She had never had such a female reaction to a male in her life. She’d been told how danger could mask itself in seduction and now she could bear witness to those rumors. Zacarias was as sensual as a male could be, igniting a slow-burning fire inside of her. Marguarita shivered, fearing for her very soul. She made the sign of the cross in a silent attempt to save herself.
“I know you can hear me—whether I speak aloud or inside your mind. Your blood calls to mine. Mine answers. Do not pretend you cannot hear me.”
She moistened her lips.
She trembled, wanting to wrench herself from his hand, yet she burned for him. She could hear his heartbeat, the sound echoing in her own veins.
He leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “If you are not dim-witted . . .” One hand slipped from her hip back to her waist, burning through her clothes until her skin was branded with his palm imprint. The other hand slowly wrapped around her throat, one finger at a time. He forced her head back until she rested against his chest, until she had no choice but to stare into his dark, merciless eyes. They stared at each other, locked together in some strange combat she didn’t understand.
“Then do you have a death wish?”
His voice didn’t just whisper in her ear, but over her skin, touching nerve endings, the trail of fingers brushing gently, shaping her body. The sensation was so real she shivered, fear choking her. She swallowed hard against his hand. Mutely she shook her head. It was impossible to look away from him. His eyes were compelling, so dark and fathomless, heat and fire where he’d looked so flat and cold before. There was something real inside of him—she could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t entirely a killing machine, nor was he the undead as she’d first believed—those eyes were too alive. His body was too hot—too hard.
Marguarita reached for the animal part of him—the biggest part of him. He had long ago lost all civility—or maybe he’d been born as he was now, mostly cunning, savage and extremely territorial. She understood animals, even dangerous predators. Pushing aside her fear of the Carpathian, she concentrated on the animal, trying to find a way to soothe him. She didn’t expect to be friends, no more so than she would have a jaguar, but she’d encountered one of the big cats and they had both gone their own ways with no animosity. She hoped for the same with Zacarias.
The problem was, he confused her far more than a large cat—or bird of prey. She felt the flowing warmth that always preceded the connection. And it was easier than she’d believed, as if she already knew the path, as if it was well worn. She soothed him as she would a wild thing, a soft approach, touching him gently, stroking with her mind to quiet and calm him.
Zacarias abruptly stepped back away from her, dropping his hands, his eyes glacier cold and more frightening than ever. “You are mage-born.”
It was an accusation, a curse, a promise of dark retaliation. Marguarita shook her head vigorously denying the charge. She had no idea why he was accusing her of being a mage—a being who could cast spells. That would be more him than her—
“What are you then?” he demanded.
She frowned. The answer should have been obvious, but then she was thinking of him as an untamed, feral animal, perhaps she was closer to the mark than she knew.
Zacarias studied that perfect pale face in front of him for a long time. She was streaked with mud. Exhausted. Her heart-shaped face was all eyes, enormous and frightened.
Five simple words, yet what did she mean? He knew women—but none like her. She was far more than
They stared at one another for a long time. “You will return to the hacienda with me.” He stated it. Ordered it. Gave the command and waited for her typical reaction—disobedience. Perhaps she had some infirmity that made her do the opposite of a direct order.
He watched her throat work, a delicate swallowing and another wave of fear washed over him, hastily suppressed—one didn’t show fear to a predator. He knew they were still very much connected and he was feeling her emotions. It was interesting seeing himself through her eyes. He knew, on a strictly intellectual basis, that other animals, including men, thought him a killer, but he didn’t have a visceral reaction to the knowledge. Connected as he was to her on that primitive level, he felt her emotions as if they were his own and it was— uncomfortable.
Her small tongue licked at that perfect bow of her lower lip. She stepped back very slowly, feeling with one boot for solid ground. He shook his head and she stopped instantly.
Zacarias read her thoughts easily on her face. She wanted to run and she didn’t care if anyone—including him—considered the act cowardly. Her self-preservation instinct was strong now. She’d sacrificed herself once. As far as she was concerned, that was enough. She’d been punished.
“I am not finished with you, woman. You will return to the hacienda with me while I figure out what is going on. And you will not leave again without my permission.”
That got to her. He could see the storm clouds gathering in her dark eyes. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. Her eyes weren’t a dull gray like the world around her. Neither was her hair. Both were rich ebony, a deep midnight black, a true absence of color. Her mouth fascinated him. Her lips should have been gray or dull white, but he swore they were a darker pink. He blinked several times to try to rid himself of the impression, but the strange color remained, making him a little dizzy. She fascinated him as no other could possibly do.
Marguarita’s chin went up.
His eyebrow shot up. “If I am going to kill you, I will choose the time and place, not be dictated to by a woman who does not know the meaning of obedience.”
She pulled a pen and notepad from her pocket and began to write. Zacarias swept both items from her hand and pocketed them.
Mutely she shook her head and reached toward his pocket.
He shook his head just as resolutely, no longer shocked that she disobeyed him. He was certain she had an infirmity, some rare, peculiar mental disorder from birth, that made her do the opposite of what any authority figure told her.
“I read all forty-seven missives this night. I do not wish to read another.”
So she would use the blood bond when she chose. Something close to satisfaction rose in him. The fear had faded enough that she responded much more naturally to him. “Of course they were meant for me to read,
“You will use the blood bond between us.” He knew it made her uncomfortable because it was a much more intimate form of communication, but he found himself craving the intimacy of their bond.
Her eyes went even darker, turned obsidian, flaring like shiny fire-stones. She clenched her teeth together in a snapping bite. The whiteness of them caught his attention. Without thought, he gripped her upper arms and yanked her close, turning her head toward him so he could see the intense color—gleaming white, like little pearls. Not gray. Not the dingy brownish white he was used to. For a moment there was nothing else in the world, but those small, white teeth and her incredible almost black eyes.
Something smacked his chest, not hard, he barely noticed, but her little yelp made him look down. She had slammed her palms against his chest and had obviously hurt herself. He frowned at her. “What are you doing now?”
