Dark Prince (Author's cut special edition)

by Christine Feehan

  “Mikhail,” she whispered aloud, “you take altogether too many liberties.” She reached out to him automatically, as if she could not deny herself that need. Sensing he was asleep, she withdrew. The slight touch was enough. He was safe.

  Raven felt different, happy even. She could talk to someone, touch someone, never mind that it was a bit like sitting on the back of a hungry tiger. The freedom to relax in another’s presence was a joy. Mikhail had heavy responsibilities. She didn’t know who he was, only that he was someone important. Obviously he was comfortable with his talents, unlike Raven, who still felt she was some kind of freak of nature. She wanted to be more like he was, confident, not caring what others thought.

  She knew very little of Romanian life. The rural populations were poor and superstitious. Yet they were a friendly people and truly artistic. Mikhail was different. She had heard of Carpathians; not Gypsies, but a people who were well educated, had money, and lived deep in the mountains and forests by choice. Was Mikhail their leader? Was that why he was so arrogant and aloof?

  The shower felt good on her body, rinsing away the heavy, groggy feeling. She dressed carefully, in jeans, a turtleneck, and a sweater. Even with the sunlight, it was cold in the mountains, and she intended to go exploring. Her neck throbbed and burned for a moment. She peeled back her top to examine the wound. It was a strange mark, like a teenager’s love bite, but more intense.

  She blushed at the memory of how he’d put it there. Did the man have to be sexy on top of everything else? And she could learn so much from him. She noticed that he was able to shield himself from the ever-present bombardment of emotions all the time. That would be such a miracle—to be able to simply sit in the middle of a crowded room and not feel anything but her own emotions.

  Raven pulled on her hiking shoes. A murder in this place! It was a sacrilege. The villagers must be frightened. As she passed through the doorway, she felt a curious shifting in the air. It felt as if she had to push through some unseen force. Mikhail again? Trying to lock her in? No. If he was capable of such a thing, the locks would stop her. More likely he was protecting her, locking others out. With his protective nature, he might have felt the need after hearing of the murder of that poor woman. The thought of him taking the time to protect and aid her made her feel cherished. Even more, torn by grief and rage at the senseless, hideous murder, Mikhail had still helped her go to sleep. She couldn’t remember anyone else ever doing such kindnesses for her.

  It was three in the afternoon—well past lunch but too soon for dinner—and Raven was hungry. In the kitchen the innkeeper obligingly fixed her a picnic dinner. Not once did the woman mention a murder. Indeed, she seemed totally oblivious of any such news. Raven found herself reluctant to broach the subject. It was strange; the innkeeper was so friendly and engaging—she even talked of Mikhail, a longtime friend of whom she spoke very highly—yet Raven could not bring herself to say a single word about the murder and what it meant to Mikhail.

  Outside, she shrugged into her backpack. She couldn’t sense the horror of murder anywhere. No one at the inn, no one in the street, seemed unduly upset. Puzzled, she looked up and down the street. Life went on as usual. She couldn’t have been wrong; the images had been strong, the grief wild and very real. The images of the murder itself were very detailed, unlike anything her imagination could conjure up.

  “Miss Whitney! It is Whitney, isn’t it?” A feminine voice called to her from several feet away.

  Margaret Summers hastened toward her, anxiety on her face. She was in her late sixties, frail, with gray hair and a down-to-earth, sensible way of dressing. “My dear, you’re so pale this morning. We all were so afraid for your safety. That young man carrying you off the way he did was very intimidating.”

  Raven laughed softly. “He does have a flair for drama, doesn’t he? I suppose he can be intimidating, although he’s an old friend and I suppose I’m used to him. He’s overanxious about my health. Believe me, Mrs. Summers, he watches over me very carefully. He really is a respectable businessman; ask anyone in the village.”

  “Are you ill, dear?” Margaret asked solicitously, moving closer so that Raven felt threatened by the woman moving into her personal space. She avoided physical contact as much as she could.

  “Recovering,” Raven said firmly, hoping it was true.

  “I have seen you before!” Margaret sounded excited. “You’re that extraordinary young lady who helped the police catch that murdering fiend in San Diego a month or so ago. What in the world would you be doing here, of all places?”

  Raven rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. “That type of work is very draining, Mrs. Summers. It sometimes makes me ill. It was a long chase, and I needed to get far away. I wanted to go somewhere remote and beautiful, somewhere steeped in history. Somewhere people didn’t recognize me and point me out like I was a freak of nature. The Carpathian Mountains are beautiful. I can hike, sit quietly, and let the wind blow all the memories of a sick mind out of my head.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Margaret put out her hand in concern.

  Raven sidestepped quickly. “I’m sorry; it bothers me to touch people after I follow a demented mind. Please understand.”

  Margaret nodded. “Of course, although I noticed your young man thought nothing of touching you.”

  Raven smiled, shrugging as casually as possible, eyeing the sky for the lightning that might strike her for lying so much. “I’m so used to him, I don’t think about it with him. He’s bossy, but he’s really good to me. We’ve known each other a while. You see, Mikhail travels quite a bit.” The lies rolled easily off her tongue. “I don’t want anyone to know about me, Mrs. Summers. I dislike publicity and need solitude right now. Please don’t tell anyone who I am.”

  “Of course not, dear, but do you think it’s safe to go wandering off by yourself? There are wild animals roaming these parts.”

  “Mikhail accompanies me on my little jaunts, and I certainly don’t go poking around in the wilds at night.”

  “Oh,” Margaret looked mollified. “Mikhail Dubrinsky? Everyone talks of him.”

  “I told you, he’s overprotective. Actually, he likes the innkeeper’s cooking,” she confided with a laugh, holding up the picnic basket. “I’d better get going, or I’ll be late.”

  Margaret stepped aside. “Do be careful, dear.”

  Raven gave a friendly wave and sauntered unhurriedly along the path that led through the woods, up the footpath into the mountains. Why had she felt compelled to lie? She liked her solitude, and had never felt the need to justify herself to anyone before. For some reason she didn’t want to discuss Mikhail’s life with anyone, least of all Margaret Summers. The woman seemed too interested in him. It wasn’t anything she said; it was in her eyes and voice. She could feel Margaret Summers watching her curiously until the path made an abrupt turn and the trees swallowed her up.

  Raven shook her head sadly. She was becoming such a recluse, not wanting to be close to anyone, not even a sweet older woman worried about her safety.

  “Raven! Wait up!”

  She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Where was the peaceful serenity of her remote wilderness? By the time Jacob caught up with her, she’d managed to plaster a smile on her face. “Jacob, I’m glad you recovered from that terrible choking spell last night. It was lucky the waiter knew the Heimlich maneuver.”

  Jacob scowled. “I didn’t choke on a piece of meat,” he said defensively, as if she were accusing him of bad table manners. “Everyone thinks so, but it wasn’t that.”

  “Really? The way the waiter grabbed you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Well, you didn’t stick around long enough to find out what happened,” he accused sulkily, his brows drawing together. “You just let that . . . that Neanderthal carry you off.”

  “Jacob,” she said gently, “you don’t know me; you know nothing about me or my life. For all you know, that man could be my husband. I was very ill last night. I�
��m sorry I didn’t stay, but once I could see you were fine, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to throw up all over the dining room.”

  “How do you know that man?” Jacob demanded jealously. “The locals say he’s the most powerful man in this region. He’s wealthy, owns all the petroleum rights. Which means he bribes the government here. Quite the businessman; very high-powered. How would you meet a man like that?”

  He was crowding close to her, and Raven was suddenly all too aware of how alone they were, how secluded their surroundings. He had a spoiled, petulant look, twisting his boyish good looks. He wasn’t touching her, but she was close enough to him to see into his twisted mind. She sensed something else—a kind of sick excitement in his guilty thoughts. She knew she was a big part of his perverse fantasies. Jacob was a rich boy thinking he could have any new toy he wanted.

  Raven felt a stirring in her mind. Raven? You fear for your safety. Mikhail was heavy with sleep, fighting his way up through the layers to the surface.

  Now she was worried. Mikhail was a question mark in her mind. She didn’t know what he would do, only that he felt protective toward her. For herself, for Mikhail, for Jacob, she needed to make Jacob understand that she wanted no part of him.

  I can handle this, she sent a sharp reassurance.

  “Jacob.” She used a firm schoolmarm tone. “I think you should leave and go back to the inn. I’m not the kind of woman to be bullied by your attitude. This is harassment, and I’ll have no compunction about registering a complaint with the local police, or whatever they’re called.” She held her breath. Deep inside her mind, she could feel Mikhail. Still like a predator.

  “Fine, Raven, sell yourself to the highest bidder like some whore. Try to find yourself a rich husband. He’ll use you and dump you, that’s what men like Dubrinsky do! The two of you deserve one another. And don’t come crying to me when he leaves you pregnant and alone.” Jacob shouted. He spat out a few additional ugly words and stomped away.

  Raven let out her breath slowly, thankfully. See—she forced laughter into her thoughts—I took care of the problem all by my little feminine self. Amazing, isn’t it?

  From the other side of a grove of trees, out of her sight, Jacob suddenly screamed in terror, the sound fading to a thin wail. The roar of an enraged bear mingled with Jacob’s second scream. Something heavy crashed through the underbrush in the opposite direction of Raven.

  She felt Mikhail’s laughter, low, amused, very male. Very funny, Mikhail. Jacob was broadcasting fear, but not pain. You have a questionable sense of humor.

  I need sleep. Quit getting into trouble, woman.

  If you wouldn’t stay up all night, you might not need to sleep the day away, she reprimanded. How do you get work done?

  A computer. He said it with a note of pride in his voice.

  A computer? So you are one of the lucky few.

  Yes. It takes up the entire desk but is quite handy.

  Now for certain she knew he was bragging. She found herself laughing at the thought of him with a computer. He didn’t seem to belong in an era with cars or computers. He seemed more like the villagers with their carts and horses, yet he knew more of the modern world than she did.

  Go back to sleep, you big baby. I can handle things just fine, thank you very much, without any great big he-man to protect me.

  I would much prefer that you return to the safety of the inn until I rise. There was the merest hint of command in his voice. He was trying to soften his manner with her, and she found herself smiling at his efforts.

  It isn’t going to happen, so learn to live with it.

  American women are very difficult.

  She continued on her way up the mountain, his laughter still playing softly in her head. She allowed the stillness of nature to seep into her mind. The birds sang to one another softly; the wind whispered through the trees. There were flowers of all colors carpeting the meadow, lifting their petals to the sky.

  Raven climbed higher, finding peace in her solitude. She perched on a craggy boulder up above a meadow surrounded by forests of thick trees. She ate her lunch and lay back, reveling in her surroundings.

  Four

  Mikhail stirred, allowing his senses to flare out and scan his surroundings. He lay in shallow earth, undisturbed. No human had come near his lair, and it was less than an hour to sunset. He burst from the earth into the cold, damp cellar. Even as he showered, adopting the human way to cleanliness, although it wasn’t necessary, his mind reached out to touch Raven’s. She was dozing in the mountains, unprotected, with the darkness gathering. He frowned. The woman had no idea of safety measures. He had an urge to shake her, yet more than that, he wanted to gather her up and hold her forever safe in his arms.

  He made his way out into the setting sun, climbing the mountain trails with the speed of his kind. The sun touched his skin, warmed his coolness, made him alive. The specially constructed dark glasses protected his ultrasensitive eyes, yet he still felt a pinprick of unease, as if a thousand needles were waiting to stab at his eyes. As he approached the rock where Raven slept, he caught the scent of another male.

  Rand. Mikhail bared his teeth. The sun dipped low beneath the edge of the mountain, cast a dark shadow across the rolling hills, and bathed the forest in murky secrets. Mikhail moved out into the open, his arms held out from his sides, his body a fluid combination of power and coordination. He was pure menace, a stalking demon, silent and lethal.

  Rand had his back to him, approaching the woman on the rock. Sensing the power in the air, he spun around, his handsome features grief-stricken and ravaged. “Mikhail—” His voice cracked, his eyes dropped. “I know you can never forgive me. You knew I was not a true lifemate to Noelle. She would not let me go. She threatened to kill herself if I left her, if I attempted to find another. Like a coward, I remained with her.”

  “Why do I find you crouched over my woman?” Mikhail snarled, fury rising until the bloodlust coiled in him like a living thing. Rand’s excuses sickened him, true though they might be. If Noelle had threatened to walk into the sun, the matter should have been brought before him. Mikhail had power enough to stop Noelle from her destructive behavior. Rand well knew that Mikhail was their prince, their leader, and although he had not shared blood with Rand, he still could read the male’s perverse pleasure in his sick relationship with Noelle, his dominance over her and her obsession.

  Behind them, Raven stirred, sat up, and shoved at her hair from long habit. She looked drowsy, sexy, a siren waiting for her lover. Rand had turned his head to look at her, and there was something sly and crafty in his expression. She felt Mikhail’s instant warning to be silent, Rand’s unrestrained grief, his jealousy and dislike of Mikhail, the thick tension between the two men.

  “Byron and Jacques told me this woman was under your protection. I could not sleep and knew she was alone without safeguards. I had to do something, or I would have chosen to join Noelle.” There was a plea for understanding, if not for forgiveness, yet Raven was unconvinced that Rand meant anything he said. She didn’t know why, because his sorrow was real. Perhaps he was desperate for Mikhail’s respect and knew he would not get it.

  “Then I am in your debt,” Mikhail said formally, working at controlling his loathing of a man who would leave a woman unprotected who had just given birth to his child just so he could return and deliberately torment her with another woman’s scent on him.

  Raven slid from her perch, a small, fragile woman with compassion in her enormous blue eyes. “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” she murmured softly, careful to keep her distance. This man was the murder victim’s husband. His guilt and grief crawled through her body with torturous intent, yet she worried for Mikhail. Something was not right with Rand. He was twisted inside; not evil, yet not completely right.

  “Thank you,” Rand said tersely, brushing aside her sympathy. He turned toward the prince. “I need my child, Mikhail.”

  “You need the healing earth,” Mi
khail disagreed calmly, implacable in his decision, merciless in his resolve. He would not turn over a precious, helpless baby to this male in his present state of mind.

  Raven’s stomach knotted, twisted, and pain went through her heart at the cruelty in those words. She only partially understood what Mikhail’s decree meant. This man, grieving for his murdered wife, was being deprived of his child, accepting Mikhail’s word as absolute law. She felt his deep pain as if it were her own, yet on some level she couldn’t help agreeing with Mikhail’s decision.

  “Please, Mikhail. I loved Noelle.” Instinctively, Raven knew Rand was not pleading for his child.

  Fury lent darkness to Mikhail’s features, cruelty to his mouth, a red glint to his eyes. “Do not speak of love to me, Rand. Go to the earth and heal. I will find this assassin and avenge my sister. No longer will I be swayed by sentiment. If I had not listened to her pleading, she would be alive today.”

  “I cannot sleep. It is my right to hunt.” Rand sounded defiant, sulky, like a child who wanted respect and equality, yet knew it would never come.

  A flicker of impatience, of menace, crossed Mikhail’s brooding features. “Then I will command you and give you the healing rest your body and mind require. As much as you would want to hunt the assassins, you are grief-stricken and bound to make mistakes.” His voice was as soft and neutral as ever. If it hadn’t been for the fury burning in his black eyes, Raven would have thought him gentle and caring toward the man. “We cannot afford to lose you, Rand.” His voice softened to velvet, enticed, commanded. You will sleep, Rand. You will go to Eric and have him prepare you, guard you. You will remain until you are no longer a threat to yourself or others.

  Raven was shocked and alarmed at the absolute power in his voice, the power he wielded as if it were his due. Mikhail’s voice alone could produce a hypnotic trance. No one questioned his authority, even over so grave a decision as keeping a child. She bit at her lip, confused over her feelings. He was right about the baby. She sensed something wrong in Rand, yet that a grown man would obey Mikhail’s order—had to obey his orders—frightened her. No one should have such a voice, such a gift. Something so strong could be misused, could easily corrupt the one who wielded it.