Resolutely, Marguarita scrubbed her hands down her face, wiping away fear and straightening her shoulders. This was her mess. She’d created it. She could feel the intense sadness, the heavy sorrow weighing Zacarias down. She felt his emotions—and they were strong to the point of crushing—but she knew he didn’t feel them in the same way she did.
He had wanted her to go about her daily routine, so that was what she was going to do, just as if he wasn’t in the house. When it came time for him to take her blood she would find a pleasant place in her mind and go there. It was the duty of her entire family to provide whatever a De La Cruz needed—or wanted—and she wouldn’t fail her family or herself.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was in the usual thick braid, but her neck was clearly exposed. Her heart jumped wildly. Perhaps that was too much of a temptation. Quickly she loosened the weave and allowed her hair to spill to her waist. She wrapped a loose tie around the middle just to hold it back from her face so she could work without the huge mass getting in her way. Her hands smoothed the flowing skirt and she took another breath before heading for the kitchen.
Filling the teapot, she turned and nearly dropped it when he was standing there, quite close to her, his hand reaching for the abundance of hair, staring at it as though fascinated. He dropped his hand immediately and stepped back to allow her to get to the stove. Ignoring her pounding heart, Marguarita pretended he wasn’t in the room. If he wanted to observe what she did, that was fine. She would make herself breakfast even though it was early evening.
Zacarias leaned one hip against the sink and watched her with that unblinking, totally focused stare that was definitely that of a large hunting cat. She glanced at him from under veiled lashes, unable to help herself.
Would you care for tea?
He frowned. “I have never actually tried human food. My brothers have. To appear human they stock the house with food items and have actually gone to charity events and other large gatherings that made it necessary to appear to eat.”
But not you.
He raised his eyebrow. “I do not bother with such things. I make humans uneasy so it was better to send Nicolas or Riordan.”
Not even once? In all your years of existence, you never once wanted to taste the forbidden?
“I felt nothing, kislány kuηenak minan—my little lunatic. Curiosity has never been a problem for me. I exist. I hunt. I kill. My life is very simple.”
She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t imagine such a life. No comfort. Not needing comfort. You are never afraid? You have never experienced sheer terror?
“What has there been in my life to fear? I have nothing to lose, not even life itself. I have only a responsibility to protect my people to the best of my ability. I do so with honor.”
You’ve never felt joy? Or love?
“There was a time in my life, when I was a boy, that I loved my brothers. For a time I could touch their memories and remember the affection I had for them. Even that is gone for me.”
She wanted to weep for him. He spoke so matter-of-factly, as if having no one—nothing at all to soften his life—was normal. There was no one to comfort him, no one to talk things over with, no one to hold him—or love him. All the while he fought to protect others, there was no one for him.
She realized for all his knowledge, there were huge gaps in his education. Carpathians could regulate body temperatures. They could heal their wounds and minimize most pain. He hadn’t considered that she couldn’t do those things, which explained why he’d seemed so shocked by the eagle’s talon’s puncturing her skin. He either didn’t know, or he truly hadn’t given humans very much thought.
He didn’t interact with anyone but the undead. His brothers came to the various holdings and talked with the local governments. Zacarias only came when wounded and he needed a fast fix. The workers were all leery of him. Because her aunts and uncles and cousins worked at the various De La Cruz properties throughout South America, she knew all the gossip on the family and few had ever set eyes on Zacarias. He had been completely alone for centuries.
Marguarita kept her back to him, afraid compassion would show on her face. She might fear him—but it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel for him. His life had been one she would never have wanted and yet he’d endured for over a thousand years. He had probably welcomed death, and she had taken even that solace from him. She had to find a way to connect more solidly with him so she wouldn’t jump every time he came near her. She decided the best course of action was to get to know him, to exchange a little information so she could be more comfortable with him.
How is it that I can feel your emotions, but you can’t?
There was a small silence. She braced herself before turning to face him. The battles of many centuries chasing the undead through countries in a ceaseless attempt to protect the inhabitants were etched deep into the lines on his face. He stood there, his head unbowed, watching her with those eyes that held a sorrow he didn’t even recognize or comprehend.
There was no place he could go where he could be completely vulnerable. There was nowhere he could be loved or protected or safe. She had a sudden urge to put her arms around him and hold him tightly to her, but she’d have to ask permission first and she wasn’t making that mistake again.
Silence stretched between them, filled suddenly by the whistle on the kettle. She carefully poured the boiling water into her mother’s small, intricate clay teapot. The body was rectangular and hand-painted with Peruvian Paso horses running free with tails and manes flowing as if in the wind. She loved the teapot her mother had made so many years earlier and was always careful of it. Using it always made her feel closer to her mother and, right now, comforted. She couldn’t imagine Zacarias having nothing like that in his life.
“I was not aware you could feel my emotions,” he finally, almost reluctantly, admitted.
She turned to face him again, leaning against the counter and studying his face. She found it amazing that he could look so stern and tough, but yet be so brutally handsome. His hair was long, even for a Carpathian, almost as long as hers. A few strands of gray enhanced the deep midnight color. The mass of hair had wave to it—enough wave to spiral into several long swirls from the leather cord he bound it with. The spiraling waves didn’t soften his appearance, but only made him that much more attractive.
He didn’t appear to be relaxed or at ease. He appeared exactly as he was—a killing machine. No one would ever mistake him for anything else, but maybe she was getting used to his presence because the inner tremors had finally ceased.
I can.
“Explain it to me.”
He seemed genuinely puzzled, but how could she explain? She tried to picture a volcano with masses of churning magma. I can feel what’s inside of you. Anger. Sorrow. It’s very turbulent and intense, but I can tell you don’t feel it in the same way as me.
His eyes didn’t leave her face. She couldn’t help the sudden rise of color. She felt a little like an insect under a microscope. Clearly he was studying her—a human specimen.
“Tell me about your friend Julio.”
Her stomach knotted. That way lay disaster. His expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes had. There was only a subtle difference in his eyes, but she could feel the volcanic emotion roiling inside of him. She turned back to making her breakfast so she wouldn’t be afraid.