Her eyes were drenched in tears. Enormous, beautiful, chocolate eyes. Her gaze locked on to him, and he saw her catch her breath. Her breasts rose and fell in a soft, feminine movement. She swallowed as if something was lodged in her throat. Her fingers were twisted so tightly together they were white. But it was her face he focused on.

She stared at him for what seemed eternity. Very slowly she stood up, feeling her way up the wall, her eyes wide, moving over him inch by inch, looking for damage. Carefully inspecting him. When her gaze returned to his face, she took the few steps to stand in front of him. Her hands framed his face and then slid over him, a touch of her fingers, feather light, but the obvious caress sent a jolt through his body.

A mixture of emotions crossed her face, so easy to read. She couldn’t speak, but her feelings were transparent. Relief. Joy. Fear. It was all there, but his heart took up a rhythmic beat when he hadn’t even realized it was stuttering along with his ragged breathing.

He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck and drew her body close to his, holding her head against his chest, slipping his arm around her to feel her body against his. She melted into him, her arms circling his waist. She held him as if comforting him, or comforting herself. And maybe both of them needed comfort. He rested his head on the top of hers and let her peace seep into his mind and heart. She hadn’t looked at him as if he was a monster. She was afraid, but for him, not of him. Perhaps having a beautiful lunatic for a lifemate was the perfect solution for a lost man like him. She didn’t know enough to fear him.

Holding her wasn’t enough. He needed her inside of him. “Come into me, sívamet. I need you inside me.” He whispered the invitation into the cloud of midnight blue-black hair.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. He felt himself falling. The ground under his feet shifted. She came into him slow, like warm molasses, thick and perfect, filling him with her brightness, filling the holes in his heart and soul, bridging the broken connections and driving the shadows out. She filled him with—her. Her spirit moved against his. His soul recognized hers. She became the rhythm of his heart.

Zacarias had never needed anything or anyone. Now he couldn’t do without her. She made him as vulnerable as a new baby. He knew forever. He’d lived forever, but now, with her, with Marguarita, everything was different. Forever wasn’t going to even be close to long enough with her. He blinked several times, the colors in the darkened room so vivid and bright they hurt his eyes. Marguarita was color, all those intense, beautiful hues that burst in front of his eyes when she was in him.

Using the hand wrapped around her throat, he forced her head up so that her dark eyes were compelled to meet his. His heart stuttered in his chest. His body trembled. He felt as if he’d been hit by a tsunami and he was being swept away, drowning. Perhaps he’d been drowning all along and had never noticed the sensation until her mind connected all the dots, but now, he knew the water had closed over his head and he was under.

There was only Marguarita in his world. Marguarita with her soft skin and the light she poured into his dark soul. It was a strange thing for a man who had spent lifetimes utterly alone to need. It was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but the need was greater than anything else in his world. She was so fragile, so vulnerable. He could crush her easily, yet she had all the power.

Drowning in her eyes, a rush of fire swept through him. Need became physical, leaping from his mind to his body, a dangerous flame, so hot and so raw every muscle tensed as hot blood rushed with the fire from every point in his body to fill his groin with a terrible, clawing demand. Lust burned deep and gut-wrenching. Where before, his need had been hunger, now it was for Marguarita. All of her, her blood, her body, mind and heart and soul. He needed.

She brought him life. She made him experience what he could not. Pain. Pleasure. Sorrow. Laughter. Rage. Joy. She was life. She was now his life. His everything. He couldn’t live without the emotions and colors she brought to him, or the soft slide of her mind against his, the warmth that melted all that ice in his veins. He needed.

She caressed his shadowed jaw with her fingertips and that slight touch, that whisper of a burning caress, ignited something raw and primal deep within him. Lust and hunger hit with a brutal punch, a vicious clawing need in his belly, filling his groin until he hurt beyond all reason.

He lifted her chin and took her mouth without preamble. No soft kiss. No gentle tenderness. He took what was his, claiming her mouth for his own. “I need to be inside of you. Deep inside you. Do you understand, Marguarita?”

It was an impossible question. How could she possibly understand? The world he lived in and the one she offered him were in complete contrast to one another. He understood one and needed the other. For a Carpathian hunter, needing was the worst possible obsession.

His kiss roughened as hidden emotions welled up, a volcano, long suppressed, building and building inside of him. Anger at her for having such a hold on him. She had claimed she was no witch, but the spell was stronger than any he had ever encountered, the web more beautiful but no less lethal than any trap ever sprung on him. He was caught. By this. By her. Marguarita. His fingers dug deep into her shoulders and he gave her a little shake, the anger building by the moment.

She had dragged him away from eternal rest, forced him to face his past, the memories long buried—and forgotten. He’d put those things in a vault and locked them up tight never to revisit them. She opened floodgates and, sun scorch her, he was addicted to her and those vivid intense emotions she allowed him to feel.

He realized those few moments after killing the vampires, when the horses rejected him, when the cattle turned away, shunning him, preferring the unknown to coming near him, he had been terror-struck. He hadn’t connected those feelings until she’d poured into him, but she’d reduced him to that. A warrior beyond all measure, and he’d been nearly brought to his knees at the thought that she might turn away from him.

His mouth took hers over and over, long hot, rough kisses. He didn’t give her a chance to breathe, to pull away, to be anything but what he wanted her to be. His. Only his. All his. She leaned into him, giving herself, but it wasn’t enough for him. He could hear the growls rumbling in his throat, but he couldn’t stop. The force inside him demanded she give him everything.

He used his hands to rid her of her clothing, his enormous strength, brutally ripping her blouse and tearing off her skirt to get at her soft skin. He became a frenzied madman, desperate to remove every barrier between him and her body. She didn’t question him, but stood still under his rough hands, until he’d stripped her bare.

He paused for one moment looking down at her naked body, all soft curves and feminine heat. This woman was his only salvation, his only way to go on living and stay sane. She was his sanity, his life, and he would demand impossible things of her, but he couldn’t give her up, no matter that it might be the honorable thing to do. He was too far gone. With a small groan and a wave of his hand to remove his own clothes, he took her mouth again.

He sank into all that heat and silken promise. His tongue slid along hers. He filled her mouth the way he wanted to fill her body, hard and deep, holding her still for his assault on her senses. He kissed his way down her face to her throat, his tongue flicking over the bites he left along her skin, a trail of his possession. His hand found the soft weight of her breast and he cupped paradise in his palm, his teeth and tongue and lips finding the path to the creamy swell.

He lapped at her frantic pulse. Her felt her grow still, her body trembling. He lapped at her nipple and bit gently with his teeth, then harder, tugging, arousing her, sending lightning streaking through her body. He felt that reaction, and lifted her, growling, desperate for her.

“Wrap your legs around my waist and lock your ankles. Put your hands around my neck.” His gruff order was barely audible.

She sucked in her breath, knowing how open she would be to him, but she obeyed without hesitation. He closed his eyes, feeling her warm, slick heat on his belly. She pulsed against him and he felt the answering jerk in his cock. He was desperate to be inside her haven, to bury and lock himself there, away from the rest of the world. Away from blood and death. He chose life and he chose Marguarita.

His fingers flexed on her hips, her only warning, and he slammed her down over this surging erection. He was so thick and hard, he drove through her tight folds. The feeling burst through him, the moon rising over the river, spreading through his body to take over every cell. Her sheath was scorching hot, searing him to his soul, driving out every shadow, the exquisite pleasure pounding through his veins. He held her, his hands driving her down over him mercilessly, his hips rising to meet that velvet soft fiery paradise. He was lost for a time, lost in the ecstasy, pounding into her, turning so he could lean her back against the wall and continue driving like a jackhammer, feeling every stroke through his body, every ripple of hers.

Her breath turned into ragged gasps, her breasts bouncing against him, nipples rubbing over his chest. Her hair was everywhere, brushing over his skin in a sensuous fall. He let himself go, let the monster reign, gave him power. He took her savagely, taking everything for himself, his pleasure, his need driving him.

He nuzzled at her neck, wanting more, but he couldn’t get to her with her head lying on his shoulder. Put your head back, he commanded.

She complied immediately, throwing her head back. Her breasts jutted toward him, a beautiful sight, bouncing with every hard surge and thrust. She had no choice but to ride him, he refused to allow her respite, even when her body tightened and spasmed around his, again and again. He simply drove her higher. Taking her without inhibition. Needing this. Needing—everything, wanting to feel her orgasm again and again, wanting the pleasure bursting behind his eyes and rushing up his legs to center in his groin.

His head was filled with erotic lust, need driving need. He managed to remember to swipe his tongue over her neck before he bit deep. The taste of her burst into his mouth, his mind, rushed like a fireball into his groin. Her body went into another orgasm, one right after the other, her sheath gripping so tight she was strangling him. He could hear her gasps, and pleas for mercy from somewhere in his mind, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He couldn’t leave that inferno of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His haven. He was lost there. Mindless.

He wanted to consume her, be part of her, live inside her skin. Feel this. This perfect place, perfect moment, with her pleas for mercy and his body serving hers, giving her more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed or imagined. She would always know she was his. No one else could ever do these things to her body. Make her feel as he did. He could take all the power back, leave her stripped and as vulnerable as he was.

This was his obsession. This was his brand of ownership. This was—love. The realization of what he was doing swept over him. Shocked him. Utterly shocked him. He was loving her. Trying to say without words the intensity of what he felt for her. How could he possibly say it when he didn’t recognize the feeling? It was only here, deep in her body, that he knew absolutely the stark, raw truth. This wasn’t punishment for giving him life. This wasn’t ownership or possession or obsession. This was love. His love, as rough and raw and untamed as it was. The rage inside of him, welling up like a volcano, threatening to explode, to destroy both of them—that was his love for her. He was saying with his body what he didn’t know how to say with his words. He was worshiping her. Giving himself to her, burning up in her fire.

He swept his tongue across the bright strawberry on her neck and lifted his head to look into her eyes as he felt the volcano take him, sweeping him up in a rocketing eruption, killing him with fierce, hot pleasure so that he was reborn, remade. A phoenix rising from the ashes. And sun scorch him, he should have been more careful with her.

Her soft admonishment slid into his mind. Love me any way you want, Zacarias. I feel your love in everything you do to me. I don’t need the words. I don’t need gentle. Yes, sometimes I’m a little afraid, but I know you won’t ever hurt me. She rested her head on his shoulder, her body surrounding his, almost melting into him so that they did feel as if they had the same skin. Her hair was damp. So was his skin.

He held her close until their hearts slowed from the dangerous high to a more controlled beat. He kissed that sweet spot, the junction between her neck and shoulder, over and over and then swept up her throat to find her mouth.

He had never apologized to anyone in his life. I am sorry, I should have been more careful with you. It was easier to push the words into her mind, rather than say them aloud. He felt so much a part of her, his cock still deep inside her, still throbbing while her body pulsed around his with continuous aftershocks.

Her hands caressed his ears, and she lifted her head to look at him before she initiated another kiss. Her lips slid along his, her tongue finding the seam of his mouth, teasing for entrance. He let her take control, let her explore his mouth, loving the way she gave herself unconditionally to him. She would be sore. He’d been a savage, his cock a jackhammer. He had spent a long, mindless time losing himself in her.

You were thoroughly loved. He had given everything he was to her. He demanded no less of her. And it seemed easier to refer to their bodies than their hearts.

Her teeth tugged on his lower lip. He felt her amusement as he slowly allowed his body to separate from hers. Very gently he lowered her feet to the ground, holding her until he was certain her legs were steady enough to hold her. In the distance, outside the house he heard footsteps.

“We have company,” Zacarias said. “Your friend Julio and the woman who flew the helicopter.” He cupped her breasts, reluctant to give up even a few moments with her. He wanted this night for himself.

Lea Eldridge. Marguarita’s hands went to his bare chest and pushed. I’ll have them leave as quickly as possible. She can’t see you. Her brother and his friend are too interested in you. Go. Hurry, Zacarias, while I dress.

He smiled, his palm shaping her throat, tipping her head up toward his. “I am your protector. I will stay and meet this woman.”

Her face paled, her eyes darkened and went wide with shock. He couldn’t resist bending his head to brush her parted lips with his. She blinked at him, and then shook her head frantically.

She looked around for her clothes, pressing both hands to her mouth as a blush started up her entire body. Her clothes were in ruins, shredded by his urgent hands earlier. He loved the way she looked, helpless and vulnerable. She was all soft skin and generous curves, her wild hair tumbling in all directions around her body, the silken strands catching sensuously on her nipples and traveling in waves to the curve of her very sexy butt. The marks of his possession were everywhere, all over her skin, red marks, dark smudges, his fingerprints, his bite marks. She was beautiful to him. He couldn’t resist sweeping his hand over her creamy breasts, watching the breath catch in her lungs.

He loved the way her stomach muscles bunched under his palm and as he dipped lower, the way she widened her stance to accommodate his searching hand letting him know she accepted his possession of her body. She was hot and slick from their lovemaking and smelled of him. He was stamped deeply into her now, and that knowledge pleased him. No matter that he lived in modern times, he was a throwback and the ways of his world would always be a part of him. He wanted other males to know she belonged to him, that she was protected and taken.

His fingers delved a little deeper, into that hot, damp passage and her hips bucked in response. Her body trembled. He loved to feel the shiver of need move through her mind and body. He bent his head to the temptation of her nipple, taking his time, letting her know she belonged to him and it mattered little what the rest of the world was doing while he took his pleasure. And it did give him pleasure to see her little gasps, the flush spreading and the dazed look in her eyes. He loved the desire smoldering there, the need and hunger for him.

He pushed two fingers deep into all that scorching heat. He thought of that tight fiery hot sheath as his. All for him. All that intense desire and need gathering in her eyes was for him. Her half-opened mouth. That glazed look of wonder. Her ragged breath. His thumb found her most sensitive spot, flicking and teasing, while his fingers plunged deep. He left a wet trail with his teeth and tongue and lips down her neck and chest to his ultimate destination.

He couldn’t resist taking her breast into his mouth and biting down on her nipple with exquisite precision. Her entire body jumped and shook. He moved back and forth between her breasts, taking his time, uncaring of the knock on the door, lost in a world of pleasure, his mouth going from peak to peak. His fingers pushed deep and retreated, then buried deep again while his thumb tapped and tugged on her now engorged button. She shattered, her breath hissing out, her body bucking, rippling, muscles gripping hard as he threw her into another orgasm.

The knock on the door was polite but persistent. He glanced toward it, supporting her weight when her knees buckled. He smiled at her, pleased with her heightened color and wild hair. She looked like a woman who had been made thorough love to. She raised one hand to her mass of hair and he caught her wrist and pulled it down.

“Leave it. I like the way you look. I will get the door while you go to the kitchen and prepare refreshments for our guests.”

She frowned, still fighting to breathe, to think logically. I’m naked. And Lea can’t see you. Please, Zacarias. I can barely think straight.

“There is no need to think. Just do as I tell you.”

He looked at the mixture of his seed and her cream glistening on her thighs and the intriguing V of curls at the junction of her legs. “I asked you to go to the kitchen and prepare food for our guests, not argue with me. It is a relatively simple request, Marguarita. As usual you seem to find it difficult to follow instructions.”

She pressed her lips together. He saw the flash of fire in her eyes. Her chin went up. Without a word, she turned her back on him and walked away, naked, barefoot, her long hair caressing the curves of her butt. He felt his heart jump. She had courage—and fire. And she kept her word no matter how difficult.

“Marguarita.” He said her name softly.

She half turned, her left breast, red and covered with his marks, nipple still hard and taut, peeked out at him through the veil of long hair.

“You forgot your clothes.”

She frowned, puzzled, glancing at the shredded strips of cloth on the floor. He flashed a grin and waved his hand. Her feet remained bare, but a long skirt fell gracefully to her ankles and a soft peasant blouse clung to her breasts, the loose neckline nearly off her shoulders. A wide belt cinched her waist. Gold glittered at her earlobes and around one wrist.

She touched the bracelet. It’s beautiful. Thank you. Her hands smoothed the full skirt over her hips. Umm. Zacarias. You sort of forgot my underwear.

He flashed his teeth at her. A wolfish smile. “I do not forget—anything.”

The blush stole up her neck into her face. She shook her head, her gaze dropping from his. She went on through to the kitchen without another protest. He enjoyed teasing her. He enjoyed the flashes of temper he caught simmering in her eyes—in her mind. As if he’d ever allow another man to look at her body. It wouldn’t happen and she should have known that.

Warmth flooded his mind, soft laughter. I knew. The moment I turned and started toward the kitchen and felt your laughter and your smug, arrogant male satisfaction. I knew then that you were teasing me.

He sent a fresh breeze through the entire house, and added scented candles burning low. He would have left Marguarita’s shredded clothing on the floor, but it would have embarrassed her. Neither visitor would fail to notice that he had made love to Marguarita. The evidence was all over her body. In any case, it wouldn’t take them long to realize she belonged to him, because he planned on making that very clear.

He flung the door wide and Julio gasped and took a step back, putting his body between Lea Eldridge and Zacarias. “I didn’t know you were here, señor,” he said, his tone apologetic.

“Come in. Marguarita is making tea and some sort of wonderfully smelling cake,” Zacarias greeted, stepping back to allow them entry.

Julio looked more confused than ever and gave a brief shake of his head, slightly jerking his chin toward Lea. His protective instincts toward the De La Cruz family had kicked in. He had been born into a family that guarded their symbiotic relationship carefully from all outsiders.

Lea peeked around Julio’s shoulders, her eyes going wide. Zacarias could read the excitement in her eyes, the appreciation and stark, raw fear. She put her fingers in Julio’s back pocket, a gesture Zacarias was certain she didn’t even know she’d made. It told him several things without penetrating her mind. She knew he was a De La Cruz and she was very interested in Julio Santos.

Zacarias swept his hand toward the interior, and Julio reached behind him and took Lea’s hand in his, before stepping inside.

“Señor De La Cruz, this is Lea Eldridge. She did us a great favor tonight by flying Ricco Cayo to the hospital. I had no idea you were here. When did you arrive?”

Julio was fishing for Zacarias to set the lead on what to say and how to act.

Zacarias bowed, an old-world, courtly gesture that had Lea blushing. He flashed what he hoped would pass for a smile as he closed the door behind them. “I cannot stay away too long from my woman . . .” He frowned and shook his head. “Päläfertiilam.” Again he shook his head and lifted an eyebrow at Julio. “How do you say this? Esposa. Wife. My wife.”

He was very pleased by Julio’s shocked look. Zacarias had married her, in the way of the Carpathian people, and it was far more binding than any other species he knew of. They could not live now, one without the other. Marguarita was his wife in every sense of the word.

Lea gasped. “You can’t be talking about Marguarita.”

“Of course Marguarita,” Zacarias said smoothly. “She is mistress here.”

“But—” Lea pressed her fingers to her mouth as if trying to hold back her question. She blurted it out anyway. “Why wouldn’t she tell me? I’m her friend. Why wouldn’t she say anything to everyone around here? You can’t be married to her.”

“I assure you, Ms. Eldridge, she is mine.” Zacarias spoke quietly, but his tone brooked no argument.

Lea looked to Julio, hurt, offended, and excited all at the same time.

Julio shrugged his shoulders, in an effort to look casual. “You can appreciate how this would not be a good thing to get around. Marguarita has to be protected. The De La Cruz family has a great deal of money and many kidnappings take place. It’s better if no one knows.”

Lea flashed him a look of pure annoyance, but she was obviously intimidated by Zacarias and didn’t say another word until they were in the kitchen.

Zacarias entered first and stopped, his gaze on Marguarita. She stood by the stove, pouring water into the teapot her mother had made. To him, there was no more beautiful sight in the world. The colors of her skirt were vivid and bright, her skin gleamed and her hair was a shiny waterfall of blue-black silk. Her movements were graceful and fluid. He knew his blood had enhanced her already beautiful looks when the humans looked at her with such awe, as if they were seeing her for the first time. He could see appreciation in Julio’s eyes. He would have to teach her how to turn down her allure.

His blood also enhanced her senses. She couldn’t have failed to hear the conversation, not with Carpathian blood running in her veins, and her face was very still as she looked at him, not at their guests. He went to her side and lifted her left hand, remembering the human tradition of wearing a circle of gold. He lifted her fingers and kissed the ring he’d fashioned for her.

She pressed her lips together and frowned a little, looking at the band. What are you doing, Zacarias? What game are you playing?

He detected hurt in her voice. He’d done something to hurt her. His fingers tightened around hers and he tugged, pulling her into the shelter of his larger frame, uncaring what their guests might think. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her locked against him.

“Have you tea ready for our guests?”

He had made certain the kettle boiled so there would be no waiting. He brushed his mouth over the top of her hair. The contrast between her brightness and the way he saw Julio and Lea was astonishing. Lea was an attractive woman and he could see her in color, but those colors were dull in comparison. Julio’s colors were there, but again not rich and vibrant, and he could see his beating heart, the arteries running like a road map through his body. Lea’s heart and arteries were there, but much fainter.

Soft amusement poured into his mind. Targets, my man. You’re identifying targets. He’s a friend, not a target. That’s how you always see everyone. Even me at first. You don’t see them as people, they’re all potential enemies.

He realized it was true. He hadn’t thought about anyone as human or Carpathian in centuries. He lived in a kill or be killed world. Julio’s skin and features were the dullest because he was the biggest potential threat. It was those broken connections Marguarita had filled, the shadows, so many, so large, throughout his mind, that she had provided bridges for that allowed him to recognize Julio was more than a potential enemy. He was a man. Maybe someone who would not be a friend, Zacarias had few in the world, but someone he could respect.

Zacarias realized how he saw the world without Marguarita. There hadn’t even been knowledge of identifying others as targets, it was so ingrained in him. He knew every pressure point on a body, every place one could deliver a mortal blow. He had been that disconnected from civilization.

Marguarita’s hands suddenly crossed over his tightly, as if holding him. She was reading emotion in him that he wasn’t aware of. He searched for it. Shame. He was ashamed that men like Julio, good, courageous men had fought for his family, some dying for his family, and he had never acknowledged them. Not once. Not to himself.

Please sit down and tell us how Ricco is doing, Marguarita wrote and invited.

Julio’s gaze jumped to Zacarias’s face and he took another step back, toward the door as if he might flee, his grip on Lea tightening.

Zacarias took another deep breath to draw Marguarita’s scent into his lungs. He didn’t need any others in his life, but she did. He made an effort to feel her emotions toward Julio and Lea. They were important to her—so that made them important to him.

“Yes, please sit.” He indicated a chair, looking straight at Julio. It was a clear order, couched in polite words.

Julio immediately held a chair for Lea and sank into the one next to her.

Try not to sound so intimidating, Marguarita advised.

Sun scorch them both, woman. They are taking up my time with you, he said, but there was a teasing note in his voice that surprised them both.

He toed a chair around and straddled it while Marguarita put the tea and cakes on the table. She started to sit opposite him, but Zacarias caught her wrist and tugged her down beside him. She blushed at Julio’s raised eyebrow.

You are lucky I do not make you sit in my lap where I can feel your soft body against mine, he teased wickedly. He rather enjoyed this part of company. His woman wasn’t embarrassed around him, but she was shy about their relationship in front of others. That made no sense to him, but he enjoyed her fussing at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were married, Marguarita?” Lea asked, hurt in her voice. “I thought we were good enough friends that you could have confided in me. And you let Esteban think you were available.”

Marguarita drew the notepad to her and began to write. Zacarias put his hand over the pad the moment he saw the apology.

“I know you do not wish Marguarita to apologize for something that is a safety issue. Your brother was never seriously entertaining the idea of courting her, and she knew that. I am a very wealthy man and I have many enemies. Marguarita would have told you if she could. If you need to be angry, please be angry with me. I put her in the position of secrecy. And certainly, Julio is not to blame. He knew I was in residence, but he was not privy to our marriage.”

Zacarias flicked her one look, daring her to deny him. There was a promise of retaliation in that look. If she didn’t acknowledge what he was to her . . .

“Let me see your ring,” Lea said, by way of forgiving her.

Zacarias frowned. Marguarita had done nothing wrong, and Lea’s magnanimous tone bothered him. Before he could react, Marguarita laid her hand very gently on his wrist in warning.

He didn’t fully understand, but then it didn’t matter, not when he could do something so simple for her. He would demand much of her and small things that meant a great deal to her—as this obviously did—was easy enough to give her.

Marguarita slid her hand across the table to show Lea her ring. It was actually braided gold, Renaissance antique, wound in several braids and forged together. Intricate, when one looked closely, there were ancient words in a beautiful scroll wrought into the gold.

Marguarita rubbed her finger over the letters. Sívamet andam. Sielamet andam.

“What does it say?” Julio asked, frowning at the unfamiliar words.

“I give you my heart. I give you my soul,” Zacarias translated. “I have done so, and once given, a De La Cruz doesn’t ever take them back. Both belong to Marguarita and are forever in her care.”

Lea made some kind of noise of approval, beaming at him.

“Congratulations, señor.” Julio made an effort to look Zacarias straight in the eyes, but couldn’t hold his gaze, looking at the ring instead. “Marguarita is very beloved on the ranch. Do you plan on taking her away from us?” Julio demanded.

Zacarias felt the shock spread through Marguarita. She hadn’t considered that. What had she thought? That he would come and go as he always had? It mattered little. Where he went, Marguarita would be with him. She had given herself into his keeping—and keep her he would.

Marguarita pressed her lips together tightly, but he felt her fear shimmering in his mind. This was her home, her world. These people. The horses. The ranch. He wasn’t attached to anyone or anyplace nor could he imagine ever feeling that way. His gaze returned again and again to Marguarita. She was home to him and a part of him didn’t want to compete with people, animals and places for her. He wanted to take her far from them all so she would always turn to him for her every need. He would be all things to her.

You are everything to me. There was calmness in her. Acceptance. Her spirit moved against his, a soft caressing brush that weakened him. If you wish me to leave this place, I won’t lie to you, Zacarias, it would be difficult and wrenching, but I would choose you over this place in a moment and I would not regret my decision.

His heart hammered in his chest for a few beats before settling into a steady rhythm. There was truth in her quiet declaration. He was a man with no trust—and a centuries-old code of honor that had kept him alive but alone. She was changing all that. Her truth was becoming enough for him. Why? Why are you so certain, Marguarita? I can be very rough.

She reached for him, right there in front of the others, her heart in her eyes. You need me, Zacarias. I see the real you, the one I love with all my heart. You can’t see him without me.

So she knew. He should have realized he couldn’t hide the truth from her any more than he could hide his memories. Her fingers trailed over his face and he caught them, holding her hand to his heart.

Lea ducked her head, glancing at Julio. It wasn’t that difficult to read the longing on her face. Zacarias forced a smile, hoping he looked friendly, not wolfish.

“Do you plan on staying in our little corner of the world, Lea? Marguarita enjoys the company and we intend to make this ranch our home base, although we will have to travel at times.” He could give that much to Marguarita.

Lea put her teacup into the saucer and nodded. “I hope to. My brother plans to move on soon, but I’ve been making arrangements to stay. I like it here.”

“You can’t stay alone,” Julio objected. “Your brother wouldn’t leave you alone, would he? Who would protect you?”

Lea made a face. “I don’t need protection. I’m a big girl.” She sent Marguarita a small, apologetic smile. “I’m not married to one of the richest and most elusive men in the world.”

“You’re a woman,” Julio muttered, his face darkening. “What kind of brother would leave you to fend for yourself?”

Lea’s chin went up. She stared coolly at Julio over her teacup as she lifted it toward her mouth. Zacarias detected the slight trembling. It was so subtle he doubted if Julio noticed, but Lea Eldridge was a little more nervous of being on her own in a strange place than she let on.

“My brother doesn’t enjoy it here, it’s too remote for him. But I like it, and who knows, if your helicopter pilot doesn’t show up, maybe I can have his job. I’ve already interviewed for it.”

“Where is the helicopter pilot?” Zacarias asked before Julio could make another retort.

Julio sighed. He wiped his hand over his face and glanced anxiously at Marguarita. She pulled the notepad toward her, but once again Zacarias laid his hand over it.

“I am asking you, not Marguarita,” he said quietly, once again a command in his voice.

“Charlie Diaz has a drinking problem, señor. He’s good for months and then he falls again, goes off and stays drunk for three or four months before coming back.”

Zacarias narrowed his eyes. “Knowing this, Cesaro kept him on? He is a danger to all of you. Ricco Cayo would have died without medical attention. Had Ms. Eldridge not been here to fly him to a hospital, we would have lost him.” The censure in his low voice was as alarming as his ice-cold eyes.