Dark Predator (12 page)

Thick roots snaked across the forest floor, anchoring the large trees to earth while the tops reached high into the clouds. The giant buttress roots stabilized and fed the enormous trees, some twisting into elaborate shapes while others formed great wooden fins. Regardless of how they looked, the roots dominated the floor, claiming large spaces and housing bats, animals and hundreds of species of insects.

Julio and Marguarita had slashed marks deep into the roots and both knew where to look, even in the event creeper vines and ferns managed to weave themselves among the branching fins. She swept the brilliant green ferns aside and sure enough, the root had been chipped, leaving a weathered scar.

She moved slowly, continuing to send her communications to the bats. Warmth. Regard. Kinship. No commands. No demands. Zacarias would need to seek the darkness of the soil before the sun came up. It was only a few more hours. She could trick him that long. The bats were very receptive and wouldn’t raise an alarm, not when she wasn’t running or trying to hide from them.

She tapped into the bats for her own warning system, hoping she would recognize their alert when a predator was close. A fallen emergent with a giant trunk lay in her path, years old, saplings already filling in the void it left. The rotting trunk was covered in insects, fungus and creepers. She studied it carefully, aware of the dangerous snakes and poisonous frogs she could easily touch when climbing over it.

There was nothing else she could do, not without veering from her path, something she didn’t want to do at night in a rain forest. She stepped forward and reached up, determined to climb, pushing at the poisonous insects and frogs with her mind in hopes they would move away from her.

Hands caught her waist and jerked her back against a hard body. “Are you dim-witted, woman, or do you simply enjoy placing yourself in danger?” Zacarias’s voice purred in her ear, a soft menace that chilled her to her very core.

5

M
arguarita went very still. What if she’d been wrong? What if he was truly vampire? The mark Zacarias had left at the side of her throat throbbed and burned. His breath stirred the hair at the back of her neck . . . She stiffened. His fingers brushed her skin, moving aside the heavy rope of her hair. His body was tight against hers so that she could feel every breath he took. He smelled feral, a wild, dangerous creature trapping her far from all aid. His every muscle imprinted on her, every beat of his heart.

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.

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.”

All forty-seven? You went into my private room? They were in the wastebasket. Thrown away. Obviously not meant for you to read.

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,
kislány kuηenak minan
—my little lunatic. They were clearly addressed to
Señor
Zacarias De La Cruz.” He bowed slightly. “Very formal and proper of you. One would think you would be able to carry out simple instructions.”

Give me back my paper and pen.

“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?”

I’m hitting you, you brute. What does it feel like?

She had a temper. He recognized the smoldering fire now. She’d hurt herself though, and truthfully, he’d barely felt a thing. “Is that what you call it? You really are a little crazy. No wonder Cesaro tried to remove you from the house. He feared I would be upset with your insanity.”

Insanity?

Marguarita closed her fist and took a punch at him. Judging from the way she threw it, someone had taught her how to fight. He ducked to the side before she could land the blow and caught her, spinning her around, crossing her arms over her breasts and holding her tight against his body. His breath came out in a burst of sound that shocked him. He went very still, resting his mouth against her neck, against that warm pulse that beat so frantically and called so loudly to him. Laughter? Had he laughed?

Had he really laughed? That was impossible. He had never laughed. Not that he remembered. Maybe as a young child, a mere boy, but he doubted it. Where had that sound come from? Was it possible this crazy, dim-witted woman was his lifemate? By all that was holy, it could not be. He could not in any way be mated to someone incapable of following the simplest of directions. And his emotions and colors should have returned at once. But truthfully, he felt more alive in that moment than he had in a thousand years.

Like him, she had gone quite still in his arms again, like a frightened little rabbit. She shivered, her wet, muddy clothes clinging to her soft, feminine form. The moment he became aware she was cold, he removed the mud and rain from her clothing, his body heating hers. Such things were natural to his kind, and with her, he had to remember mundane things.

“I will make excuses for you as you did not have a mother to teach you proper etiquette, but my patience will go only so far.” He whispered the words against her ear, determined that she would learn who was in charge. Certainly not some little slip of a thing, so silly she went out in the rain forest unescorted and at night. “You have certain duties.”

I know my duties. What time is it?

Puzzled, he glanced up at the boiling sky. “About four in the morning.”