Dark Predator (7 page)

You have placed every man, woman and child in my care in jeopardy.

He could hear the sound of a heart beating, that distinct rhythm calling to him, driving him into a frenzy of hunger, each separate beat pulsing through his own veins. He knew exactly where she was. Marguarita was her name. The treacherous wench who dared to defy a direct order from her
master.
He’d warned her she would pay for her disobedience—her deliberate defiance. He’d expected her to run like a little coward, but the foolish girl waited for him in the very house—
his
house—alone.

The taste of her lingered until he thought he might go insane with craving. He crossed the room in long, ground-eating strides, shoving air at the door so that it exploded open before him, allowing him to move with unerring swiftness through the long living room to the back of the house where her bedroom was. If he hadn’t already known where the room was located, he still would have found her. Her heart pounded in fear, thundering in his ears. He didn’t bother to turn down the volume, wanting, even needing to hear her terror.

She
deserved
to be terrified. If he’d awoken vampire, he would have broken his vow to his brothers. After centuries of honor, his life of emptiness, his struggle to protect his family and his people would all be for nothing. And it could still happen. He was close—too close to turning. He needed—something. Anything. The anticipation of taking her blood was a rush he didn’t welcome—a sign of walking that thin edge between honor and the ultimate failure.

His fingers itched to wrap around her slender neck. These people working the ranch had sworn loyalty to the De La Cruz family, served them, father to son, mother to daughter for centuries, yet she had so carelessly risked them all. He slammed his palm against her door, deliberately splintering the wood rather than opening the door.

Marguarita made no effort to flee, her eyes wide with terror, fixing on his face as he kicked aside the broken wood. She huddled in the corner of the room, her hand over her mouth, her face pale beneath her smooth, golden skin. As he approached her, she held out a placating hand with a piece of paper clutched in her fingers—a poor defense when he was starving.

He jerked her to her feet, aware of how light she was. How soft. How warm. How alive. He was vividly aware of her heart calling to his—that rhythmic pulse setting up such hunger—such want. Through the red haze of madness, the softness of her skin registered. Her fresh, clean fragrance was reminiscent of rain forest mist and the unique and beautiful heliconias that grew up the tree trunks and called to the hummingbirds with their sweetness. The scent enveloped him as he trapped her in arms of steel and bent his head toward her slender neck.

She struggled wildly and he pinned her with one arm and caught her thick rope of hair with the other, crushing the silken strands in his fist as he jerked her head back. He lowered his head toward that sweet vulnerable spot where her pulse pounded so frantically. He didn’t try to calm her mind or in any way control her knowledge of what was happening. He wanted her to know. He wanted her fear. He intended to hurt her so she would never forget why she should obey.

Rain battered the windows. Wind blasted the hacienda. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the roiling black clouds. Thunder crashed, shaking the earth so it rolled beneath his feet, feeding his black mood.

Zacarias sank his teeth deep into that soft, defenseless flesh. He bit hard, without a numbing agent, puncturing her neck deliberately close to her throat. She should have remembered the vampire attacking her. She shouldn’t have been so careless as to disobey. She needed another lesson in just what a dangerous, uncaring vile creature could do.

Her skin was warm satin, soft and fascinating, the sensation a shock, her natural fragrance alluring. But it was her blood that truly stunned him. Rich. Innocent. Fresh. The taste was exquisite. As addicting as that first taste when he’d been so close to death. She fought him, pushing against him, trying desperately to free her arms, but he was enormously strong and nothing got between him and his prey—and make no mistake, this young woman with her addicting blood belonged to him. He became aware that he was growling, a dark warning. There was no way for her to get free and no one could enter the house—
his
house—without his consent or knowledge. She was completely at his mercy—and he had none.

His every organ soaked up her amazing blood. Every cell sprang to life. There was nothing he’d ever experienced that came close to the perfect richness of her blood. The rush of heat spread through him like an unfamiliar fireball. His veins and arteries sang. Even his groin stirred, filling with the dazzling taste and heat of her blood. He dragged her closer, more animal than man, his arms now bruising bands of steel, his mouth dragging more of that sweet nectar into his starving body.

The gaping wounds on his body began to close. The terrible burning ever present inside subsided and the clawing, raking pain in his gut turned to a scorching fire of desperate need. Even the roaring in his head and the red haze banding his vision diminished. Her legs gave out and he held her weight completely, slipping a hand beneath her knees, all the while dragging her life’s essence into his body.

Her head lolled back against his shoulder. She felt light. Insubstantial. Her lashes fluttered, two thick crescents, blacker than the gray he normally saw. The lashes lifted and her dark, almost black eyes stared straight into his with both fear and loathing. Only then did he feel her absolute terror. Horror filled his mind, shook his body and crept like icy fingers down his spine—not his horror—hers. She believed him vampire—and he was killing her.

He swept his tongue across the puncture wounds and lifted his head, never breaking eye contact. Blood trickled from her neck to her breast and, without thinking, he followed the precious ruby teardrop to the soft swell of her very feminine body with his tongue.

She looked more shocked than ever, shuddering, terrified.

“You will drink what I offer.” It was a decree, demanding she obey without argument.

He sank down onto her bed, still cradling her to him, and with a wave of his hand, his shirt opened. He drew a thin line across his chest, over his heart. Her eyes widened until they were enormous bottomless pools, stark horror staring at him. She shook her head and tried feebly to push him away. He forced her mouth to his chest and she bit him, still struggling.

Wäke-sarna!
Zacarias uttered power words, a curse, a blessing—a vow she would not defy him. He took her mind, ripping it from her ruthlessly, forcing what she would not give him. Her mouth nuzzled his chest, her lips warm and soft, sending a jolt of lightning streaking through his body. He felt a live current electrifying every nerve ending, bringing his body to life as she began to suckle, drawing his blood into her body where it would soak every organ and subtly reshape them, where it would connect them together for all time.

He drew her closer, his hand cradling her head, his mind in hers. Only then, when the wonder of the strange phenomenon of her blood eased a bit, did he know she was screaming. He had commanded her to drink, giving her no other option, but she was completely aware. Her mind connected to his on a level unexpected. He was mostly predatory. An animal. Cunning and cruel. Even brutal. Life and death was his world—his struggle. Her mind raced to that part of him, reached out and melded with him.

He didn’t hear a sound, yet he felt her screams, her absolute horror and rejection of him, the numbing fear that refused to subside even when he commanded it to be so.

Be calm.
He pushed the command at her, and when it did no good, he forced his order into her mind. She only withdrew further from him.

Marguarita was certainly an intriguing puzzle. His brother had strengthened the barrier in her mind that would prevent the undead and other Carpathians from reading her thoughts, yet she had her own secrets. She had been born with that barrier, after generations of De La Cruz creating it in the families, and now it was even stronger than expected.

She was wholly human. He had no doubts of that. Vulnerable. Fragile. Yet her mind had a natural guard, one that didn’t allow her to be easily manipulated. His blood exchange would open the line of communication telepathically between them. He wouldn’t hear her voice, so much as see her words and know her thoughts. And, he decided, communication with this particular servant was necessary. She had no concept of obedience, and within his territory, he was the absolute ruler. His subjects obeyed one way or the other.

The longer he held her warmth and curves to him, the more he became aware of her feminine form. Man or woman never mattered, and honestly, he couldn’t remember anymore a time when it had. He had no sexual urges, no emotions, nothing whatsoever that would make him care. Yet in the space of a heartbeat—she had awakened things in him best left alone. She should never have drawn his attention to her, never have trickled her addicting blood into his mouth, setting up an insatiable craving.

Rain pounded the roof, and lashed the windows, seeking entrance. The wild storm reflected his violent nature. The house shuddered under the ferocious wind. For one moment lightning lit up the room and he could see the desperation in her eyes, the very thing he had wanted. Thunder crashed and the room went dark. He continued to stare down into her eyes.

She took his blood into her body because she had no choice, but she rejected his great gift.
Rejected him
. She truly did loathe and fear him, just as she would the undead. He took a deep breath. He just needed to calm her. To make her see reason. She needed to understand the enormity of her sin and the grievous position she’d placed him in. That was all. Why he found her horror disturbing, he was uncertain. It seemed to bother him on a primitive level, although intellectually, he was sure she needed to be afraid. There were terrible, vile creatures in his world and she lived there. Served him. It mattered that she listened to him.

I am saving your life—as I did before.
Perhaps reminding her that he’d saved her from the vampire would help.

Marguarita’s body shuddered and moved subtly from his, as if touching him was foul. Thunder crashed again, echoing the rioting in his mind. He had chosen life for her. She should be grateful he’d bothered when she was so disobedient. She would not soon forget this lesson and maybe, just maybe, she would know not to meddle in things that were none of her business. And she would obey his commands, which often meant life or death.

The only answer was the rain hitting the roof. The wild beating of her heart. Her ragged breathing. He sighed. Her fear bordered on terror. No, it
was
terror and, quite frankly, he found he didn’t like it. There was no letup. Not even now when he treated her with care.

You have taken enough.

He went to insert his hand between her mouth and his chest, to carefully pull her away as one would expect he would have to do, but she jerked away from him so unexpectedly she nearly fell from his arms. He tightened his hold, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. His blood had provided strength for her, and now that he was connected with her, he knew she intended to try to vomit, to rid herself of the substance.

He smiled at her, slowly shaking his head. “My blood flows in your veins already, silly woman. Your body absorbs it. It will not go to your stomach as your foul food does.”

Zacarias was prepared for her to fight and he was not going to allow her up until he was ready. Marguarita remained perfectly still, her gaze locked on his face, hardly breathing now, as still as any prey hiding in the trees or grasses might be. A small frisson of unease went down his back. She was exhibiting the exact signs the creatures in the rain forest manifested when he was near. There were no warning alarms, none of the normal shrieking monkeys and birds often used when spotting a predator. Even insects stilled when he was near.

He wanted obedience from her, not stark, raw fear. Well . . . he’d wanted her to be afraid—to learn her lesson. Fear was simply a tool to him, one he wielded easily. Perhaps she was more sensitive than he had considered and he should have toned his message down.

He felt the first slight movement of her body, nothing more than a whisper of space between them, but he knew she was fleeing him. Instinctively he tightened his hold on her, breathing in and out for both of them, his lungs calling to hers to follow his rhythm. His heart beat slow and steady, in an effort to slow the wild acceleration of hers. He barely recognized his need to calm her, or even the reason for it—the need simply existed.

From a place long forgotten, a memory surfaced of a child, a young boy shifting too late and embedding himself in a tree. Zacarias remembered his youngest brother, a fast learner, but trying things he wasn’t ready for because his older brothers could. He rocked Marguarita in the same manner as he had Riordan, to comfort her, murmuring in Carpathian, soft words that meant nothing. Noise really. The memory shocked him almost as much as the entire night’s events did. He hadn’t thought of those days in hundreds of years.

He wasn’t a man who felt compassion, but her fear disturbed him. It made no sense and he didn’t trust anything he couldn’t explain. He set her on the floor. The moment his hands released her, she crawled away from him to huddle in the corner, staring at him with her enormous, frightened eyes.

Tremors wracked her body over and over. She twisted her fingers together, twice reaching as if she might touch the darkening bruise on her neck, yet halting before she brushed her damaged skin. She wore his brand now, color coming up under her skin with two punctures centered almost perfectly. She didn’t touch the spot, and he found himself frowning. Puzzled.

As a rule it was easier to use women to feed. His younger brothers moved in political circles in order to achieve the things they needed, such as their larger estates. Decorative women hanging on their arms were always a plus. They had easy access to a food source and cover at all times. It was easy enough to plant memories of wild nights of sex and partying. But Marguarita’s mind didn’t accept planted memories nor did he particularly want to erase the memory of his moment.