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, h
e 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.
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