Dark Predator

6

Inside the dark hacienda, beneath the heavy four-poster bed, buried deep in the rich soil, Zacarias’s eyes snapped open simultaneously with the first beat of his heart. A shadow passed over the house, barely there, but still, he was an ancient warrior and he felt that subtle disturbance. The sun had sunk from the sky and night had dropped like a heavy curtain over the ranch. The night had brought spies with her.

He normally would have welcomed the hunt. It was what he did. All he knew. He was comfortable in that role. He was a loner. He had no idea how humans lived or worked and he had never wanted to know. They were certainly fragile creatures. Now he had—her—the beautiful lunatic who had somehow crept into his life and had no idea how to even protect herself from an eagle’s claws.

He had known it was only a matter of time before his enemies would seek revenge. By the very swiftness of their search, he knew a master vampire directed them to each of the De La Cruz haciendas. He had been in existence for far too long to think it might simply be a coincidence. They were hunting him. Ordinarily he would let them know exactly where he was and he would have welcomed the battle—but this time there was too much at stake. He waited until the flock of shadowed birds had passed overhead, circling the ranch several times before moving on.

And then he reached out to touch—her. The woman. Marguarita Fernandez. He reached for her before he thought, before he could stop his mind. He wanted—her. She should have been sleeping peacefully in her bed waiting for him to wake her. But of course she wasn’t. He sighed, no longer surprised by anything she did.

He waved his hand to open the soil, clothing himself as he rose, careful not to disturb even the air so she would not know he had risen. Emni kuηenak ku aššatotello—disobedient lunatic. Did she not realize he would kill for her? She didn’t seem capable of learning, no matter how hard the lesson. His enemies were already searching and if they found her, if they knew about her or even suspected . . . He closed his mind to what could happen and ignored that peculiar and very unfamiliar need to smile at the thought of her continual ignoring of his every wish. She really did have to be dim-witted, there was no other explanation.

How strange that this woman could arouse even a small interest on his part. His reaction to her enforced the nagging idea that she could be his lifemate. Before stopping his heart at dawn, he had gone carefully over the details each of his brothers had shared with him about the moment they had recognized their lifemate. They had known instantly on contact. There had been no doubt. Emotions had poured back into them. Colors blinded them.

Even after centuries of existence, Zacarias didn’t understand the key to unlocking the mystery of lifemates, but if Marguarita Fernandez was actually his, the universe was playing a joke on him. The woman was positively maddening.

He strode through the master bedroom out into the hall. The scent of her filled the house, an intensely feminine fragrance. He realized she had occupied his home for years, even as a child, her father had lived here, in the main house. The house wasn’t stark and bare as were most of his lairs. Marguarita lingered in every corner. She had made this dwelling her home. There was warmth here, the warmth of a woman who cared about her home and took care of it with loving attention to detail.

The rooms were gray and dull, yet he felt the richness of each in the hand-woven rugs and thick lap blankets obviously quilted by hand. He stopped by a heavy chair and rubbed the material of the blanket between his fingers. He felt Marguarita in each of those tiny stitches. She did far more than keep the house. She loved it.

She liked candles. They looked homemade as well. They had electricity and a backup generator but he was certain with the fierce storms they often got, downed trees often took out the electricity and all manner of things could happen to a generator. He had never had to think of such things, but clearly Marguarita did and she prepared for them.

She not only prepared her own home for emergencies, but he saw the list she’d been working on laid out on the coffee table, the name of each family housed on the De La Cruz lands, and what they needed. Lanterns and candles and canned food seemed to be the biggest items. He had never given much thought to how these people lived and worked, but he realized Marguarita took care of them in his name.

The door to the bathroom was open and steam mixed with perfume drifted into the living room. He inhaled deeply to bring her into his lungs. Anticipation stirred. He waited a few heartbeats, savoring that small ability just to look forward to seeing her and there was no doubt now, he was definitely feeling, although he couldn’t say it was anything like his brothers had described.

His fingers bunched in the quilt and he brought the soft fabric to his face. The material carried a hint of her intriguing fragrance. His body tightened. Not the savage reaction of the evening before, but still, it was a reaction. He breathed his way through shock. His little lunatic was almost assuredly his lifemate and, sun scorch the woman, she’d come along too late. That was just like her. Fate had certainly played a joke on him with its choice and timing.

Zacarias sighed and drew another deep, fragrance-filled breath into his lungs. It didn’t matter one way or the other, because he certainly couldn’t condemn her to a half-life with him. He was no prize, not with savagery and darkness bred into his very soul. He had been damned from birth and he had accepted that. This was a terrible blow, one completely unexpected. To be given a lifemate who would always remain just out of reach was the worst torture he could conceive.

Something soft and feminine tickled his mind. Amusement. No sound, just the impression of happiness—a warm glow. He absorbed her into his heart, allowed himself to indulge for just a brief moment. His mind, so obviously tuned to hers, refused to obey him when it came to Marguarita. It needed the contact, that warmth that infused his entire body.

Hunger swept through him, a gnawing, clawing need that beat in his veins and consumed him quickly. He tasted her in his mouth, that unique taste that was all Marguarita. He recognized that he was already obsessed with her, but after centuries of a barren existence, it wasn’t too high a price to pay for the ability to feel something.

He slipped further into her mind, craving the warmth of her. Deep laughter burst through his thoughts, an explosion of sound, all male, distinct and familiar to Marguarita. He felt her easy acceptance, the softness in her that wasn’t there when he was with her. She was amused by her companion. Accepting of him.

Zacarias moved so fast through the house he was merely a blur, literally bursting into her room. The door splintered with a crash, wood flying in all directions as he ripped it apart. Marguarita sat on the floor by her open window. A man stood on the other side, his head through the opening, his hand on Marguarita’s arm. Both turned simultaneously toward him at the sound of the door disintegrating. Zacarias was on the man in a split second in a violent explosive action, yanking him through the window with vicious strength and slamming him against the wall. He held him easily with one hand, legs dangling above the floor as he sank his teeth deep into the pulsing vein in the neck.

No! Stop! You have to stop!

The man gave no resistance after that first stiff struggle. Zacarias made no attempt to calm him, the offense was far too great. He heard a terrible roar and it took a moment to realize the sound emerged from his own throat. He gulped at the rich blood, even as Marguarita’s frantic plea burst into his mind.

She caught at his arm and tugged, tried to reach up to insert her hand between Zacarias and his prey. He could see her, far off, through the red haze in his mind, through the need to kill, through the strange animalistic roaring that crashed through his head, but nothing mattered to him but destroying this man who had dared to put his hands on Marguarita.

Zacarias felt Marguarita’s warm spirit moving through the ice in his mind and instantly saw himself through her eyes. She was close to panic. He had exploded into violence much like a large jungle cat bringing down prey and was completely and utterly a killer in that moment. On some vague level she realized she was the cause. She was terrified of him, reading his intent, knowing he was acting on instincts rather than intellect.

She flooded his mind with frantic impressions of a wolf pack, and then with dozens of babies as if he was the dim-witted one and couldn’t understand the concept of family. Finally she resorted to pushing an image of Cesaro into his mind in a frantic attempt to tell him this man was Julio, Cesaro’s son. As if he wouldn’t know that. The woman was a menace to herself and to everyone she knew. He swept his tongue across the puncture wounds to close them and dropped the man to the floor, holding him easily with his mind.

Very slowly he turned on the nuisance of a woman. She took two steps back and then made herself stop. She looked small and vulnerable and very, very afraid as she glanced toward Julio.

Is he dead? She took a step toward the unconscious man.

“Do not dare to touch him.”

She halted instantly, her face going completely white.

“No, Carpathians do not kill when they feed. You should know that. Are you uneducated as well as disobedient?”

She shook her head and looked around the room, her gaze settling on the pen and paper she’d been using to communicate with her lover. When she stepped toward it, he held out his hand and both items flew to him. He pushed them into his pocket for closer inspection later.

“You disobeyed again. Is there anyone you do obey? Or do you simply do whatever you want when you want to do it?” He kept his voice very low, afraid she might faint or fall down. She was so rattled he could see her shaking.

I did not disobey. She was adamant, thrusting her denial into his mind. I stayed in the house just like you ordered. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Was it possible she didn’t understand the enormity of her error? How was that possible? “Having a man in your room is absolutely forbidden. How could you not know that? Do you wish to be taken for a whore?”

She blinked her long lashes at him, her body suddenly quite still. A slow blush infused the pale white of her skin. He could clearly see the color sweeping up her neck into her face and the beauty of it captured his attention so that he almost missed that she stepped into him and swung her hand at his face.

He caught her wrist inches from his head only because of his preternatural speed. They stood toe-to-toe, gazes locked. She was furious. He could feel the rage in her, yet was hyperaware of the smallness of her bones, of the soft skin and lush curves. She was wearing a skirt and blouse, the skirt long, covering her slender legs and emphasizing her rounded hips and narrow waist. He found her pleasing in feminine clothes.

Her eyes sparkled at him, glittering like champagne diamonds. She no longer appeared gray or shadowed, but her every feature was beginning to emerge in color and detail. He had never encountered anything more beautiful in all his centuries of existence.

“I believe we covered the issue of you touching me without permission.”

Don’t you dare call me a whore.

He had never seen true sparkling champagne diamond with such pure chocolate and it was an amazing color, especially sparkling as her eyes were now. “I believe I asked if you wished to be taken for a whore. I did not call you one.”

He spoke very slowly and distinctly in case she didn’t quite grasp the difference. He also noted that along with her anger, she was much more adept at communicating telepathically. He could see her words in the impressions she sent and realized then what it must be like not to have an actual voice to express herself.

His thumb slid over her pulse in a small caress. He felt her shiver in response. “You look quite lovely in your feminine clothes. You will wear them at all times.”

She frowned. He thought she would like the compliment, but truly, she was difficult. Her eyes flashed with glinting fire, which was spectacular, but he had wished to please her. Females were difficult to understand.

I won’t, you know. I prefer to wear skirts indoors, but not when I ride. And I love to ride, so no skirts. Her chin went up, those eyes sparkling more than ever.

He studied her defiant little face for a long time. She never once looked away from him. Never in his life had anyone defied him the way she did. He was beginning to think there was nothing dim-witted about her after all. “You really are emni kuηenak ku aššatotello minan.” He couldn’t help the soft caress in his voice.

What does that mean? I’ve heard you call me that and similar things.

“My disobedient lunatic,” he answered honestly, expecting fireworks. He even took a firmer grip on her wrist.

Her lips twitched, curved into a smile so that her white teeth flashed at him for a moment. He got the impression of amusement in his mind and the feeling warmed him. “You are getting very good at communicating through our blood bond. It will increase in strength when we exchange blood again.”

A shadow crossed her face. She swallowed hard and nodded, refusing to look away. She was very afraid but she faced him with courage.

“It will not hurt, Marguarita,” he assured. “You will enjoy the experience.”

She didn’t look convinced but she nodded at him and then glanced again toward Julio. A roaring protest ripped through his body and he felt his teeth lengthen, exploding in his mouth before he could stop the reaction. She gasped, and he looked down at her wrist, still captured in his hand. His fingernails had lengthened into deadly talons.

He could smell the man, until the stench of him nearly overpowered the subtle fragrance that was Marguarita. He didn’t want a male close to her, let alone in her bedroom. He recognized he was at his most deadly.

“It is not safe for your friend to be here,” he admitted. Evidently some emotions were returning. Rage. The need to kill. Jealousy. Things he hadn’t experienced before and therefore had no way of anticipating or understanding what he was feeling, let alone the necessary knowledge to deal with such things.

Marguarita slowly nodded her head. Should I summon Cesaro?

His body rebelled, his heightened senses already in battle mode. “That is not a good idea. I will take him to his house and leave him to rest.” He didn’t want another man around her while he was adjusting to the new, emerging and uncomfortable emotions. He counted himself lucky that he didn’t have the same reaction to his lifemate that his brothers had had.

She nodded her head, biting her lower lip a little anxiously.

“Is the word of a De La Cruz no longer good here? I have said I will leave him to rest, yet you are still anxious. Is this man someone important to you?”

He felt her struggle to make him understand. She looked around for a pen and paper but he shook his head. She was his lifemate and they needed to learn to communicate. She sent him one emotion-laden look, and then pushed the image of Riordan, his youngest brother, into his head. She pointed to Julio and then to herself.

“This man is your brother? Cesaro’s son?”

She nodded, frowning the entire time. Not blood.

He didn’t want the man anywhere near her. “It is not safe for him. You understand me?”

Marguarita nodded her head. Zacarias couldn’t stand the presence of the other male close to her, or the worried look in her eyes. He scooped Julio up and draped him over his shoulder. He took a step away from her.

Señor De La Cruz?

That soft caressing note in her voice sent a rush of heat speeding through his veins. He looked at her over his shoulder.

Perhaps you would be so kind as to fix my door on your way out.

There it was, that now familiar need to smile. The amusement tamped down his need to destroy every male who had ever come near her. He needed her to use his more intimate first name. “Zacarias,” he corrected. “And no problem.”

He went out before the urge to heave the offending male through the window so he could yank Marguarita to him and taste her exquisite unique flavor overcame him.

Marguarita watched as he paused to casually wave his hand, weaving the splintered door back into a solid mass before striding out. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to sag onto her bed. Her hand shook as she pressed her fingers to her trembling mouth. She had never seen anything—including the rain forest predators—exploding into violence so fast.

Being in the same room with Zacarias De La Cruz was overwhelming, much like being with a tiger. He took up the entire space, the very air, with his power and energy. He always gave the impression with his focused stare of being alert and ready to strike instantly. When he did erupt into action, it was too fast to even follow and so violent the act was numbing to the senses.

She had done this. Made a terrible mistake. Zacarias had known he had grown too dangerous to be in the company of others and he had taken steps to protect them all. He had made an honorable decision, but she’d inadvertently interfered and placed all of them—including his eternal soul—in jeopardy.

The puncture wounds on her waist were healed, but she would never forget that painful, terrifying ride through the air as the eagle had taken her into the night sky, huge wings beating loud enough for her to hear the whomp, whomp as they cut through the air. She’d been sick and dizzy, staring at the ground below as it dropped away. She didn’t even have the release of screaming. Sadly, and strangely, the only comfort she had was in touching his mind, the mind of a man more feral beast than human.

She touched the mark on her neck and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, remembering the way his teeth had burned as they drove through her skin. It had hurt so bad, and she’d been terrified that he would finish the job the vampire had started, or worse, not kill her and make her his living puppet, the very embodiment of evil. She stroked the throbbing mark with the pads of her fingers. She had already made up her mind to serve him as long as necessary—and she knew that included allowing him to take her blood for sustenance.

This evening changed nothing, in fact, it only reinforced her belief that she owed Zacarias her aid, no matter how terrifying it was to her. She covered her face for a moment, rocking back and forth, gathering her courage. She had to find a way to keep him from the workers on the ranch—especially Julio. When Julio awakened and remembered what happened, he would be desperate to make certain she was all right and that was a potential problem.

Resolutely, Marguarita scrubbed her hands down her face, wiping away fear and straightening her shoulders. This was her mess. She’d created it. She could feel the intense sadness, the heavy sorrow weighing Zacarias down. She felt his emotions—and they were strong to the point of crushing—but she knew he didn’t feel them in the same way she did.

He had wanted her to go about her daily routine, so that was what she was going to do, just as if he wasn’t in the house. When it came time for him to take her blood she would find a pleasant place in her mind and go there. It was the duty of her entire family to provide whatever a De La Cruz needed—or wanted—and she wouldn’t fail her family or herself.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was in the usual thick braid, but her neck was clearly exposed. Her heart jumped wildly. Perhaps that was too much of a temptation. Quickly she loosened the weave and allowed her hair to spill to her waist. She wrapped a loose tie around the middle just to hold it back from her face so she could work without the huge mass getting in her way. Her hands smoothed the flowing skirt and she took another breath before heading for the kitchen.

Filling the teapot, she turned and nearly dropped it when he was standing there, quite close to her, his hand reaching for the abundance of hair, staring at it as though fascinated. He dropped his hand immediately and stepped back to allow her to get to the stove. Ignoring her pounding heart, Marguarita pretended he wasn’t in the room. If he wanted to observe what she did, that was fine. She would make herself breakfast even though it was early evening.

Zacarias leaned one hip against the sink and watched her with that unblinking, totally focused stare that was definitely that of a large hunting cat. She glanced at him from under veiled lashes, unable to help herself.

Would you care for tea?

He frowned. “I have never actually tried human food. My brothers have. To appear human they stock the house with food items and have actually gone to charity events and other large gatherings that made it necessary to appear to eat.”

But not you.

He raised his eyebrow. “I do not bother with such things. I make humans uneasy so it was better to send Nicolas or Riordan.”

Not even once? In all your years of existence, you never once wanted to taste the forbidden?

“I felt nothing, kislány kuηenak minan—my little lunatic. Curiosity has never been a problem for me. I exist. I hunt. I kill. My life is very simple.”

She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t imagine such a life. No comfort. Not needing comfort. You are never afraid? You have never experienced sheer terror?

“What has there been in my life to fear? I have nothing to lose, not even life itself. I have only a responsibility to protect my people to the best of my ability. I do so with honor.”

You’ve never felt joy? Or love?

“There was a time in my life, when I was a boy, that I loved my brothers. For a time I could touch their memories and remember the affection I had for them. Even that is gone for me.”

She wanted to weep for him. He spoke so matter-of-factly, as if having no one—nothing at all to soften his life—was normal. There was no one to comfort him, no one to talk things over with, no one to hold him—or love him. All the while he fought to protect others, there was no one for him.

She realized for all his knowledge, there were huge gaps in his education. Carpathians could regulate body temperatures. They could heal their wounds and minimize most pain. He hadn’t considered that she couldn’t do those things, which explained why he’d seemed so shocked by the eagle’s talon’s puncturing her skin. He either didn’t know, or he truly hadn’t given humans very much thought.

He didn’t interact with anyone but the undead. His brothers came to the various holdings and talked with the local governments. Zacarias only came when wounded and he needed a fast fix. The workers were all leery of him. Because her aunts and uncles and cousins worked at the various De La Cruz properties throughout South America, she knew all the gossip on the family and few had ever set eyes on Zacarias. He had been completely alone for centuries.

Marguarita kept her back to him, afraid compassion would show on her face. She might fear him—but it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel for him. His life had been one she would never have wanted and yet he’d endured for over a thousand years. He had probably welcomed death, and she had taken even that solace from him. She had to find a way to connect more solidly with him so she wouldn’t jump every time he came near her. She decided the best course of action was to get to know him, to exchange a little information so she could be more comfortable with him.

How is it that I can feel your emotions, but you can’t?

There was a small silence. She braced herself before turning to face him. The battles of many centuries chasing the undead through countries in a ceaseless attempt to protect the inhabitants were etched deep into the lines on his face. He stood there, his head unbowed, watching her with those eyes that held a sorrow he didn’t even recognize or comprehend.

There was no place he could go where he could be completely vulnerable. There was nowhere he could be loved or protected or safe. She had a sudden urge to put her arms around him and hold him tightly to her, but she’d have to ask permission first and she wasn’t making that mistake again.

Silence stretched between them, filled suddenly by the whistle on the kettle. She carefully poured the boiling water into her mother’s small, intricate clay teapot. The body was rectangular and hand-painted with Peruvian Paso horses running free with tails and manes flowing as if in the wind. She loved the teapot her mother had made so many years earlier and was always careful of it. Using it always made her feel closer to her mother and, right now, comforted. She couldn’t imagine Zacarias having nothing like that in his life.

“I was not aware you could feel my emotions,” he finally, almost reluctantly, admitted.

She turned to face him again, leaning against the counter and studying his face. She found it amazing that he could look so stern and tough, but yet be so brutally handsome. His hair was long, even for a Carpathian, almost as long as hers. A few strands of gray enhanced the deep midnight color. The mass of hair had wave to it—enough wave to spiral into several long swirls from the leather cord he bound it with. The spiraling waves didn’t soften his appearance, but only made him that much more attractive.

He didn’t appear to be relaxed or at ease. He appeared exactly as he was—a killing machine. No one would ever mistake him for anything else, but maybe she was getting used to his presence because the inner tremors had finally ceased.

I can.

“Explain it to me.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled, but how could she explain? She tried to picture a volcano with masses of churning magma. I can feel what’s inside of you. Anger. Sorrow. It’s very turbulent and intense, but I can tell you don’t feel it in the same way as me.

His eyes didn’t leave her face. She couldn’t help the sudden rise of color. She felt a little like an insect under a microscope. Clearly he was studying her—a human specimen.

“Tell me about your friend Julio.”

Her stomach knotted. That way lay disaster. His expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes had. There was only a subtle difference in his eyes, but she could feel the volcanic emotion roiling inside of him. She turned back to making her breakfast so she wouldn’t be afraid.

She did her best to show him her relationship with Julio. We grew up together. He is but a few months older than me, so we were raised as brother and sister.

She found it difficult to project that concept, but, glancing over her shoulder at his dark face, she persisted. There were no other children around. This is a working ranch and even as children, of course, we were expected to help.

Again, she tried to send impressions of the two of them working in the stables, and in the fields with the cattle. I could do a better job with my pen and paper.

“You are doing just fine.”

She risked another quick look at his face. She wasn’t doing just fine. He still had death in his eyes. She forced down panic, feeling as if she was failing Julio. My mother died when I was very young and I was inconsolable. I lost myself in the animals. In the rain forest.

He stirred as if the thought of that little girl alone in the rain forest bothered him, but she couldn’t imagine that he could conceive of her pain as a child at the loss of her mother. Or that he might worry for a human child that was of little consequence to him. But Julio had worried. He was only a little boy himself, but he defied his parents and followed her to keep her safe.

And then his mother caught a fever and she died a year after my mother. That created a bond between us. I was careful to stay close to him, as he had done for me. Again she tried to convey the deep sorrow that both of them had felt and the lifelong connection that had been established.

Marguarita turned then and studied his face, the dark turbulence in his eyes. She took a deep breath, feeling a little desperate for him to understand. Can you see my memories of the two of us? If he could get into her mind and see for himself, maybe he would be able to feel her affection for Julio and realize it was sisterly, not that of a woman loving a man.

“Of course. Our blood bond is strong, but I would have to go deeper into your mind. You already fear me.”

Her heart pounded. They both could hear it. She took a breath as she cut two slices of bread for herself and broke open two eggs to scramble with some ham. Does it hurt?

“It would not hurt. It would feel . . . intimate.”

The last word whispered over her skin like a soft caress. Marguarita shivered. He was close to her. She could feel the warmth of his body as he stood behind her, watching her cook. It felt dangerous, standing in her kitchen performing everyday tasks with him so close, watching her every move. Breathing when she breathed. She swore their hearts kept the same rhythm.

She swallowed hard and carefully concentrated on sandwiching the eggs between the slices of bread. She placed her breakfast on a plate, ignoring her trembling hands. She was afraid of Zacarias, but when he spoke in that certain tone of voice, her body reacted. Did she dare take a chance on adding to that strange physical attraction by consenting—no—even inviting him deeper into her mind?

She reached for the teapot handle just as he reached around her for it as well. His arm caged her and his fingers settled over hers. A thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach.

“Let me,” he said.

That same low caressing note was in his voice. She closed her eyes briefly against the sudden assault on her senses and slid her hand from under his. He didn’t move, keeping her caged between him and the counter while he poured her tea. She knew there was a space between them, maybe the width of a sheet of a paper, but she could feel heat radiating from him. Her body caught fire. Flames danced over her skin, darted through her bloodstream to settle into a burning need in her most feminine core.

Her breath caught in her throat as he moved that scant width, closing the paper-thin distance as he set the teakettle down, so that he was pressed against her, his warm breath against her neck. He inhaled her, drawing the air laden with her scent deep into his lungs. A soft, purring growl rumbled in his throat. The sound seemed that of a feral animal, but there was something terribly sexy about it. She froze, paralyzed with fear, but unsure whether it was of him or of herself. The growl vibrated through her body, until her every sense was completely consumed with Zacarias.

Zacarias De La Cruz was a dangerous powder keg, and she was terribly afraid if she moved or allowed him further entrance to her mind, she would be providing the spark that would set him off. It wasn’t his fault that she had such a reaction to him. She’d never had such a reaction to any other male, but it had happened once before with him in the forest. It made no sense, but she couldn’t quite catch her breath, waiting . . . wanting . . . what, she didn’t know.

Zacarias’s lips moved against her ear, his breath stirring her hair and sending an electric shock sizzling through her veins. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer that her scent wasn’t that of a woman desperate for a man, because if she could feel the dampness in her panties he most likely could smell her feminine call to him. A man so close to animal would have a heightened sense of smell.

I’m sure you can. She could hear her heart thundering as well. There was no mistaking her fear—or her attraction.

His fingers moved the mass of hair she’d so carefully left covering her neck. At the brush of his fingertips her womb clenched, and hot liquid spilled. His mouth moved over her skin, his tongue a velvet rasp, making his brand on her pulse with frantic need. She gripped the edge of the counter, her heart pounding with dread—or excitement—she didn’t know which.

Hold very still, mića emni kuηenak minan—my beautiful lunatic, I have to taste you. It would not be a good thing to fight me. At this moment, I feel on the very edge of my self-control.

His mind slipped into hers unbidden, but she couldn’t say unwanted. His touch was sensual, sending a frisson of pleasure down her spine, but his warning frightened her. The thought of his teeth sinking into her was so terrifying she should have fainted, yet her body was suddenly alive, every nerve ending on fire.

I’m afraid. There. She’d admitted it to him.

There is no need. You are the safest person in the world around me. Do not fight me, woman. Give yourself to me.

She wasn’t certain what he meant by her being the safest person in the world around him. She didn’t feel safe; she felt threatened on every level there was. She forced herself to keep from struggling as he turned her to face him and inexorably enfolded her against his chest. He was enormously strong, his arms like the trunk of a kapok tree, hard and unyielding, a cage she couldn’t escape.

Zacarias pulled her tightly against him, fitting her to him as if she belonged there, his body imprinted on hers. She tilted her head to look up at him. He was so beautifully carved, like a statue made of the finest stone, sensuality personified. His eyes darkened with hunger. His teeth glinted at her, white and slowly sliding into place, incisors rather than canines, but his canines appeared very sharp as well. The distinction between vampire and Carpathian was there, but it was slim.

Her heart raced far past pounding, accelerating so fast she feared it would come through her chest. He lowered his head slowly to hers, his mouth brushing the lightest of kisses on the corner of her eye. Her entire body nearly went into meltdown. There was no way to stop the purely sexual reaction to that featherlight touch. His lips trailed from her eye to her jaw, soft little barely there kisses, a leisurely exploration.

Her body went soft and pliant, melting into his. Her temperature soared, her core on fire, burning her from the inside out. All tension drained out of her, her lashes drifting closed as his lips continued down her neck to her shoulder. She felt adrift in a river of pure sensation, floating toward him with her entire being. Her heart and maybe even her soul reached for him.

His teeth scraped back and forth over that throbbing spot and her body reacted, raising her temperature another notch. Her breasts ached, nipples pushing against the thin lace of her bra. On some level she knew she was giving herself up to him, that if she succumbed to him she would never be the same, but he’d woven a sensual web and she was trapped in it—willingly.

He sank his teeth deep, the pain crashing through her, shocking her.