Dark Predator (16 page)

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.