yelled, “It is I, Druantia, who have brought you this victory.”

  They cheered, their cries filling her body with everything she craved. “Gather the heads of the greatest fallen. They will line the walls of my temple! We will take their strength into us.”

  The crowd—warriors, their families, children—all had come to praise her for their victory. As they should. Their cheers rose on the air, first wordless, then coalescing to form her name. She raised the torch higher, pleasure surging through her at their adulation.

  A crack of thunder broke through the night, so strong that it shook the ground beneath her feet. Before it had faded, a man appeared.

  No, a god. Camulos stood before her, god of war, and rage lined his face. She stepped back instinctively, then caught herself, horrified by her weakness.

  She was Druantia, High Priestess of the Druids. She didn’t cower from anyone. Not even a god.

  “Cease,” Camulos roared, his gaze cutting across the people.

  Their cries died as they caught sight of him, larger and more powerful than any mortal and with a gods’ rage all but vibrating from him. Whispers passed through the crowd that a god was among them. A rare occurrence, but not unheard of.

  “I am Camulos, god of war! Your success on this battlefield was granted at my will. You fought fellow Celts. Yet I alone decreed that your kingdom should be victorious over theirs.” He swung his arm out, pointing at her. “Not this woman.”

  She fell to her knees, propelled by his power until the wet ground soaked through her dress and the rocks bit into her flesh.