Dark Predator

1

Smoke burned his lungs. It rose around him in bellowing waves, fed by the numerous fires in the surrounding rain forest. It had been a long, hard-fought battle, but it was over, and he was done. Most of the main house was gone, but they’d managed to save the homes of the people who served them. Few lives were lost, but each one was mourned—but not by him. He stared at the flames with hollow eyes. He felt nothing. He looked on the faces of the dead, honorable men who had served his family well, saw their weeping widows and their crying children and he felt—nothing.

Zacarias De La Cruz paused for just a moment surveying the battlefield. Where before the rain forest had been lush, trees rising to the clouds, home to wildlife, there were now flames reaching to the heavens and black smoke staining the sky. The scent of blood was overwhelming; the dead, mangled bodies staring with sightless eyes at the dark sky. The vision didn’t move him. He surveyed it all—as if from a distance—with a pitiless gaze.

It didn’t matter where, or which century, the scene was always the same, and over the long, dark years, he’d seen so many battlefields he’d lost count. So much death. So much brutality. So much killing. So much destruction. And he was always right in the midst of it, a whirling, dark predator, merciless, ruthless and implacable.

Blood and death were stamped into his very bones. He’d executed so many enemies of his people over hundreds of centuries, he didn’t know how to exist without the hunt—or the kill. There was no other way of life for him. He was pure predator and he’d recognized that fact a long time ago—as did anyone who dared to come close to him.

He was a legendary Carpathian hunter, from a species of people nearly extinct, living in a modern world, holding to the old ways of honor and duty. His kind ruled the night, slept during the day and needed blood to survive. Nearly immortal, they lived long, lonely existences, color and emotion fading until only honor held them to their chosen path of looking for the one woman who could complete them and restore both color and emotion. Many gave up, killed while feeding to feel the rush—just to feel something—becoming the vilest, most dangerous creature known—the vampire. Every bit as brutal and violent as the undead, Zacarias De La Cruz was a master at hunting them.

Blood ran steadily from numerous wounds, and its poisonous acid burned all the way to his bones, but he felt calm steal into him as he turned and walked quietly away. Fires raged, but his brothers could put them out. The acid blood from the vampire attack soaked into the groaning, protesting earth, but again, his brothers would seek that vile poison out and eradicate it.

His stark, brutal journey was over. Finally. Well over a thousand years of living in an empty, gray world, he had accomplished everything he had set out to do. His brothers were safeguarded. They each had a woman who completed them. They were happy and healthy, and he had eliminated the worst threat to them. By the time their enemies grew in numbers again, his brothers would be even stronger. They no longer needed his direction or protection. He was free.

“Zacarias! You’re in need of healing. Of blood.”

It was a feminine voice. Solange, lifemate to Dominic, his oldest friend, with her pure royal blood, she would change their lives for all time. He was too damned old, too set in his ways and oh, so tired, to ever make the kind of changes to continue living in this century. He had become as obsolete as the medieval warriors of long ago. The taste of freedom was metallic, coppery, his blood flowing, the very essence of life.

“Zacarias, please.” There was a catch in her voice that should have affected him—but it didn’t. He didn’t feel as the others could. There was no swaying him with pity or love or gentleness. He had no kinder, gentler side. He was a killer. And his time was over.

Solange’s blood was an incredible gift to their people; he recognized that even as he rejected it. Drinking it gave Carpathians the ability to walk in the sun. Carpathians were vulnerable during the hours of daylight—especially him. The more the predator, the more the killer, the more the sunlight was an enemy. He was considered by most of his people to be the Carpathian warrior who walked the edge of darkness, and he knew it was true. Solange’s blood had given him that last and final reason to free him from his dark existence.

Zacarias drew in another lungful of smoky air and continued walking away from them all without looking back or acknowledging Solange’s offer. He heard his brothers calling to him in alarm, but he kept walking, picking up his pace. Freedom was far away and he had to get there. He had known, as he’d ripped out the heart of the last of the attacking vampires trying to destroy his family, that there was only one place he wanted to go. It made no sense, but that didn’t matter. He was going.

“Zacarias, stop.”

He looked up as his brothers dropped from the sky, forming a solid wall in front of him. All four of them. Riordan, the youngest. Manolito, Nicolas and Rafael. They were good men and he could almost feel his love for them—so elusive—just out of reach. They blocked his way, stopping him from his goal, and no one, nothing—ever—was allowed to get between him and what he wanted. A snarl rumbled in his chest. The ground shook beneath their feet. They exchanged an uneasy glance, fear shimmering in their eyes.

That look of such intense fear of their own brother should have given him pause, but he felt—nothing. He had taught these four men their fighting skills, survival skills. He had fought beside them for centuries. Looked after them. Led them. Once even had memories of love for them. Now that he had shrugged off the mantle of responsibility—there was nothing. Not even those faint memories to sustain him. He couldn’t remember love or laughter. Only death and killing.

“Move.” One word. An order. He expected them to obey as everyone obeyed him. He had acquired wealth beyond imagining in his long years of living and in the last few centuries he had not once had to buy his way into or out of something. One word from him was all it took and the world trembled and stepped aside for his wishes.

Reluctantly, far too slow for his liking, they parted to allow him to stride through.

“Do not do this, Zacarias,” Nicolas said. “Don’t go.”

“At least heal your wounds,” Rafael added.

“And feed,” Manolito pressured. “You need to feed.”

He whirled around and they fell back, fear sliding to terror in their eyes—and he knew they had reason to be afraid. The centuries had shaped him—honed him into a violent, brutal predator—a killing machine. There were few to equal him in the world. And he walked the edge of madness. His brothers were great hunters, but killing him would require their considerable skills and no hesitation. They all had lifemates. They all had emotions. They all loved him. He felt nothing and he had the advantage.

He had already dismissed them, left their world, the moment he’d turned his back and allowed himself the freedom to let go of his responsibilities. Yet their faces, carved with deep lines of sorrow stayed him for a moment.

What would it be like to feel sorrow so deeply? To feel love? To feel. In the old days, he would have touched their minds and shared with them, but since they had lifemates, he didn’t dare take the chance of tainting one of them with the darkness in him. His soul was not just in pieces. He had killed too often, distanced himself from all he had held dear in order to better protect those he had loved. When had he reached the point that he could no longer safely touch their minds and share their memories? It had been so long ago he could no longer remember.

“Zacarias, do not do this,” Riordan pleaded, his face twisted with that same deep sorrow that was on each of his brothers’ faces.

They had been his responsibility for far too long, and he couldn’t just walk away without giving them something. He stood there a moment, utterly alone, his head up, eyes blazing, long hair flowing around him while blood dripped steadily down his chest and thighs. “I give you my word that you will not have to hunt me.”

It was all he had for them. His word that he would not turn vampire. He could rest and he was seeking that final rest in his own way. He turned away from them—from the comprehension and relief on their faces—and once again started his journey. He had far to go if he was to get to his destination before dawn.

“Zacarias,” Nicolas called. “Where do you go?”

The question gave him pause. Where was he going? The compulsion was strong—one impossible to ignore. He actually slowed his pace. Where did he go? Why was the need so strong in him, when he felt nothing? But there was something, a dark force driving him.

“Susu—home.” He whispered the word. His voice carried on the wind, that low tone resonating in the very earth beneath his feet. “I am going home.”

“This is your home,” Nicolas stated firmly. “If you seek rest, we will respect your decision, but stay here with us. With your family. This is your home,” he reiterated.

Zacarias shook his head. He was driven to leave Brazil. He needed to be somewhere else and he had to go now, while there was still time. Eyes as red as the flames, soul as black as the smoke, he shifted, reaching for the form of the great harpy eagle.

Are you going to the Carpathian Mountains? Nicolas demanded through their telepathic link. I will travel with you.

No. I go home where I belong—alone. I must do this thing alone.

Nicolas sent him warmth, wrapped him up in it. Kolasz arwa-arvoval—may you die with honor. There was sorrow in his voice, in his heart, but Zacarias, while he recognized it, couldn’t echo the feeling, not even a small tinge.

Rafael spoke softly in his mind. Arwa-arvo olen isäntä, ekäm—honor keep you, my brother.

Kulkesz arwa-arvoval, ekäm—walk with honor, my brother, Manolito added.

Arwa-arvo olen gæidnod susu, ekäm—honor guide you home, my brother, Riordan said.

It had been a long time since he’d heard the native tongue of his people. They spoke the languages and dialects of wherever they were. They’d taken names as they’d moved from country to country, even a surname, when Carpathians never had such names. His world had altered so much over time. Centuries of transformation, always adapting to fit in, and yet never really changing when his world was all about death. At long last he was going home.

That simple statement meant nothing—and everything. He hadn’t had a home in well over a thousand years. He was one of the oldest, certainly one of the deadliest. Men like him had no home. Few welcomed him to their fire, let alone their hearth. So what was home? Why had he used that word?

His family had established ranches in the countries they patrolled throughout the Amazon and the other rivers that fed it. Their range was spread out and covered thousands of miles, making it difficult to patrol, but having established a relationship with several human families, the various homes were always prepared for their coming. He was going to one such home and he had to cover the long miles before dawn.

Their Peruvian ranch was situated on the edge of the rain forest, a few miles away from where the rivers formed a Y and dumped into the Amazon. Even that area was slowly changing over the years. His family had appeared to come into the area with the Spaniards, made up names, uncaring how they sounded as it mattered little to Carpathians what they were called by others, not knowing they would spend centuries in the area—that it would become more familiar to them than their homeland.

Zacarias looked down at the canopy of the rain forest as he flew. It, too, was disappearing, a slow, steady encroachment he didn’t understand. There were so many things about modern times he didn’t understand—and really—what did it matter? It was no longer his world or his problem. The compulsion driving him puzzled him more than the answers for the vanishing environments. Little aroused his curiosity, yet this overwhelming drive to return to a place he’d been a few times was disturbing on some level. Because the drive was a need and he didn’t have needs. It was overwhelming and nothing overwhelmed him.

Small droplets of blood fell into the misty clouds surrounding the emergents, the scattered trees rising above the canopy itself. Beneath him, he could feel the fear of the animals as he passed. Below him a band of Douroucoulis, very small night monkeys, leaped and performed amazing acrobatics in the middle layers of branches as he passed overhead. Some fed on fruit and insects while others watched for predators. Normally they would screech an alarm as soon as the harpy eagle was spotted, yet as he passed over the family of monkeys they went completely and eerily silent.

He knew it wasn’t the threat of the large bird flying overhead that caused the forest to go so still. The harpy eagle sat still in the branches, often for long hours at a time and waited for the right meal. He would rocket down with shocking speed and snatch a sloth or monkey right off the trees, but he didn’t, as a rule, hunt in flight. The mammals hid, but snakes lifted their heads at his passing. Hundreds of dinner-plate-sized spiders crawled along branches, migrating in the direction he flew. Insects rose by the thousands at his passing.

Zacarias was used to the signs marking the darkness in him. Even as a young Carpathian, he had been different. His fighting ability was natural, bred into him, almost imprinted before birth, his reflexes fast, his brain working quickly. He had the ability to assess a situation with lightning speed and come up with a battle plan instantly. He killed without hesitation, even in his early days, and his illusions were nearly impossible to detect.

Darkness went deep, a shadow on his soul long before he’d lost his emotions and color—and he’d lost both far earlier than others his age. He questioned everything. Everyone. But his loyalty to his prince and his people was unswerving and that had earned him the undying hatred of his best friend.

He flew with strong wings, fast through the night, ignoring the wounds and his need of blood. As he crossed the border and dropped lower into the canopy, he felt the pull of the compulsion grow. He needed to be on his Peruvian ranch. He simply—needed. The forest stretched out under him, a dark tangle of trees and flowers, the air heavy with moisture. Mosses and vines hung like long, flowing beards, reaching nearly to the watery pools, streams and creeks. Tangled ferns vied for space, creeping over long exposed roots on the dark floor beneath him.

The harpy eagle dropped through branches covered with flowers, liana and all kinds of insects hidden in the jumble of greenery. Far below him he heard the soft call of a tree frog calling a mate and then a coarser, much more grating sound adding to the chorus. An almost electronic trilling joined the symphony as thousands of different voices rose to a crescendo abruptly going silent in unnatural, spine-chilling alarm as the predator approached, then passed overhead.

The dark night sky turned to a soft dove gray as dawn crept in, stealing away the night’s powerful reign. The harpy eagle dropped from the canopy spiraling down into the clearing where the ranch house was situated. With his sharp vision he could see the river running like a thick ribbon dividing the land. Gentle slopes gave way to steep ridges, deep ravines cutting through the forest. Trees and vegetation snaked across the rocky ground, a dark tangle of growth determined to reclaim what had been taken.

Neat fences bisected the slopes and as the bird flew over the ravines and valley, hundreds of cattle dotted the grasslands. As the shadow of the bird passed over them, they lifted their heads in agitation, trembling, knocking into one another as they turned back and forth trying to find the danger they scented.

The eagle flew over several fields and at least an acre of gardens, all tended well as Zacarias had come to expect from the extended family who served him. Everything was neat, kept in meticulous repair, every chore done to their best ability. Pastures and fields gave way to the large corrals where the horses whirled and tossed their heads uneasily as he flew over them. Below him, the ranch was laid out before him like a perfect picture he could not appreciate.

As he approached the stable, a rush of heat slid through his veins. Deep inside the body of the bird, where he should have felt nothing at all, his heart gave an unfamiliar stutter. The strange fluttering nearly knocked him from the sky. Naturally wary, Zacarias didn’t trust what he didn’t understand. What could possibly send heat rushing through his very veins? He was exhausted from the long battle, the long flight, and the loss of blood. Hunger throbbed with each beat of his heart, clawing and raking for supremacy. Pain from the wounds he hadn’t bothered to heal ripped through him like an ever present jackhammer, drilling through his very bones.

Weeks earlier, he had been so close to turning vampire, the desire for relief from emptiness so strong in him, the blackness of his soul without the least relief, that his reaction now made no sense. He was in worse shape. Starving for blood. More kills staining his soul. Yet there was that strange reaction in the vicinity of his heart, that heat pulsing through his veins in anticipation. A trick then? A lure set by a vampire? What was he missing?

The harpy eagle slowly folded his seven-foot wingspan, talons as large as grizzly bear’s claws digging deep into the roof of the stable while the feathers at the top of his head formed a large crest. The great predator went completely still, sharp eyes moving over the terrain below. He had amazing vision within the harpy’s body and his hearing was aided even further by the focusing of sound waves by the smaller feathers forming his facial disk.

The horses in the corral a short distance away reacted to his presence, tossing heads, moving restlessly and bunching together tightly. Several whinnied in distress. A woman emerged from the stable beneath him, a large horse following her. Immediately his gaze fixated on her. Her hair was long, to her waist, pulled back in a braid that was as thick as his wrist. The long rope of hair attracted his gaze. When she moved, the woven strands gleamed like spun silk.

Zacarias saw in the shadowy colors of gray and dull white for centuries. Her braid was fascinating because it was a true black. He was nearly mesmerized by the long, dark hair, the strands shimmering even without the sun. Somewhere in the vicinity of what would have been his belly, his stomach gave a slow somersaulting roll. In a world where everything was the same and nothing moved him, that small sensation amounted to a bomb going off. For a moment he lost his breath, shaken by the strange phenomenon.

The horse following the woman wore no saddle or bridle and once he emerged from the building, he began to dance with restless unease, head tossing, eyes rolling as he circled the woman. The horses were purebred Peruvian Paso, a breed renowned not only for their natural gaits, but for temperament as well. The woman glanced toward the horses running in circles in the corral—it was unusual for them to be nervous—and then lifted a calming hand to the horse half rearing so close to her. She laid her hand on his neck and looked up at harpy eagle sitting so still on the roof.

Those dark chocolate eyes penetrated right through the feathers and bones of the eagle, straight to Zacarias. He felt the impact like an arrow through his heart. Marguarita. Even from the distance he could see the scars at her throat where the vampire had torn out her vocal cords because she refused to give up Zacarias’s resting place to the undead. She’d once been a carefree young woman, or he’d imagined her to be, but now, someone was using her to trap him.

It all made sense now. The compulsion to come to this place, to think of it as home. Was she possessed by a vampire? Only a master could weave and hold such a spell together—only a master like his old enemies, the Malinov brothers. The five brothers had grown up with him. They’d fought alongside one another for nearly five hundred years. His friends had chosen to be vampire, to give up their souls in their thirst for power. They had chosen to bring together the undead in a conspiracy against the prince and the Carpathian people.

Dominic had uncovered the latest plot and stayed to help defend the De La Cruz properties in Brazil. Knowing that the vampires would test their plan of attack on the ranch before striking at the prince, Zacarias had been waiting for them. No vampire had escaped alive. There were none to return to tell the Malinovs their plan had failed.

Zacarias knew the Malinovs’ rage and their bitter, unrelenting hatred of him and his brothers. Yes, this very well could be the payback for the defeat of the Malinov army, but how would they have gotten here ahead of him? That didn’t make sense, either.

The harpy eagle shook his head as if ridding himself of unsettling thoughts. No, it was impossible for them to get together another attack this soon. In any case, horses barely tolerated his presence, they would never allow evil to touch them and Marguarita was stroking the powerful neck. There was no possession.

Zacarias wondered at the strange sensation in his chest. Almost relief. He didn’t want to have to kill her, not when she’d nearly sacrificed her life for him once. Yet he was incapable of feeling, of any emotion whatsoever. Why did he have these extraordinary stirrings in his body and mind since returning to this place? None of it made sense. He doubled his vigilance, not trusting the unfamiliar.

Warmth seeped into the bird’s brain, a soothing impression of a friendly greeting. The harpy eagle reacted, his head cocking to one side, his eyes locked with the woman’s. Zacarias felt the bird reaching for her. She was subtle in her touch, so light it was barely there, but she wielded a powerful gift. Even the great predator of the rain forest slipped under her spell. He felt his own mind and body reacting, relaxing, tension slipping away. She had reached past the bird and found his most animalistic, wild nature.

Startled, he pulled back, withdrawing deeper into the body of the eagle, all the while watching her closely as she turned her attention on calming the horses. It didn’t take her long to soothe them to the point that they stood quietly, but they didn’t stop watching the eagle, aware there was a worse predator buried deep inside the bird.

Marguarita circled the horse’s neck and leaped. It was an easy, practiced motion, she seemed to flow through the air, all grace as she slipped onto the animal’s back. Immediately the horse reared, more, he was certain, due to his presence than because the girl had gone astride him. Zacarias’s breath caught in his throat. His heart accelerated into a thunderous drum—another peculiar phenomenon. The great eagle spread his wings almost before Zacarias gave the order. The movement was more instinctive than thought out, an immediate need to wrench the woman to safety. Marguarita leaned over the horse’s neck in a silent command and horse and rider flowed over the ground in perfect unison.

Once satisfied that she was not in danger, Zacarias folded his wings and watched, his talons digging deeper into the roof as the horse sailed over a fence and lengthened his stride. She sat up straight, the elegant gait of the animal a harmonic and rhythmic tapping, so gentle that his center of gravity, where Marguarita sat, was almost stationary.

Intrigued, Zacarias touched the horse’s mind. She controlled the animal—yet she didn’t. The horse accepted her, wanted to please her—enjoyed the melding of their two spirits. Marguarita wove her spell over the animal effortlessly, holding him to her through her gift—a deep connection with creatures. She didn’t appear to realize she did anything special; she simply was enjoying the early-dawn ride—just as the horse was.

This, then, was the reason for the strange stirrings in his mind and body. Her gift. She touched all things wild, and he was as untamed as it got. There was no threat of the undead, only this young woman with her innocence and light. She must have sent the Paso another command, because the animal switched gaits to a graceful, flowing movement, rolling his forelegs from the shoulder toward the outside as he strode forward. The horse’s head was up proudly, his mane flying, his eyes bright and exuberance in his every move.

It was a perfect moment—the perfect moment to end his life. She was—beautiful. Free. Flowing over the ground like cool water. Everything that he’d fought for—everything he’d never been. The harpy eagle spread his wings and spiraled overhead, watching horse and rider as they covered ground fast yet unbelievably smooth.

All his life, even when soldiers fought on horseback, even in his youth, there had been far too much predator in him to allow a horse to carry him on his back. In those days he’d tried everything—excluding mind control—to enable him to ride, but no horse could take it. They shuddered and trembled beneath him, even when he sought to calm them.

Marguarita sailed effortlessly over fences, with no bridle or saddle, horse and rider exuding joy. He followed them as the pair rushed over the uneven ground, the horse’s smooth gait making it look as if they were floating. Marguarita threw both hands into the air as they cleared a fence, holding on to the horse with her knees and guiding it with her mind.

The Paso switched his gait smoothly as they raced across the field and he turned in a wide circle again. Marguarita gave the eagle a friendly wave and once again, warmth and joy washed over and through Zacarias. He’d given her his blood—but he’d never taken hers. His mouth watered. His teeth filled his mouth and hunger burst through him, radiating need through every cell. He banked the bird abruptly and headed back for the stable. He refused to take any chances with his self-control.

Once before he’d been far too close to giving up what little remained of his soul. He would honor his word to his brothers. No Carpathian would ever have to risk his life to hunt down Zacarias De La Cruz. He chose his fate, and he chose to save his honor. He would go to the dawn, head unbent, welcoming his death. His last vision would be of the returning woman—of young Marguarita with light spilling from inside of her as she flowed across the ground on the back of a beautiful horse. He would take the sight of her doing the very thing of his boyhood dreams—riding as one with the animal—with him to his death.

The harpy eagle landed gracefully on the ground beside the stable. Ignoring the terrified horses in the corral attached to the structure, he shifted back to his human form. He was a big man, all muscle, with long flowing hair. Deep lines carved his face. Some called him brutishly handsome. Some said his mouth was both sensual and cruel. Most said he was terrifying. Right at that moment, he felt utterly tired—so weary he could barely manage to look around for a place to sit. He wanted to drop right there in the cool grass.

He forced his body to move as he looked for a convenient place to sit and watch the sun come up over the forest. Very slowly he sank down into the soft soil, uncaring that water seeped into his clothes from the morning dew. He didn’t bother to regulate his temperature any more than he had healed his wounds. There was contentment in making his decision. For the first time in his existence he was without the weight of responsibility. He drew up his knees, folded his hands and rested his chin on the small platform he’d made so he could see horse and rider as the Paso went smoothly through the natural gaits that made him so famous.

He felt the sun prickling his skin, but it wasn’t the terrible sensation he’d felt his entire life. Solange had given him her blood on two occasions to save him from turning vampire. He had taken great care to avoid her blood once he realized he could spend the dawn hours out in the open without repercussions. Others of his kind could see the dawn and there were some who could actually walk on the morning streets without aid from Solange, but with his soul so dark, he had long ago joined the vampires in their need to hide from even early morning sunlight.

He drank in the sight of Marguarita, as close to happy as a man without emotions might get. She’d traded her voice for his life. He had rewarded her loyalty by saving her life and giving instructions that she be given everything she wanted on the ranch. There were no jewels bedecking her fingers or throat. She wore simple clothes. But she lived for the horses, even he could see that. He’d given her—life. And in some strange way, she’d given him—freedom.

He was unaware of the passing of time. Insects remained silent. The horses stopped circling and crowded as far from him as possible, in a corner of the corral, bunched tightly together, shifting and stamping restlessly, barely able to tolerate his presence. Slowly his body reacted to the rising sun with the strange leaden affliction of his species.

Zacarias stretched out on the ground, face up, head turned toward the sight of Marguarita as she came toward him. Now the sunlight penetrated his clothing and touched his skin like a million tiny needles piercing his flesh. Tiny towers of smoke began to rise from his body as the burning began. He couldn’t move, but he wouldn’t have. She was beautiful. Fresh. Innocent. Contentment settled deep in spite of the increasing pain. He kept his eyes open, wanting—no, needing the sight of Marguarita riding to be in his heart when he entered his next life.

Perhaps he was watching too closely, his gaze drawing hers, or maybe the strange behavior of the animals and insects alerted her, but she turned her head and her gaze met his. He saw her gasp and the sudden tightening of her knees on the horse, urging him forward.

No! Stay back. Do not come near me. Put your horse away and go.

If there was a small hesitation indicating the words had been forced into her mind, he didn’t catch it. The horse sailed over the fence and when he began dancing in fear, she halted the animal and leaped off. The Paso pawed the ground and she sent the horse a dark scowl, then waved her hand toward the corral. At once the Peruvian Paso ran toward the fence, cleared it and joined the other horses in the far corner.

Marguarita approached him cautiously, the way she might a cornered, feral animal, one hand outstretched, palm toward him, her lips moving soundlessly as if she hadn’t quite gotten used to the fact that she couldn’t speak. Warmth flooded his mind, a soothing balm that told him she meant no harm.

He struggled to move, but the curse of the sun was upon him. She moved closer, her shadow looming over him, her body blocking the rising sun. Her eyes were dark and rich, looking down at him with a mixture of outright fear and alarm for him.

Leave me. Go now. He pushed the order into her head, sending the impression of a snarl, of an absolute command.

Marguarita crouched beside him, touching his smoking arm, frowning in concern and then whipping her hand away, blowing on the tips of her fingers.

This is my choice. Leave me to die. He had no idea whether his commands were penetrating. She didn’t blink or look at him as if she heard him.

She’d been trained from birth to obey the members of his family. Surely she wouldn’t defy him. She knew how easily a Carpathian hunter close to the edge of madness could become vampire. The undead had torn out her throat. He felt her hand tremble against the heat of his arm. She had to have burned her fingers against his skin. He focused on her and pushed at her mind with a compulsion to leave him. She had too much compassion in her, too much daring to disobey one as powerful as him.

His compulsion fell against a mind he could barely understand. It wasn’t as if he found barriers—it was as though his techniques simply dissipated like smoke.

She stripped her short, soft jacket from her body and threw it over his head, covering his face and eyes. He felt her take his wrist and begin to pull him across the wet pasture. In his wake the blades of grass turned brown. He heard the breath hiss from her lungs and knew her hand was burned, but she didn’t stop.

For the first time in the long centuries a deep-seated rage coiled in his belly and smoldered there, that someone dared defy his direct order. She had no right. She knew better. No one ever defied him—certainly not a human, and definitely not a woman. And not one of his own servants from a family that had been given every protection and wealth beyond imagining.

He had chosen death. He had prepared himself. Was content with his decision—embraced his choice. This was the worst kind of betrayal.

You will regret your disobedience, he vowed.

Marguarita ignored him—or didn’t hear him. He honestly didn’t know which, nor did he care. She would pay. Rocks dug into his back, and then the bump of wood as she managed to get him inside the stable. The sun stopped burning him alive, although the prickle of needles was still penetrating his skin.

Deftly she rolled him into a tarp, not removing the jacket from his face. She even tucked his arms over his chest before rolling him. He felt like a helpless baby. The indignity of it, the wrongness of her actions awakened something monstrous in him. He pulled back like the wild animal he was, waiting for his moment—and there would be a moment. She had known the fear of a vampire ripping out her throat but it would be nothing compared to the terror of Zacarias De La Cruz extracting vengeance for her sins.

She tried to hook the tarp to one of the horses, he knew by scent and by the drumming of hooves as the animal protested being in close proximity to him. He could have told her that no horse would allow his presence, but he held still, now just waiting the outcome of her mistake. The lack of horsepower didn’t deter her. He heard the sound of her footsteps and then she began to pull the tarp herself. He knew she was alone by the sound of her breath bursting from her lungs in several repeated small gasps.

He found it significant that she didn’t call for help. One yell—okay, she couldn’t yell—but she must have a way to attract attention. The males working the ranch would come to her aid if she signaled them, but she must have known he would command them to allow his death—and they would obey. The fierce burning in his gut grew hotter, hot enough that for a few moments he thought he might have burned through his skin to his internal organs.

He could see nothing at all, but he felt each bump of the rocks and the fierce blaze of the sun as she dragged him from the stable to the ranch house. The searing heat was astonishingly effective, driving out all sane thoughts until he wanted to scream with agony. It came on gradually, a slow charring that seeped through skin and tissue to bone.

Zacarias tried to turn off the pain as he’d done for centuries, but the relentless burn of the sun was something he couldn’t compartmentalize as he had so many other wounds. Even with the tarp wrapped around him, he felt the piercing blaze like burning arrows dotting his body. The heat boiled his blood and flames licked at his insides. He couldn’t scream, or protest, or do anything but be dragged through the yard to what he presumed was the ranch house.

Marguarita huffed hard as she took his full weight up the two stairs leading inside. The moment he was within the thick, cool walls, she dropped the harness and rushed across the room. He could hear her pull the thick drapes into place, covering the windows.

You will suffer as no one else has ever suffered for your disobedience, he promised, thrusting the words into her brain.

Again he had the impression of words falling through cracks, as if she couldn’t grasp what he’d said to her, but it didn’t matter. He waited while she carefully unrolled the tarp and when the edges fell open, he snapped his dark eyes open and locked his gaze with hers. A long slow hiss, a promise of brutal retaliation, escaped and there would be no mistaking his meaning.