Dark Predator d-22

by Christine Feehan

  “You will feel warm, but it should not hurt you,” he assured her.

  She was trembling so hard he wasn’t certain she could remain standing. Her eyes stared into his with the exact look he’d seen on the prey of cobras. She looked mesmerized and terrified, unable to look away from him.

  “Stop fearing me.” He had wanted her to be afraid, now he wished he could take it back. She looked very fragile, vulnerable, and so very alone. “I will not allow anything to happen to you. It is my duty to look after you.” He was telling the truth to her. Nothing would take this woman from him—certainly not death. By some miracle or some devilish trick, he was at long last coming to life, his body reborn, his mind once again intrigued.

  He looked around the room and everything in it remained a dull gray. When he looked back at her, he could see emerging color, faint, but there. Her eyelashes were that same amazing black as the rope of her hair. Enormous eyes of deep dark chocolate stared back at him. Her eyebrows were black. Her lips were definitely pink. Colors could only be restored by a lifemate. Emotions—and he was having unfamiliar reactions to her—could only be restored by a lifemate. The fact that his body had reacted physically to her was astonishing, problematic and yet exhilarating—if he could feel exhilaration. But a lifemate would have restored those things instantly.

  Mages had infiltrated, occupying the neighboring ranch only a few months earlier, biding their time in hopes of destroying the De La Cruz family. Dominic and Zacarias had stopped them, but there was a slight chance the alliance between the master vampires and the mages had held and mages had found their way back for another attempt. If Marguarita was shadowed by a mage spell—he would have known. As much as he kept coming back to that explanation, a dread was growing in him that he knew the real explanation.

  If Marguarita truly was his lifemate, then something had gone wrong, and he feared he knew the answer to what that was. He had not found her in time. His soul was in tatters, already beyond repair. His other half could not seal him to her, could not bring light to the utter darkness within him. It was no surprise that he was a lost cause. He had probably been born that way, but still, there was a time when he’d dreamed of this moment, when he’d envisioned a lifemate and even actively sought one.

  His palms grew warm as he pushed heat through his body into hers. Her lungs fought for air and he purposely breathed for her, calming her, the air flowing naturally through his until her body followed the same even rhythm. Her heart pounded so hard he feared she would have a heart attack.

  “Just breathe, mića emni kuηenak minan—my beautiful lunatic.” There was an inadvertent ache in his voice, a mourning for what he’d lost long before he’d ever found it.

  Marguarita looked up at Zacarias De La Cruz’s strong face. It was a face carved from the very mountains, chiseled with battle and age, yet strangely handsome. This was not a man who had ever been a boy, he was all warrior. For the first time, deep in his eyes, she saw sorrow. The emotion was deep and real and when she touched his mind, she wanted to weep. He didn’t appear to realize the depths of his anguish, or maybe he simply didn’t acknowledge emotion, but it made her want to weep for him.

  He was completely self-contained, not needing anyone. So powerful. And so utterly alone. He inflicted pain, terrified her and then so very gently healed her wounds. Perhaps he was a little mad from being alone for so long. Each time he called her something in his language, his voice softened almost to a caress, his words wrapping around her like strong arms. Sadly for her, that lonely, feral quality in him drew compassion from her. Already her mind reached for his, automatically soothing him, sending him warmth and understanding.

  Without thought she lifted her hand to touch those deep lines carved into his face. He caught her wrist, startling her. She hadn’t been aware she was actually contemplating touching him. Her wrist ached from the force of his palm slapping her skin. He was as hard as a kapok tree, his flesh not giving at all. His fingers wrapped around her wrist easily, clamping down like a vise, making it impossible to pull away. Her heart slammed hard in her chest and she blinked up at him. Her breath exploded out of her lungs. She’d managed to stir the tiger again, without even thinking.

  I’m sorry. Truly.

  The suspicion in his eyes was so like a wary wild creature that she couldn’t stop that flow of compassion and warmth from her mind into his. She felt as if she needed to calm him. He didn’t belong inside a house. There was no way four walls could contain his power or his savage nature. She couldn’t imagine anything or anybody being at ease around him. He was too dominant, taking over the room, his aristocratic ways and hard authority adding to the terrifying aura surrounding him.

  “Were you planning on petting me?”

  There was no sarcasm in his tone, but his question hurt. She licked her suddenly dry lips and shook her head. She didn’t know what she had been doing. If she had her pen and paper—maybe she could try to express herself, but she felt cut off from the world most of the time, like this moment. How did she try with mere impressions to convey the way her strange gift manifested?

  She wasn’t even certain how her gift worked. She only knew that everything in her reached out to the wildness in him, to the tortured soul, stark and lonely and in need. He didn’t even know he was in need. How could she explain when she didn’t have a voice?

  I’m sorry, she repeated, unable to think what else to do.

  Zacarias’s expression remained absolute stone as he brought her fingertips to his face and held them there. “Do not be sorry. I am not.”

  Her stomach performed some weird acrobatic somersault at the touch of his skin beneath the pads of her fingers.

  “If you wish to touch me, you have my permission.”

  For the first time since the vampire had attacked her, she was glad she couldn’t speak. There were no words. Nothing. She should have been irritated by his aristocratic condescension, but instead she wanted to smile.

  She had no excuses. Whatever compulsion he seemed so worried about was obviously working on her as well. And without her pen and paper she felt vulnerable, stripped naked, unable to communicate. She swallowed hard and nodded, wondering a little hysterically if he thought she should thank him for his consent.

  He dropped his hand, leaving hers against his shadowed jaw. She pressed her palm into that dark scruff and felt her heart reach out to his. The sensation was so strong it scared her. She dropped her hand abruptly and stepped back, confused at her reactions to him. She was very afraid of him, yet the sadness in him weighed so heavily on her she couldn’t stop herself from feeling compassion.

  She’d done this to him. She was guilty and there was no getting around that. He had come here to end his life honorably, and she had stopped him, leaving him once more in the loneliness of his bleak world. If there was truly a man who was an island unto himself, it was Zacarias De La Cruz. She couldn’t see his entire lonely world, but she felt the tip of it and that was enough to make her want to weep forever. She owed him and a Fernandez always paid their debts.

  I didn’t know what I was doing when I stopped you from ending your burdens. If I could go back and undo it . . . Would she? Could she stand by and let him die? Her shoulders slumped. She couldn’t lie to him. She would never be able to just stand there while he burned in the sun. It was beyond her ability. She raised unhappy eyes to his. I’m sorry. Was there nothing else she could say to him?

  Zacarias studied her face for so long she began to think he wouldn’t speak again. Then his gaze dropped, drifting over her body, studying her feminine form much like one of the ranchers assessing stock. She bit her lip hard to keep from shoving him away from her. She wasn’t a horse. She owed him, yes, but she’d apologized more than once. And he didn’t have to look at her as if she was a germ.

  His gaze jumped back to her face, locking with hers. “I am reading your thoughts.” His hand dropped to hers. He lifted her clenched fist to his chest and one by one pried open her fingers. “You are
a bad-tempered little thing, aren’t you? And very confused. One moment you feel remorse and think to offer me your services and the next you think to strike me. You already serve me. I have only to order and you will provide whatever I require. As for striking me, it is not advisable or permitted.”

  Talking to him was much like having fur rubbed the wrong way, she decided. It mattered little that everything he said was true. She had been about to call a truce with him, to offer her services willingly—not grudgingly. That man was so arrogant he didn’t seem to know the difference. And as for striking him—it might not matter whether or not it was permitted if he kept talking like that to her.

  A slow, rusty smile, very faint, but real, softened the hard line of his mouth. It was brief, she barely caught it, but his smile was—incredible.

  “I am still reading your thoughts.”

  She frowned at him. That isn’t polite. I can’t help what I’m thinking. Maybe she’d conjured up that smile, it had disappeared so fast—more like ice cracking.

  “Of course you can. You will sleep during the daylight hours as I do. You will not, under any circumstances, leave the hacienda without my permission. You will provide for all my needs until I leave. And most of all, you will obey me instantly, without question.”

  What he needed was a robot, not a woman. She fought not to roll her eyes. How long will you stay? God help her if it was longer than another night.

  His eyebrow shot up. “You have no need of that information. You will be happy to serve me as long as I choose to be in residence.”

  He was serious. She could see that he was totally serious. He expected her to be happy—even grateful to serve him—the arrogant, impossible, dominant royal pain in the neck. Should I curtsey, your majesty?

  His brows drew together. The silence grew until the very walls seemed to expand with the tension. His gaze remained locked on hers, unblinking and menacing. She fought not to look away—not to be totally cowed by him. He appeared enormous. He dominated the entire room, his shoulders blocking out everything behind him, making her aware of his power—and her vulnerability.

  “Perhaps the alliance between our families has come to an end. If that is what you wish, you have only to say you will not honor our agreement.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He wouldn’t allow her to leave. She could feel the need in him. He couldn’t. He didn’t recognize that he had emotions boiling deep below the surface. She tapped into them through their primitive animal connection, but not only didn’t he recognize his own feelings, he had no idea they were there. Even if she allowed her fear of him to ruin the alliances between the De La Cruz family and her large extended family, it wouldn’t save her.

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. I wish to serve you.

  “Without question.”

  She gritted her teeth. He wanted his pound of flesh for her sins. Or maybe she was reading him wrong. He didn’t seem to have the least idea how to deal with humans. He probably hadn’t been in polite society for hundreds of years.

  “Nor did I care to do so,” he said, obviously still reading her mind.

  She considered taking great delight in stitching his mouth closed while he slept in his chamber. The moment she began to think there was a remote possibility that he could have excuses for his imperious and crass behavior, he opened his mouth and ruined everything.

  She flashed him a quick look and saw his lips curve into that ridiculously incredible very brief, faint smile. Her stomach reacted with the same earlier slow-rolling somersault.

  “I am getting the distinct impression of someone, who looks suspiciously like you, sewing my mouth closed with a needle and thread. Could I possibly be interpreting your thoughts incorrectly?”

  Marguarita tried her best to look innocent. Perhaps we could communicate more accurately if you gave me back my pen and paper. That way, we wouldn’t have these little misunderstandings. Surely that wasn’t a lie. And if nothing else, it might keep her out of trouble.

  “I doubt a pen and paper has that much power,” he remarked.

  She really wished he’d stay out of her head. I need to sit down, Señor De La Cruz. She hadn’t realized she was swaying. Shock maybe, but suddenly the room was spinning.

  He caught her arm and lowered her onto the sofa. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  Anything for a reprieve from his overwhelming presence. She nodded her head, trying to look like the fainting type. She was fairly sturdy, so maybe he wouldn’t completely believe it, but he was so feudal it was just possible she had a good shot at it.

  His mouth did that slight curving twitch that indicated a faint smile. He shook his head and handed her a glass of water. “You are not very good at censuring your thoughts. Tell me what your normal day is like.”

  She shrugged and ran through her days in her mind. Bath. Brushing hair. Cleaning her room. Breakfast. Cleaning the house. Ordering for the homes on the ranch. Checking horses and cattle for illness or injuries. Making lunch. Taking hot coffee and sandwiches to Julio. Riding with him while they chatted . . .

  The air in the room turned heavy. The walls expanded and the floor rolled. She scowled and grabbed at the sofa. What’s wrong? You asked me to tell you a typical day. I do get free time for lunch and riding.

  “Who is this man you laugh with?”

  Marguarita frowned. You don’t know Cesaro’s son? When he continued to stare until she swore she felt a burning sensation in the region of her forehead she sighed. I need a pen and paper. I can’t send correct impressions.

  “I think I understand your impressions very well. You will not be riding with this man again. Proceed.”

  Marguarita rubbed her head. She had the beginnings of a headache. She was exhausted and too confused to be afraid anymore. One moment she was angry with Zacarias and the next amused. She had absolutely no idea how to handle him. The connection between them seemed to be growing stronger the more she was in his mind. She didn’t want him in her head, and the more she communicated with him through telepathy, the easier it was for him to slip into her mind without her knowledge. The sensation had become so natural in such a short space of time, she could no longer feel anything but warmth.

  I visit any of the ranches that need help, take care of any medical issues that crop up when the men are working, fix dinner and eat . . .

  “I cannot tell if you eat alone.”

  He sounded so grim she glanced up at his set face. He looked like stone. She pressed her fingers to her head. Most of the time. I clean up the kitchen, bake sometimes, bathe and read before I go to bed—alone.

  He reached down and settled his fingers on her temples. “Close your eyes. I think you have had enough for the night. You need to rest. We will continue this conversation at sunset tomorrow. We shall call a truce between us. Tonight, you will sleep and be unafraid. I have provided strong safeguards. Should a servant of the vampire come, he will not be able to gain entrance to my home.”

  Her heart jumped. He’d said “my home.” She had never heard of any of the De La Cruz family refer to a place as their home. The thought slid away from her before she could hold on to it, the warmth replacing the ache in her head making her slightly fuzzy.

  Zacarias bent and scooped her up, carrying her through the house to her room. The bedroom door was perfectly intact. Her bedroom was immaculate, she noted in passing. Her eyelids felt heavy, her body not wanting to move. He laid her on her bed and smoothed back her hair, his touch almost a caress.

  She couldn’t remember why she thought him overbearing and arrogant and feudal. He tucked her in and reassured her that she was safe. She felt safe. She even smiled at him before she let her lashes drift down. She liked the idea of a truce. She could totally manage a truce.

  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.