Lord of Rage. Jill Monroe
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toward him. Her eyes widened as he dipped his head.
He tasted the sweet tartness of the lemonade on her lips. But nothing in this world he’d ever sampled was as good as her. Osborn wound his fingers in the messy strands of her blond hair, drawing her still closer. Smashing the softness of her breasts against his chest.
His heartbeat pounded, and he took advantage of her unresisting lips and plunged his tongue in her mouth, savoring her, twining his tongue with hers. No, nothing he’d ever had tasted this good. Felt this good. Made him feel this good. Except …
Except one thing. The woman who invaded his dreams. Tormented his nights. Left him alone feeling tortured, battling a fierce wanting and hungry for more.
He pulled his mouth from hers. Thrust her away.
The sound of their harsh breathing filled the small bedroom. The woman blinked up at him, confusion pulling her brows together. A flush rose along the delicate chords of her neck and across her collarbone. She’d been as affected by that kiss as much as he had. Satisfaction curled in his gut.
She ran her fingers along her lower lip, and he longed to trace that path with his tongue. Suck those fingers into his mouth. All the torment and hunger and wanting torturing his body when he awoke from his dreams with her was magnified tenfold, a hundredfold, for having the real thing in his arms. This wasn’t a dream … was it?
“You’re real?” he asked, his voice raw and harsh.
Her nod was slow in coming.
Then he knew. The woman in front of him wasn’t some dream girl his imagination had conjured to taunt him in the night. The haze that seemed to surround her in his dreams was gone. She lay before him in sharp focus. Osborn remembered the utter helplessness he’d felt, raged against, when he tried to draw her back to him that last time. How he’d failed.
Somehow she’d put herself there. She was responsible for all the anguished desire he’d felt. All his want. Need. His yearning for something he could never have.
Thought he could never have.
His.
Yes, she was his.
His berserkergang was wrong to back down, assessing the woman in his bed posed no risk. Everything about her was a threat to him. And still the chill signaling the approach of his berserkergang did not hit him.
Something must have been in his eyes, or the set of his lips must have alerted some self-preservation instinct inside her. He reached for her again. And that’s when she screamed.
Chapter 3
Breena had never been so terrified in her life. She’s always thought that if she actually met up with her warrior in the flesh she’d be frightened … and she was right. The man who’d woken her up—his face tight with desire, outrage and stunned disbelief—was huge. Broad shouldered with the kind of muscular arms that easily proved he wielded a sword. Fearsome. A fighter.
Although he wasn’t fighting, whatever was inside him drove him right at her. He quickly approached her, leaning toward her with determination and intent burning in his eyes.
What he intended to do, she didn’t fully know, as her dreams never really went much further than the kissing, but whatever it was … it had to be dangerous.
There was a reason princesses were locked up in towers and hidden away in far-off places, guarded by magical creatures. It was to keep those princesses safe from the kind of danger this man radiated. Because despite her fright, some small part of her wanted to know what all that danger was about. She screamed louder.
His hand covered her mouth to stifle her.
That was the second time someone had muzzled her, and it would be the last. Maybe it was the food, or that she’d finally snatched a bit of rest or just plain fear, but Breena, princess of Elden, had had enough.
With every last bit of strength she possessed, she pushed at his shoulders, her scream changing to a grunt, then finally silent.
He didn’t budge, but his hand fell away. The sound of her labored breathing filled the tiny space of the bedroom. His dark eyes searched her face, lingered at her breasts and followed down her legs. Then his gaze slammed into hers and he reached for her again.
“That’s far enough,” she said, scrambling to the floor, putting the bed between their bodies.
He lifted a brow at the protection she’d chosen. A bed—not the safest of barriers.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” he told her, his voice gruff and rumbly.
Breena pursed her lips and nodded. The warrior did have a point, she had invaded his home.
“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said, angry wonder lacing his words.
She’d been expecting questions, demands; instead, his statement sealed the connections she had with this man. Her dream lover. Her warrior.
She wet her bottom lip with her tongue. “You’ve been in my dreams, too,” she admitted. Because I put you there. She’d just leave that little detail out of her explanations. Every instinct told her to be cautious, to not offer him too much information about herself.
“But there’s never been fear in your eyes.”
No, she could imagine what her gaze had conveyed in his dreams. A woman who wanted. Wanted him.
Faster than she thought such a large man could move, he was around the bed that separated them, and at her side. Crowding her. Breena took a step backward. And another. The wood-beamed wall of the cabin cut into her shoulder blades.
He’d backed her into the wall, and there was no escape.
“I’ve wondered a thousand times what your skin would feel like.” The back of his hand smoothed down her cheek. His nearness was devastating to her senses. The scent of him, like the woods and fresh air, made her long to breathe him in deep. Heat radiated from his body, chasing away the chill to her skin from wearing tattered clothing.
Blood pounded through her body, rushed in her ears. Her eyelids fluttered at the first touch of his skin against hers. She’d been so alone for the past few days, so afraid, and his touch made her feel safe for the first time.
He’d wondered what she’d feel like outside of a dream. “So have I,” she told him, and her fingers lifted to his face. Touched the line of his jaw.
His large hand captured her exploring fingers, drawing them to his lips. “Tell me your name.” It was a gentle command. “I’ve wondered.”
“Breena.”
“Beautiful name,” he said, his gaze lowering to her lips for a moment, then back to meet her eyes. “You look exactly as you appeared in my dreams.” He dropped her hand to pull a twig from her hair, rub away some of the dirt from her cheek. “Who’s done this to you?”
The caution she’d felt earlier returned. “The details are fuzzy.”
Okay, not truly a falsehood. The fine points of how she’d arrived in this strange kingdom, how long she’d wandered around in the wilderness or even eaten, were fuzzy. She tried to concentrate, to come up with some piece of information that would allay his curiosity … but the only picture she could conjure in her mind was the sinister, bony frame. The frightening creature with the eight legs that made a shudder slide down her back. The blood of her parents spilled on the floor of the great hall where they’d once danced and once ruled over a kingdom. That was clear.
She swallowed down a quiet sob, her body quaking, remembering her terror that night.
“In my dreams there was no fear in your eyes. Don’t be afraid of me.” He reached for her hand again, drew her fingertips to his mouth. The warmth of his tongue sparked a carnal response from deep