Dark Predator

8

Zacarias’s brothers crouched among the rocks, shock on their faces. Riordan was little more than a newborn babe, but there was nothing young about his awareness or intellect. He stared with the same shock and horror at the approaching vampire as his older brothers. Above them, dark storm clouds churned in the sky, nearly obliterating all the stars, but the full moon shone bloodred, right through the towering, turbulent clouds.

Spread out, behind him. When I tell you to run, get out of here and do not look back, Zacarias commanded. You are responsible for Riordan, Manolito. Fall back with him. Nicolas and Rafael, protect them. All of you, get out of here.

We will help you, Rafael said, his voice shaking.

You cannot do this alone, Nicolas stated, sorrow dripping from each word.

Run, Zacarias. Run with us, Manolito pleaded.

Zacarias heard their protests, but when he gave an order, they knew to obey. Their mother lay dead, her body torn and bloody, crushed against the rocks. There was no time to mourn her or think of her as she was in life. His father had arrived too late to save her, but the vampire who had made the kill lay in strips beside her, the body literally torn apart. The sheer savagery shown in the killing should have warned Zacarias before his father turned around to face them, but still, those jagged teeth and red-crazed eyes were a shock.

His father’s hands were raised toward the mountains where the boulders were set so precariously. The ground shook. Zacarias hadn’t expected the attack on his brothers and he was that second too late in countering. He threw a shelter around the boys to protect them from the avalanche even as he raced into the attack. He knew his father hadn’t expected aggression and it was the only thing left to him. His father was far older, stronger, more experienced, but he was a newly made vampire and wouldn’t be used to the high the kill had given him.

His father was skilled in battle, a legendary hunter whose name was whispered in awe, but he’d taught those same skills to his oldest child. Zacarias was still considered young as a Carpathian, but he’d fought vampires and battles often. He’d already begun to lose his emotions, colors had long since faded from his vision and he wasn’t even close to the age when that should have happened.

He struck through his father’s insubstantial form, stumbling forward. The blow took him hard in the back and sent him flying forward into the pools of blood from his mother’s body. He skidded across the gore facedown, landing nearly on his mother’s head. Her lifeless eyes stared accusingly at him. He planted his hands to lever himself up only to find they were buried wrist-deep in her blood. His stomach lurched. His heart nearly stopped.

Zacarias!

With Nicolas’s warning filling his mind, he rolled, dissolving at the last moment, remembering that he could. His father’s fist slammed deep into the ground, right through his mother’s lifeless body.

Zacarias was shaken to the very core of his being, and he had to pull himself together if he was going to survive. And if he didn’t survive, neither would his brothers. He breathed away his mother’s blood covering his body and the sight of her eyes staring at him, accusing him of trying to kill his own father. Not his father. Vampire. The undead. An evil, foul creature who would destroy everything and everyone in its path. Even now, the very grass withered beneath its feet. It. Vampire. Not father. Not the man he loved and respected above all others.

Zacarias felt the familiar coldness sweep through him, the chill he’d noticed early, even as a young boy, but now it was a glacier consuming him, pouring into his body, icing his veins. When other boys were carefree, running and playing, he had been quietly observing ways to kill, to battle, to outwit. His senses were acute, his reflexes faster. He had soaked up information, worked on concealing himself even from his parents. He had practiced over and over his ability to sneak up on others and observe them for hours without being seen. He had known even then that he was different, that the cold seeping into his veins gave him an edge others didn’t have, he had known, but he had fought that knowledge.

He reached for the cold this time, instead of working to stay ahead of it. He embraced the shadows within himself, allowed, for the first time, the darkness to take him. It settled over and into him, fitting like a glove, that pure predator being. He’d always known it was there waiting to take him. He had fought that path, desperate to stay whole, but he knew there was no other option if he was to survive and survival was essential to protect his brothers. He chose that being for himself in order to choose life for his brothers.

He moved with the turbulent wind, sliding in behind the vampire in silence, gathering his strength, as stealthy as the most seasoned of hunters. The undead looked around and, not seeing or hearing any threat, spat on the ground and turned his attention to the four boys caught in the cage of rocks. He showed his teeth in an evil smirk.

“He has left you to me. I will tear off the head of the little one and feed him to you, limb by precious limb, before I devour you alive.”

Nicolas and Rafael stood, two young Carpathians, shoulder to shoulder in front of their younger siblings.

Deliberately Zacarias sent a small rock rolling behind him. The vampire spun to face the sound, presenting a full-frontal target.

Look away, Zacarias ordered his brothers. All of you, look away. Do not watch this! Nicolas, cover Riordan’s eyes. None of you witness this.

With his heart in his throat, with tears burning a hole in his soul, he shifted, assuming his physical form with blurring speed, then drove his fist into his father’s chest, using every ounce of strength he possessed. He stood toe-to-toe, looking his father straight in the eye as he smashed through bone and muscle and grasped that beating organ. His father tore at his flesh, digging great chunks of skin and muscle from him, but Zacarias closed down all feelings of pain and all emotion so that he could save his brothers and his family’s honor.

The sound was horrendous, a terrible sucking blended with his father’s scream of pure agony. The vampire hissed promises, begged and pleaded for his life, raged and snarled vows of vengeance and death on the children, promised to tear off his brothers’ heads and feed them to him. Spittle and acid burned over his skin as he dragged the heart from his father’s chest and flung it a distance away.

His father grasped Zacarias’s forearms, staring at him with shocked, blood-filled eyes. “Son,” he whispered. “My son.”

A silent scream welled up. It took every ounce of courage he possessed not to put his arms around that torn body and hold his father to him. Zacarias watched the man he loved most in the world teeter and fall, first to his knees in front of him and then fall facedown in the mud. He stepped back and called the lightning from the sky.

He was more shaken than he knew. The first bolt of sizzling electricity missed the pulsating organ. The heart rolled, and landed in his mother’s blood. The sight was so loathsome, he steadied himself and sent the next bolt slamming directly into his father’s heart, incinerating it.

Zacarias bent double, no longer able to block the excruciating pain, a sheer physical reaction he could no longer control. His scream of denial tore up from his churning belly through his shattered heart to break the blood vessels in his throat. He didn’t feel his wounds, some to the bone, or the acid burning through his skin left behind by the vampire blood, only the agony of his parents’ deaths, of the kill forced on him by fate, by destiny. Of the loss of all innocence, of being thrust into a role he’d been born for but did not want. He didn’t want to ever face the knowledge that all that darkness consumed him—remained inside of him.

“Zacarias.” Nicolas was there, wrapping an arm around him, trying to pull him away from the scene of death.

Zacarias stepped away from him, afraid of tainting his brother with the shadows that were now solidly a part of him. Grimly he incinerated the bodies of his mother and father, the vampire, before taking care of the acid on his skin.

He turned to study the pale faces of his brothers. “None of you will ever think of this again. You will not dishonor our father or me with this memory, do you understand? Not ever. You will not think of it or speak of it again. Do your crying now, because when we walk away from here, it is done. Finished. Tell me you understand. Each of you. Say it. Swear it on the life of our mother.”

His brothers each swore to him they would obey his wishes and reaffirmed their allegiance to him. Only then did he leave them to let them mourn while he went a distance away and sank into the earth and cried for the last time in over a thousand years.

Zacarias touched his face and his fingertips came away smeared with blood. He could feel Marguarita in his arms, feel her inside of him, all around him. Her heartbeat was rapid and her breathing ragged. She was crying, and he felt her pain as though it was his own. Startled he looked down at her shoulder. Her blouse had droplets of crimson staining the material. His throat felt clogged and aching. Shocked, he shoved her away from him, throwing her out of his mind, rejecting her, rejecting the memories, rejecting the agony of such of things.

The adrenaline and absolute refutation of the memory—of the emotions—put far more strength in him than he intended, and Marguarita went flying, stumbling back away from him to land several feet in a small heap on the floor. She looked up at him with resignation, making no attempt to stand.

Zacarias took a deep breath and expelled the terrible taste in his mouth—in his mind. He was Zacarias De La Cruz and he was . . . alone. Completely, utterly alone. Without her in his mind, filling those torn, shadowed places, he had never been so alone. He could feel it, that emptiness yawning like a great endless hole threatening to swallow him whole. He backed even farther away from her—this witch who had turned his life upside down.

The agony of remembrance was unbearable. Tremors ran through him. He took another step away from her, putting the length of the room between them. Inside there was a terrible wrenching, as if he was tearing his own body apart in order to separate from her. He couldn’t afford her. He was pure predator, born that way, shadowed from birth, encased in ice. She was melting each of his shields, destroying his ability to function properly.

A slow hiss of warning emerged. Fear slid into her expression and instead of the satisfaction he should have felt, his stomach took a plunge and something vicious squeezed his heart.

You asked me to show you.

He felt her plea, although this time he wasn’t certain she did. She held out an unsteady hand to him. Zacarias studied her, his eyes flat and cold, his expression deliberately remote. “Of what use is this to me? This memory was never meant to surface and yet you bring up something that has been buried over a thousand years. For what purpose?”

But the memory is still inside of you and so is the pain. You lock it away instead of letting go of it.

“If I do not feel it, it is gone.”

She shook her head, dropping her hand. If it was gone, I could not have found it or felt the agony you felt.

He despised her logic. She had uncovered a long-buried secret no one in the Carpathian world, let alone the human world, knew. He took a step toward her, his teeth snapping together in a vicious warning. “I should break your neck for such an indiscretion. You dare too much.” He actually twisted his hands together as if he had her neck between his palms.

She tilted her chin at him. I’m tired of being afraid of you. Do it then. Get it over with.

He was on her so fast she had no time to do anything but blink up at him. His fingers wrapped around her throat, dragging her to her feet. Her pulse beat into the palm of his hand. He knew the moment he touched her that he was lost. There would be no killing this woman, no harming her in any way. She was fast losing her fear of him and she had every reason to be afraid. Each time he got near her, inhaled her, looked at her, his body reacted, full and hard and so aching with need it rivaled the hunger throbbing in his veins for her.

“Sun scorch you, woman,” he whispered, dropping his hands. “No one controls me. No one.” He turned his back on her, striding from the room.

Zacarias dissolved before he reached the front door. He needed to be outdoors where he could breathe. He didn’t belong in any enclosure. The world had long since moved on without him. He was a predator long outliving his time and he understood nothing about the modern world—nor did he want to. Modern houses and conveniences meant nothing to him. He had the rain forest and the caves, the earth itself was his home. He was meant to be alone. He had been born to a different life and he had no place in a world with houses populated by humans.

Marguarita was a complete mystery to him. She was like some beautiful lure he couldn’t resist, drawing him deeper and deeper into her spell where he would have to . . . He slammed his mind closed, refusing to bring her with him out of her dwelling. She would stay there, where he put her and he would return when it suited him. In the meantime, he had other much more pressing problems than a woman who refused to leave things alone that should never be brought into the light—such as Zacarias De La Cruz.

He slipped through the crack beneath the door and streamed out into the night, out into the world he understood where it was kill or be killed. He took the form of the harpy eagle and rose into the sky, circling the ranch several times before retreating into the forest. There was no doubt in his mind that evil was out and spreading through the great forest and down the winding Amazon and all its tributaries looking for him.

Ruslan Malinov, eldest of the Malinov brothers and their acknowledged leader, would not take his defeat lying down. He would need vengeance and he would be unable to pass the task to another, not even one of his brothers. The lesser vampires would be watching, waiting to see if he exacted his revenge. He had to come after Zacarias or lose control of everything he had built. He would come, but he would not come openly.

The harpy eagle soared to the highest point above the ranch and settled into the branches of a tall kapok tree. He had extraordinary eyesight, was able to see anything tiny, even less than an inch, from a good two hundred yards away. As a rule, the harpy had poor night vision, but Zacarias was born to the night and his night vision coupled with the harpy’s made for excellent sight. Ruslan had sent the tainted birds, and it wouldn’t be the only thing he sent looking for evidence of Zacarias’s passing.

Leaving the battlefield in Brazil, he’d been severely wounded. He’d left a blood trail leading straight to this ranch. Ruslan’s spies would have had no problem following the scent. It hadn’t mattered because he had intended to end his existence and Ruslan would have led the fight away from his brothers. The master vampire would have been satisfied knowing Zacarias was finally dead. But now, because he was alive, Ruslan would come and he would bring every foul thing with him he could possibly conjure up in a short time. Deep inside the harpy eagle, Zacarias smiled, a grim, welcoming smile.

Destroying the undead was familiar territory, one he was very comfortable with. He found he welcomed the coming nights. A game of wits. Ruslan had always been intelligent and arrogant and that had led to his inevitable downfall. He had considered himself far above the Dubrinsky lineage and believed that by assassinating the prince he would become the leader of the Carpathian people.

There had been a time far back when Ruslan and Zacarias had been best friends. They fought together, side by side, watched each other’s back as close as blood brothers, but Ruslan had crossed a line impossible to retreat from. Ruslan had never once admitted to making a mistake, and his arrogance had grown over the centuries. Until now, he had avoided direct confrontation with Zacarias, but he would come.

Zacarias glanced toward the house. The pull of the woman was growing stronger by the moment. She crept into his thoughts and refused to leave. He wasn’t going to escape, not even within the body of the eagle. She was there in his mind, wrapping him up in her silken web. He wanted to see her, to know she was safe, and his mind kept trying to tune itself to hers.

Marguarita Fernandez was his true lifemate. There was no denying that fact now. He had found her and the danger had increased a thousandfold. His father had been born with that same taint of shadow Zacarias had in such abundance. He had found his lifemate, lived many centuries, but in the end, none of it had mattered. With his lifemate torn and bloody before him, he had turned into . . .

He slammed his mind closed on that atrocity. Sun scorch Marguarita Fernandez. She had opened Pandora’s box and there was no closing it now. He was lost no matter what. If he claimed her, if he didn’t claim her, and how could he not? He was tied to her irrevocably and the strength of those ties grew with each passing hour. He had to protect her at all costs and the moment Ruslan found out about her he would use every weapon in his arsenal to get to her. He would know the danger to Zacarias’s soul. Zacarias was already so close to turning, losing Marguarita would tip him over the edge just as assuredly as it had his father. Ruslan would do everything in his power to bring about Zacarias’s downfall through his lifemate.

The moon had begun to wane, although light spilled down, bathing the ground in silvery beams. Stars glittered bright and a few clouds drifted very slowly across the sky, more wisps than real. It took a moment, as he looked out over the ranch, before he realized some of the dull gray of the grass and fences had deepened to other hues. Eagles, like most birds, saw in color, and the harpy was no exception, but even inside the raptor, Zacarias had never been able to distinguish any color whatsoever. He nearly fell off the tree branch peering down at the grass in the field. The gray had taken on both green and yellow tints. Enough that in the gleaming light from the moon, he felt a little dazzled by the sight. The corrals and fences looked a drab wooden brown, but definitely brown versus the gray he was used to. Before, he had begun to see only Marguarita in color. Now the world she lived in was coming alive to him.

He forced his gaze away from the hacienda and back toward the fields. Spies came in all forms and it was good to be prepared. Only Cesaro, Julio and Marguarita had actually seen him and they all knew to go about their daily routines with added vigilance. Every single worker on the ranch had been equipped from birth with protection for their minds. No vampire could penetrate those shields. They were also trained from the time they were toddlers in fighting the undead. The games taught to the children were actually skills needed to slay a vampire.

Each man and woman working on any of the ranches knew if a De La Cruz was in residence, the danger was very high and they took precautions. Animals were moved into protected areas and all riders carried both modern and ancient weapons, usually concealed so any spy watching wouldn’t realize they were armed with more than the usual ranch tools.

The rain forest had a way of continually creeping back to reclaim its own territory and already, in spite of the ranch workers fighting to hold back the growth, creeper vines snaked their way along the ground to sneak beneath the fences and take root in the fields. Some of the woody vines wound their way up posts and around fencing. In the corner of the far field, where cattle roamed, several thick plants broke through the ground in places. The harpy eagle took to the air and circled above the field, his sharp gaze fixing on the plants.

The vines were twisted, thick braids of wood, dark and running with a thick sap. They appeared to be growing at a rapid rate, eating through everything in their path. Even as the eagle watched, a curious mouse scurried across the grass and ventured too close. The sap beaded along the vine and dripped into the ground. The mouse sniffed the substance curiously. The sap seemed to reach for the inquisitive rodent, splashing up, surrounding the little mouse, encasing it in the dark, oily substance.

The mouse screamed, lifting its head for air as the sap encased it, eating the hapless creature alive, right through the fur, through the walls of skin and tissue, to devour the tiny bones. That sap could devour a steer, horse or human—just as easily. Zacarias noted every place the vines had grown and headed toward the small home where Cesaro and his family lived. It would be necessary for the humans to recognize the plant and mark it without going near it as well as ensuring all animals stayed away from it.

Cesaro answered his call immediately, coming out onto the verandah, still buttoning his shirt and closing the door hastily on the growling, cowering dog behind him. “Is something wrong, señor?”

He looked as uneasy as his dog acted. Zacarias stepped off the porch to put a little distance between him and the dog now at the window, snarling and nearly foaming at the mouth. There was no doubt animals were disturbed by his presence.

“Unfortunately I have found evidence of evil creeping onto the ranch. I want you to come with me so you can identify the plant to all those working under you before I destroy it. It will kill, not only plant and animal life, but human as well.”

Cesaro immediately nodded his head. “Do you need my son?”

Zacarias first thought to shake his head. As a rule he avoided contact with the workers, knowing he made them every bit as uneasy as he did the livestock, but maybe he needed to spend some time with Julio. Zacarias knew he was far too much of a predator to allow his woman to be with a man she felt genuine affection for, so to keep Cesaro’s son safe, it was best to ascertain his intentions toward Marguarita.

“Yes. We want to make certain there is no place on the ranch that this plant grows. Your son spends a good amount of time in the saddle and he covers a good deal of territory.”

“I’ll just be a moment.” Cesaro disappeared into the house.

The dog was annoying. Zacarias put up with the irritating snarling a couple more minutes and then he waved his hand and the noise ended abruptly. The dog continued to stare out the window, but when he opened his mouth to bark or growl, no sound emerged.

Cesaro hurried out followed by Julio. The boy looked younger than Zacarias remembered. In truth, he’d barely glanced at the kid when he’d yanked him through the window, intending to kill him for daring to put his hands on Marguarita. Julio touched his neck and then straightened his shoulders.

“We won’t take the horses,” Cesaro told his son, shooting a quick glance toward Zacarias. “Not until we’ve seen everything Señor De La Cruz needs to show us.”

Zacarias led the way toward the back field. Already, the vines had circled the fencing and had grown thick along the back corner. He waved his hand toward the plant. “That is deadly to anything living that comes near it. I will incinerate it, but you will have to be very vigilant. All of you. It will continue to return as long as I am in residence.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Cesaro asked.

Zacarias pinned him with a cool gaze. “Indefinitely.” The man paled beneath his bronzed skin, so Zacarias took pity on him. It had to be said eventually. “There is an unforeseen complication.”

Cesaro glanced at Julio.

Zacarias sighed. “I do not like it any more than you do. As much as you are disturbed by my presence, I am disturbed by yours.”

“You misunderstand, señor. This is your home and certainly you should stay as long as you wish,” Cesaro corrected hastily. “It is just that Marguarita is needed with the animals and our regular routine is important to keep to. We have a couple of mares ready to give birth any day now and with you present, the cattle have to be watched continually. She’s good at soothing all the animals.”

“I am afraid you will have to get along without her.”

Julio glanced at him sharply. He pulled his hat down closer over his eyes. “Is she all right?”

“Why would she not be all right?” Zacarias challenged.

“She is always out with the horses,” Cesaro explained. “It is worrisome that she hasn’t gone to the stable and at least checked the mares.”

“She is fine.” That wasn’t altogether the truth. He had thrown her across the room and hadn’t even checked her out. He was always forgetting how fragile humans were.

“I’d like to see her,” Julio said.

Zacarias halted abruptly. He felt the familiar cold sweep through his body. His gaze focused on the younger man, a direct, predatory stare. He felt the need to kill building, that raw desire to remove every obstacle from his path. “Why?”

Cesaro edged closer to his son but Zacarias stopped him with a flick of his gaze. Tension stretched. Julio refused to be intimidated, ignoring his father’s restraining hand.

“Marguarita is like a sister to me. I love her and I need to know she is safe and well and happy. She would never willingly avoid checking the horses. The horses are her passion and the fact that she hasn’t come out to the stables is not a good sign.”

“Marguarita is my lifemate.”

Cesaro drew in his breath, shaking his head in denial, his shock plain. Julio frowned and looked to his father for an explanation.

“That can’t be, señor,” Cesaro protested. “She is one of us, not Carpathian. There is some mistake.”

“What does that mean?” Julio demanded. “I don’t understand what that means.”

“It means she belongs to me. She is my woman. My wife. And that puts her in more danger than you can possibly imagine. If it becomes known that she is my lifemate, every vampire and his puppet the world over will be looking to kill her. It is far safer for her to be inside the dwelling until I can remove the immediate danger to her.”

Julio shook his head. “You can’t just come here and decide that Marguarita is your woman. She may work for you, but she has rights. What does she say about this?”

“Julio,” Cesaro hissed in warning.

“She has no say in the matter,” Zacarias said, pitching his voice low—a velvet warning. “In our world, the man claims his woman and she is bound to him. There is no going back for either of them.”

“It’s a mistake.”

“It is impossible to make a mistake,” Zacarias said. “She is mine.”

“You don’t sound happy about it, señor,” Cesaro said quickly, interrupting his son before Julio could speak. “Perhaps in this instance, something could be done to free her. Surely you don’t want to be saddled with a human woman—one that can’t speak.”

There was a short silence while Zacarias turned the idea over and over in his mind. All along, he had been thinking that exact thought—he didn’t want to be saddled with a human woman—any woman—but especially one who didn’t know the first thing about obedience. He had considered walking away from her, just leaving her without a word. He’d thought to stay a few days just to see color and feel just a little before ending his days. Hearing Cesaro give voice to his own thoughts changed everything.

He felt his gut tighten, his body react physically to the thought of losing her. His mouth went dry, something viselike squeezed his heart hard in his chest. Everything he was rebelled against the idea of breaking the ties between them. Marguarita was his woman. He wasn’t about to find a way to be free of her. He didn’t believe there was a way, but even so, she belonged to him and he would never give her up willingly. Not to the humans, not to the vampires and certainly not to another man.

So there it was. He had a lifemate, as crazy as the woman was, she belonged to him and he was keeping her. He flashed his teeth at Cesaro, allowing a flare of absolute predator to show in his eyes as a warning.

“I will not give her up. There is no discussion. If you both care for her as you say you do, this will stay between us. No one else can know, not even other members of your family. It is the only way to keep her safe.”

“Is she a prisoner?” Julio dared to ask.

Zacarias touched his mind. The man’s barrier was intact, but Zacarias had taken his blood and pushed harder to gain entry. Julio pressed his fingers to his temples, shaking his head.

“Just tell me what you want to know.”

Zacarias was already getting the impressions he needed. Julio did love Marguarita as a sister. It was a relief to know he wouldn’t have to kill Cesaro’s son. “Who is this man you do not like that keeps coming around to visit Marguarita?”

Julio looked startled. “Was I thinking about him?”

“You do not like the idea of Marguarita being my lifemate, but you like the idea of her being with this strange man even less,” Zacarias said. “Tell me about him.”

They were approaching the vine and Zacarias waved both men to a halt, not wanting them too close to the treacherous sap. “Just in the time I have spent with you, the vines have been busy.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Cesaro said. “The plant looks alive, eating everything in its path.”

Zacarias nodded. “The vampire bends everything to his evil purpose. He knows I am in residence and he will be nipping at my heels in the hopes of weakening me before he shows himself. Do not try to kill this plant yourselves. If anyone spots it, let me know immediately.”

Both men stepped well back when Zacarias waved them away from the destructive vines. Above their heads, clouds gathered, churned and boiled, silver veins flickered inside the turbulent patches. Lightning leaped along the ground, forks of white-hot energy traced the path of the thick vines, incinerating the wood, leaves and thick sap everywhere it touched. A foul smell much like rotting eggs permeated the air.

“Do not breathe it in,” Zacarias cautioned.

The trail of burning ash grew long and wide, racing over the ground and under it, following the path of the vines back to the original source—the edge of the rain forest. It was clear, seeing the blackened ash, the vine had been traveling toward the hacienda, searching for Zacarias’s resting place.

“Tell me about this man you do not like, the one you believe is courting my woman,” Zacarias commanded as they turned back toward the hacienda.

Light was just beginning to streak across the night sky, fading the stars and moon. Zacarias quickened his pace. Safeguards would be necessary throughout the ranch now.

“Esteban and his sister, Lea, moved here a few months ago,” Cesaro said, glancing at his son for confirmation. Julio nodded with a small frown. “Very wealthy and very arrogant. This is not the kind of man who settles here. He has no real interest in ranching or raising horses. I ask myself, why would this type of man come here to this remote part of the country when he is so obviously a city man?”

“That is a good question,” Zacarias affirmed. “Have you an answer?”

Julio sighed and shook his head. “We’ve talked it over several times. Either they’re hiding here, on the run from something or . . .” He trailed off and looked at his father.

“Or they’re hoping to get to a De La Cruz,” Cesaro admitted. “It is no secret who owns this land. It is far larger than any other holding here in our country, and although on record it looks as if each of your brothers has bought land to put together, one family having so much acreage is unusual. Your family has a certain reputation and many men would wish it to be known that you are friends. And the man, Esteban, often brings up the De La Cruz name, asking questions we do not answer.”

“It is possible they have knowledge they shouldn’t,” Julio added reluctantly.

“Did you express your concerns to Marguarita?” Zacarias asked.

“Marguarita is completely loyal to the De La Cruz family,” Julio snapped. “She would never betray you, certainly not to an outsider.”

“That is not what I asked,” Zacarias said.

Julio hung his head when his father sent him a dark scowl.

“No. Marguarita regarded Esteban and his sister as friends, no more than that,” Cesaro said. “She knew he was courting her, but then so were a lot of men. She showed no real interest so we thought it best to just tell her that he was an outsider and didn’t belong here. That is as far as it went.”

Zacarias nodded. “Do you really need her for the animals—the horses?”

Cesaro nodded. “Especially now. They are . . . disturbed.”

Zacarias broke away from the two men, heading back to the main ranch house. “Tomorrow evening then, she will help you.”

He didn’t wait for their response. It mattered little to him what they had to say. Marguarita was his woman, and for as long as he chose to remain on earth, no one else would direct her but him. He safeguarded the house, paying special attention to the foundation and the ground beneath the house before he added protection to the doors and windows. Only when he was completely certain Ruslan’s spies couldn’t penetrate his guards did he allow his mind to seek Marguarita’s.

She hadn’t moved from the floor in the kitchen. He found her sitting with her knees drawn up and her chin resting on top of them. She looked small and forlorn. His heart stuttered when her eyes met his. There was no condemnation in her expression or her mind. She simply looked at him with her dark chocolate eyes, her gaze drifting over his face, as if trying to read his mood.

Are you all right?

He found her warmth filling his mind. She didn’t pour into him as she had before, but drifted in just as her gaze moved slowly over his face. His heart found the rhythm of hers, slowed her frantic pace so that they beat in sync. There were tear tracks on her face and the sight offended him. He crossed to her side and reached down to lift her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She made no protest, but curled into him, resting her head against his shoulder. Her hair spilled around her face, hiding her expression, but she couldn’t hide her mind from his.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been meddling in things I don’t understand. Truly, Zacarias, I’m very, very sorry.

She was worried for him. She wasn’t thinking of herself or his reaction, the things he’d said and done to her, she was worried about how the memories had affected him.

“People do not worry about me, Marguarita.”

Someone should.

There was a hint of a smile in her voice and it warmed him. He turned her response over and over in his mind. “If I put you in your bed will you stay there?”

This time there was no mistaking the laughter. Probably not, but I’ll try.

He laid her on top of the bed and stared down at her for a long time. Her black hair spilled across her pillow, like a fall of silk skeins. Her lashes looked thicker and darker than ever. Color added so much to a world, even the dull colors he was seeing. He wanted to lean down and taste those perfect lips, but he knew it wouldn’t end there. The call of her blood beat in his veins and he was done scaring her for the day. Not when she was so obviously worried about him.

“Sleep well, Marguarita.”

I almost miss those strange names you call me.

He touched her hair once, feeling a shift in his heart, one he feared would change his life. He moved back away from her without another word, unable to decide what he was going to do about her. He could not remember a time when he hadn’t known exactly what he was going to do. Abruptly he left her room, left her fragrant scent and the terrible need clawing at his veins. He was still in control, but for how much longer was anyone’s guess.