This woman had changed him for all time, changed his world, and where there was no feeling for as long as he could remember, now his entire focus, his entire being was centered on Marguarita’s soft body, the blood pulsing through her veins and the feminine scent of her calling to the male in him.

He found he couldn’t resist the temptation of tasting her, she smelled so good, a lure he couldn’t resist. Her body went pliant, molding to his. Immediately his senses became acute, lost, drowning even, in the biochemical signals of a female calling for a mate. He shifted her closer to him, smoothing her hair away from her neck. He bent his head and licked over that strawberry mark that told the world she belonged to him.

His body shuddered in anticipation. Actually shuddered. He felt as if the world stood still, as if he held his breath, waiting a heartbeat, savoring the feel of her, the scent and the incandescent beauty of her color, because—oh stars and moon above—he saw her color. Beautiful, unbelievable color.

Overcome with unfamiliar need, Zacarias sank his teeth deep into her flesh, connecting them together. The pure essence that was Marguarita flowed into his mouth like the sweetest nectar. She tasted exotic, exquisite . . . she tasted. Nothing had ever tasted. He fed because he needed life and life was blood. In that single moment, life was Marguarita.

His entire body hummed, his veins sang with joy. She was a musical instrument, playing a song written expressly for him. He knew he was the only man to hear her beautiful notes. He knew he couldn’t keep her. He was caught in a half-life and he couldn’t condemn her to such a thing. But he’d never truly known life, so right then, in that time and place, it was enough, it was everything to him.

Marguarita was a drug in his system, as fluid as fire, rushing through his veins and filling him with a kind of primordial burst of radiance. The world around him was dull and lifeless, a stark contrast to her jewel-bright glittering eyes and shining blue-black hair. She was color and life, the reason every warrior fought against the plague that was vampire. She was his reason. He saw that in an instant. Tasted the truth in his mouth. Felt it vibrate through his body.

He would always know exactly where she was at all times now, what part of the house, and what she was doing—even what she was thinking. He would know how many times she frowned, or raised her chin in stubbornness, bit her delicious lower lip or smiled. He was very aware of her as a woman, with her feminine fragrance, and he would always be aware of the exact moment when she turned her head and looked at him—and when she thought of someone else—because he would never again be out of her mind completely when he was near her—not until he ended his existence.

Lost as he was in overwhelming real emotion for the first time in his existence, he didn’t catch the exact moment everything changed for her. One moment she was with him, burning in the erotic fire, and the next, she was fighting. Daring to fight him. Rejecting him completely. She triggered every hunting instinct he had—and his were honed well over a thousand years. Hunting was bred into his very bones, into his soul. He heard the warning growl rumbling in his throat and felt himself take an unbreakable lock on her now tense body.

She made no sound, but he sensed she was terrified. She struggled wildly and he locked her to him roughly, his body aggressive. It had been well over a thousand years since anyone or anything had ever defied him. In truth, he couldn’t remember a time, and she aroused his every need to conquer and control.

His reaction was again more animal than man, but it was all male. He had absorbed her rich fragrance, felt her soft pliant body melting into his, and his world had changed. He didn’t want that feeling to ever end, yet it already had and very abruptly. Her scent enveloped him—and this time there was no feminine allure. She was terrified of him. He loathed the scent immediately.

Do not fight me. He was too much the predator and there was no way to ignore the strong instincts demanding he subdue his prey.

Her rich blood flowed into his system, an electrical charge, sizzling through veins and pumping more hot blood into his groin until he was full and hard and even painful. He was experiencing the most pleasure he’d ever felt while Marguarita was utterly and completely terrified. Her body had gone stiff, tense, her mind screaming a protest. Her lungs burned for air. He could tell she was almost shutting down completely with her fear—of him.

His arms were iron bars, locking her to him. Her soundless scream filled his mind. He reached again. Embε karmasz—please.

He could not remember a time he had ever pleaded with anyone for anything, but it was imperative she stop fighting him, and even more imperative that she once again feel the things he was feeling. He could override the barriers placed in her mind at birth, barriers obviously strengthened with each generation. But he only used his powers to calm his prey, and she wasn’t prey. It felt wrong to take over her mind and plant feelings and memories that weren’t real.

It must have been the inflection in his voice, that soft pleading in his own language that penetrated her terror, because he felt her sudden resolve, the way she drew a ragged breath into her lungs and forced her body into stillness. Immediately he was able to lift his head, draw his tongue over the punctures in her neck to close the wounds. He held her tight to him, hearing the beat of her heart, feeling the rapid pounding against his chest. He buried his face in her thick silken hair and just held her, breathing for both of them.

He whispered to her in his own language, barely knowing what he was saying to her, feeling the words from deep inside in a place he’d never touched, never been and didn’t even know existed. She tapped into some reservoir of tenderness unknown to him—so unknown he had no real idea what to do with it. He was an ancient Carpathian, one of the oldest, one of the most knowledgeable—and he was completely out of his depth.

“Te avio päläfertiilam—You are my lifemate, a woman above all others. You hold what is left of my soul in the palms of your hands. I would kill another for you. I intend to die to protect and keep you safe. Do not fear me, Marguarita. I wish only to enjoy a few nights with you. Do not be afraid anymore.”

Shocked at what he was imparting to her, even though she couldn’t completely understand what he was trying to convey, he kept his face buried in her fragrant hair and held her tight to him, trying to find a way to comfort both of them. He was prepared for any battle—but that of the heart. He was completely and utterly out of his depth for the first time in his life.

Marguarita’s heart slowed to the pace of his. Her lungs followed the lead of his. She shifted against him, tilting her head to look up at him. His heart staggered, and then dropped to his feet in a rushing plummet. Tears swam in her eyes.

Tears had never moved him. In truth, he had never thought about what they meant or why people cried. Sorrow was far removed from his existence, but suddenly, those tears were a knife through his heart, far worse than any vampire ripping through his flesh.

She dropped her head just as quickly, but not before he caught the flash of apprehension.

Zacarias frowned. “Why do you fear my taking your blood? It is natural.”

He felt her heart jump against him and he kept her locked in the cage of his arms because he needed the reassurance of her heart beating, the warmth and softness of her. He wanted her capitulation, but not like this. His fingers found her chin and tilted it once again, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes searched his, looking for something—reassurance maybe—that he wouldn’t be angry if she told him the truth.

“Tell me,” he insisted quietly. “Do not fear the truth.” Because he had to know. Understanding her reasoning was as necessary as breathing, which was a strange sensation—to need so much to comprehend why she fought him.

It took her a few moments to muster the courage to answer him.

He caught the impression of a wild beast attacking her. He hadn’t considered that his taking her blood would be construed as an assault on her. Her entire family knew the Carpathians existed on blood. They were sworn to provide for him, for his brothers and their lifemates.

“I would not harm you.”

Her hand crept up to cover the spot on her neck where his mark was the color of a bright strawberry with two distinct impressions of punctures. I know.

The impression she sent him was mixed. She didn’t know. She didn’t fully comprehend she really was the safest person on the planet. He was her guardian. Her protector. He would see to it that she was safe at all times. Even from herself, which looked to be his biggest job. But first, they had to get past her fears of giving blood.

“You do not know. You fear me.” Lies between them would not be tolerated, and lying to herself was even worse.

She swallowed hard and reluctantly nodded, pressing her palm harder against his bite as if it hurt her. His frown deepened. Had he hurt her? There was a natural numbing agent in his saliva, shouldn’t that keep any human from feeling pain in the process? He’d never really interacted as his brothers had with the species other than to take blood, or if he had done so, he remembered none of it. Perhaps he had felt nothing for so long even his memory was faulty. Even the men and women, who for generation after generation had served his family willingly, avoided him—and he them.

“It hurts you?”

Her first reaction was to nod, but he saw her expression change. It was her turn to frown as if she couldn’t quite decide.

“Show me how it feels.”

She turned her face into his chest and bit him—hard. The pain flashed through him and he cut it off automatically, shocked that she’d dared to do such a thing to him. No one ever put their hands—or teeth—on him. It just wasn’t done.

“What are you doing, kislány kuηenak—little lunatic?”

A wealth of satisfaction poured off her and he found that strange feeling of happiness—and laughter—welling up out of nowhere as it seemed to do so unexpectedly around her. She bit him and he did find it a little bit funny. “I did not give you permission to bite me. I meant in your head. Show me the feeling of pain.”

He stroked his hand down the long fall of silken midnight black hair. Now, even more than before, it was a true black, so shiny he could barely tear his gaze from it. “I do not feel pain.”

His hold on her tightened. What was she doing, putting herself in such a position that she would not only feel her own pain, but his as well? “I do not understand you, Marguarita. You make no sense to me. You fear I will cause you pain and then you deliberately connect to my mind to feel any pain you might cause me. Is that in any way reasonable?”

Her gaze remained locked for a long time with his. A slow smile brought his attention to her perfect, sexy mouth. His body responded aggressively again, a surge of hot blood rushing through his system to pool in one place. Her eyes had gone soft, that champagne melting to dark chocolate, a sea of glittering diamonds he feared he wanted to fall into. It was forbidden to him. He knew and accepted that. He was as shadowed as the flock of birds flying over the ranch searching for him—sent by the most evil of creatures walking the earth.

He had never known gentleness or tenderness. There was no give to him, no soft spaces inside of him and there never had been. Indeed, he’d been born without such attributes. Instead, he’d been born pure dominance and he had grown in a time of war and uncertainty into a solitary hunter incapable of caring about hurting another as long as he achieved his ultimate goal—the protection of his species. His belief in himself was absolute and those he protected believed even more.

That a man protected his woman above all else was a sacred law, and that she followed his lead without question was his only way of life, yet in the modern world that was no longer so. Perhaps it never had been. He was without civility and no amount of manners would soften what he was—a killer. He made no apologies for his ways and he never would. Perhaps in another time, long before this one, he would have tried to reconcile what he was with who he would need to be for her—but that time was long, long gone. It was impossible.

Her gaze remained locked with his. He took solace in the beauty of her. And the courage of her. She faced him in spite of her fears. She had saved him and when it came time for him to go, she would face his passing with equal courage. He would make it as easy on her as possible, although she would never know the cost to him. Her gaze searched for something in him, something he knew wasn’t there. He couldn’t give her gentle reassurance and promises of polite, courteous behavior. He didn’t even know those rules. He captured her face, holding her gaze to his.

“Make me understand.”

She licked her lower lip and he had a sudden urge to lean down and draw her tongue into his mouth—to savor her again—that indescribable taste he now craved in a new and different way. Because he spoke in commands, it came out that way, but he wanted her to want to help him understand.

He scowled at her, shook his head in utter denial, in disgust that she would think such a thing. “It was a lesson—and one you desperately needed. He was foul, and he tore out your throat. He would have killed you for his own pleasure. If you were not so . . .” Dim-witted. The word vibrated between them, hovered right there in their minds. He cleared his throat as her eyes grew into a stormy brew. “So—stubborn—you would see the difference between us without effort and you would have no further need of a reminder that obedience must be instant and without question. That one lesson should be sufficient for a lifetime. It is not a good thing to cross me.”

“You should be afraid. When a hunter demands something of you, it is for a reason. Usually life and death are involved. Better you remember for all time than to ever hesitate.”

Her eyes had gone wide, dark, enormous, those feathery lashes fluttering nervously. But she didn’t look away. His body reacted to her question, his muscles coiled, something deadly moving across his soul. Her mind softened when she thought of Julio. She had warmth in her mind, complete trust. Things that should only be there for one man—her mate—not some childhood friend.

His gaze remained locked on hers. He would tell his woman only the truth. “It is not reasonable for a man to allow other males around his woman. The animals in the jungle do not tolerate such things.”

He watched carefully as she caught her breath. She wasn’t dim-witted by any means. He was telling her she belonged to him and the understanding was in that quickly veiled expression. She was silent a moment, her eyes searching his for that something elusive he didn’t know how to give—would never know how to give.

He wanted there to be no mistakes between them. No misunderstanding. “I am.”

She shook her head in silent denial, but she recognized the killer in him.

“You know what I am, Marguarita. I cannot be anything other than what I am.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Moistened her lips.

He ran his hand down the dark silken fall of her hair and was surprised at the gentleness with which he touched her—and the strange softening inside of him. “You know that is not true.”

She took a breath, and he once again smelled fear, but this time, it was tinged with something else—interest perhaps. She was not completely immune to him and it disturbed her.

“There is more than servant and master between us as much as you wish to deny it. But for now, that will do. I do not want you to fear my taking your blood. I will be more careful of your fragility.”

She blinked several times and would have stepped away but he glided closer, without seeming to move, blocking her escape. Her eyes mesmerized him, going from that sparkling champagne to a dark warm chocolate. The difference was striking to him. “I believe you were about to drink your tea and eat your meal.”

She glanced at the food on the counter and shook her head. He got the immediate impression of cold. He waved his hand and steam rose from the cup as well as the plate. Her smile was tentative and almost shy, but he found the contrast of her decidedly pink lips and white teeth beautiful. Her eyes were fully brown now, the color rich and melting. Now he could see intriguing flecks of gold. The gold could have been the stars in the midnight sky of her eyes earlier, sparkling like diamonds before he could discern the true color.

She picked up the teacup and plate and he stepped back, giving her just enough room that she would have to brush his body as she made her way to the table. She was careful, her hand trembling just a bit as she set the stoneware down. He knew he would always see every nuance, the smallest detail, stay focused and aware of her every movement, right down to the flutter of her eyelashes.

She sat down and watched him for a moment, still nervous, as if she were trapped in a cage with a great jungle cat. He prowled closer, unable to resist a rumbling growl, knowing her eyes would go wide, and then she would smile at him. It came, that slow, melting smile that seemed to ripple through his body, gentle at first, and then gathering force until she was all heat and fire rushing straight to his groin.

She took a sip of tea. Stop doing that. You do it to scare me.

For the first time, the impression of laughter was strong, filling his mind. It wasn’t just tentative amusement. He had been the one to deliberately tease her and she’d responded. He found great satisfaction in knowing she was aware he’d been teasing her. It was one of a million concepts he’d never understood before, but he wanted her smile and he had to do something to get past her fear.

“You are not really that afraid of me right now,” he declared, and continued to stalk through the room.

The kitchen was spacious enough that he had plenty of room, but he had rarely—if ever—spent any real time inside an enclosure other than a mountain, and the walls felt inhibiting to him. He couldn’t scent the air. He couldn’t continually gather information.

He stopped moving abruptly. He found it interesting that she had known the birds were tainted by evil and that they’d crossed her mind just after he’d been thinking of them in conjunction with the shadows permeating his own mind and body.

“I am unused to being indoors. Does it bother you to have me moving around?”

She took a bite of her egg, watching him carefully. Eventually she shook her head. You look very powerful and you tend to dominate the room. I think I’m getting a little more used to you and the fluid way you move, like a hunter.

“I am a hunter.” He wanted to get accustomed to her ways. There was grace in her hand gestures. In the tilt of her head and the way she sat. He liked the quiet rustle of her skirts and the way her thick hair cascaded like a silken waterfall down her back to her narrow waist. Her hair fascinated him. It seemed so alive, always moving, shimmering, the colors deepening the longer he was in her company.

He read fear for the others. He could see she refused to think about what was going to happen to her. More than anything else, he read fear for him. She was afraid for him and that made no sense. She should want him to lead vampires far from her and the hacienda, but he could see her reluctance for him to be found. He even caught the impression of himself in the ground, as if he should hide.

He forced himself to cross the room and pull out a chair opposite her. “Do you really wish to know the truth of the birds? Of the De La Cruz family? If you ask me, I will give you truth, so be careful what you wish for.”

She took another sip of tea, studying his face thoughtfully over the rim. Her gaze had gone very serious and in her mind, he felt her weigh his words. Her nod was slow, but quite firm.

“After the attack on you, it was discovered that the masterminds behind the plot to assassinate the prince of the Carpathian people had gathered an army together and they intended to carry out their battle plan against the prince, testing their plans first on one of my family’s properties. We were convinced—and we were correct—in thinking it would be on our largest holding in Brazil. Most of my family and their lifemates are gathered there and it was a logical place to try to get us all in one sweep.” He bared his teeth. “They did not expect me to be present.”

She moistened her lips. Parted them. He lost his train of thought. She blinked several times. Her eyelashes were a thick, long feathery sweep he found himself admiring. He’d never really noticed such details on another being. She frowned at him, her winged eyebrows drawing in, little lines appearing for an instant and dissolving as the indentation in her right cheek was prone to do when her smile faded.

“They thought they had. They had not counted on me or another warrior, Dominic. Nor had they considered that the women would fight—or the humans.” Just the brief encounter with Marguarita’s wounds after the harpy eagle had carried her through the sky, tearing her flesh with its talons, had made him so much more aware of the fragility of humans—and yet his people there had gone willingly into battle to defend the property.

He jerked his head up. “Are you reading my thoughts?”

He shook his head to deny the charge. He felt nothing. His mind turned over his new understanding as fact, storing it away with all the other pieces of information he had collected in his long lifespan. But emotions had no place in his world.

Did they know what they were facing? She urged an answer.

He nodded his head. “Nicolas spoke to them all and gave them the option to leave. It was recommended that women and children be moved. They refused. They stayed, although my brother made it clear that we would suffer casualties and any who left would not forfeit their rights to continue to work for us. A full assault had never been planned and launched by vampires, and we knew the battle would be brutal.”

“I will not.” He said the words quietly.

Slow color slipped under her skin. Her gaze jumped to his. He felt her inquiry and there was a tinge of hurt attached.

“War is not for you. You had an encounter with a vampire and one is more than enough. They will never get close to you again as long as I am alive.”

Marguarita put down her fork and studied his face. I work for your family. We are sworn to protect you, señor, and I will, as will the others who work here. We are every bit as courageous and as loyal as those who serve you in Brazil.

It took him a moment to assimilate the jumble of impressions she sent. He had offended her. “You misunderstand me. I am well aware of your loyalty and courage. I know you have every intention of protecting me . . .” He had thought to find the idea not only ludicrous but dim-witted and simple-minded. A childhood fantasy. But he found his thoughts had changed with knowing her. He couldn’t help being secretly pleased that although she feared him, she had in fact raced to call in the hunters to destroy him, that at the thought of vampires coming for him, her thoughts were fiercely protective of him. Feelings were odd things and difficult to accept in himself as well in others. Emotions clearly complicated everything.

She sketched a question mark in the air between them. He shook his head and refused to answer. He wanted her mind firmly in his. He demanded nothing less from her. Their ability to communicate grew each time she formed pictures and impressions of the words she wanted to speak. He would be different than her human companions. With him, she could “speak” without her actual voice. The intimacy of it pleased him.

“You will obey me in this, Marguarita, without question.”

He deliberately held her gaze for a moment so she could see there would be swift retaliation if she dared to defy his order outright. And knowing her strange infirmity for doing the opposite of anything smacking of a command, he would be watching her very closely for defiance. He waited until she looked away first before continuing.

“We killed every one of the vampires sent after us, as well as the puppets they created. The masterminds have no time to raise another army to bring against me. Rather, I suspect, they will nip at my flanks to weaken me and then one will come to attempt to destroy me. They will have learned their lesson by now.”

This time the question mark was meticulously drawn in his mind. He found that warm bubble of laughter rising. She’d been so obviously annoyed at the word obey. The way she squirmed a little in her chair and tried so carefully to hide her irritation from him was rather endearing. He might just have to throw that word into the conversation often to see what eventually happened. If anyone would dare to surprise him, it was obviously going to be Marguarita.

“They like to be safe and sacrifice their pawns. Two of the five masters were destroyed. There are three left. If they want me dead, only a master has a chance of defeating me. Not just any master, one of the Malinov brothers must come for me.”

A shiver went through her. Her warm brown eyes went very dark. He leaned forward to peer into those enormous, dove-soft eyes.

“There is no need to be afraid. I welcome his coming. Should he defeat me, he will have too great a fear of my brothers to remain close.”

Abruptly she pushed her chair back, rose and took her unfinished meal and the teacup to the sink where she meticulously washed and dried them, her back to him. It was a silly human gesture, turning her back, as if that could possibly keep him out of her mind. There was no way to retreat from him now that he had discovered her—shared her mind and exquisite blood with him.

“I speak only the truth to you.”

She swung around, her back to the sink, her face so expressive his heart clenched down hard like a vise. This time, when the pain flashed through his body, he made a conscious effort to feel it, to allow it into his mind. Her eyes swam with tears, turning all that beautiful dark to a fathomless pool. It was impossible to fully comprehend the jumble of impressions in her chaotic mind, but she was upset and he’d somehow managed again to be the one to upset her.

Zacarias sighed. Females were difficult at best; one never knew what they were going to do from one moment to the next. They were without logic or reason. At least this one was. He hadn’t been around any others for any significant amount of time so maybe others were different, but this woman made no sense to him.

“Stop that,” he ordered abruptly, pressing his palm hard over his heart as if he could heal the ache her tears caused.

Stop what? She looked confused.

He watched both fascinated and horrified as one tear tipped over her feathery bottom lashes and ran down her face. His heart stuttered. “That,” he snarled.

He stepped close, crowding her. Waves of distress poured off of her. There was no sound, not even a small one, but he was aware of every tiny thing about her and deep inside where no one else would ever see, she was weeping.

Acidic poison from vampire blood could not kill him. Torture. Mortal wounds. He had endured them all and survived, but this . . . this silent weeping by this woman for him—and God help both of them, it was for him—was too much. He might dissolve into a puddle at her feet. Entirely unacceptable and disturbing that she could wield such a powerful sword against him.

He dragged her against him, his body without give, with no soft edges to it, so that the air rushed out of her lungs and she had to catch at his arms to steady herself. He needed to hold her to him, without a clear idea of why, but he couldn’t look at her tear-drenched eyes another moment. One hand passed over her face, wiping away all evidence. He brought his palm to his mouth and tasted her tears.

“Of course I can. And by all that’s holy, this one time, you will obey me.” Palming the back of her head, he pressed her face tight against his chest.

At first she was tense and stiff, but within moments, as the heat of his body seeped into the cold of hers, she went soft and pliant in his arms. He should have allowed her to step back away from him, but it was easier to maintain some semblance of control over her when he held her. In truth, his arms had become an iron cage and he wasn’t altogether certain if he was consciously or subconsciously holding her to him, but found he couldn’t drop his arms. He brushed his hand down the length of her hair.

Few modern women seemed to have long hair anymore. A long-ago memory surfaced as he buried his face in those silken strands. Women walking by in long dresses, chatting, vessels of water in their hands as they made their way back to camp. He had noted them because they seemed so happy. Three days later when he retraced his steps looking for where he’d lost the trail of the vampire, the same women lay in a torn and bloody heap in the mud, their eyes staring up at the red moon, their faces like wax, their hair in twisted dirty hanks.

Don’t. Marguarita suddenly wound her arms around him and held him to her.

The gesture was so unexpected and shocking he nearly stepped away from her. He had held her captive, but now, although she was far weaker than a male Carpathian, she seemed to have taken him over.

He rubbed his chin on the top of her head. Strands of hair tangled with the heavy shadow on his jaw, almost as if her hair could weave them together. “Why are you so upset?”

Her fist clenched and she hit his chest in a small rhythmic drumming. He doubted she even knew what she was doing, or surely she wouldn’t dare to strike him. It was hardly more than a tap so he chose to ignore her indiscretion, puzzled by the things she said. He covered her fist with his palm and pressed until she became still.

“I do not feel, Marguarita, as much as I would like to. I have even lost my memories. These things you speak may have existed in another lifetime—long ago—but I no longer have recollection of them.”

How could she feel his pain when he didn’t feel it? Was she simply projecting her own feelings onto him? The connection between them grew stronger each time they used it, but still, it would be impossible for her to feel what he did not.

“Show me,” he whispered against her ear. “Show me what you see in me.”

One minute he was Zacarias De La Cruz. Carpathian warrior. Hunter. Alone. He was ice inside. Brittle and cold. Glaciers moved in his veins. And then she poured into him like warm thick honey, filling up every empty space inside him. Finding every dark corner, every secret tear and rip inside his mind. That warm honey spread through the ice, finding every broken connection, building bridges, filling the holes, restoring broken connections.

Electricity sizzled, arced and snapped in his head. He felt her every breath. Inhaled with her. Her heart beat and it was inside his own chest. She was inside of him until everything he was, everything he was about was filled with Marguarita, filled with all that warmth. With her blinding light. The heat melted the ice encasing him, melted faster than any barricade he could throw up to stop it.

He blinked rapidly, feeling her holding him close, filling more and more spaces with herself until for the first time he was complete. He wasn’t alone. Stars burst in his head, opened like a primordial mix, rushing at him so fast at first he couldn’t grasp what he was seeing.