His question penetrated her mind. Dim-witted? Had he really just asked if she was dim-witted? Fury burned through her, mixing with fear.
Warmth poured into her mind, heralding Zacarias. Earlier when he’d struck, he had penetrated deep, invaded and conquered. This was different. This time he used a slow assault, a heat spreading like molasses, filling her mind with—him. Her breath caught in her throat and she bit down hard on her lower lip. The warmth didn’t just stay in her mind, it spread through her body, a thick lava that took her veins an inch at a time, moving lower and lower. Her breasts felt heavy and aching. Her nipples peaked. Her core grew hotter.
Her physical reaction to his invasion was more than disturbing—it was every bit as horrifying as his biting her neck. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she didn’t even struggle, horror and fury holding her in place. His hands caged her, settling on her waist, large hands, shaping her hips, feeling too possessive. Flames licked her skin right through her clothes where he touched her.
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. I am not dim-witted. A little thunderstruck maybe, but she understood him. She just didn’t understand herself or what was happening to her body.
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—he was the one bemusing her. If his eyes were anything to go by, no mage wanted to cast a spell around Zacarias De La Cruz and most certainly she didn’t.
“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. I am just a woman.
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.
I am just a woman.
Five simple words, yet what did she mean? He knew women—but none like her. She was far more than just a woman. He searched his memories and he had many over centuries of time, but no one had ever caught his interest, not like this woman had.
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. If you are going to kill me, do so right here. Right now.
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.
Use our blood bond.