Carpathian 01 - Dark Prince

is a loaded question .
    Where are you? Without realizing it, Raven was communicating a sultry invitation. She touched his mark over her breast with light fingertips. The contact caused her blood to heat, the mark to throb.
    Your body needs rest, little one. I have not exactly been the gentlest of lovers, have I? There was self-mockery in his tone, guilt in his mind.
    She laughed softly. I don't have very much to judge you by, do I? There hasn't been a parade of men in my life. Her soft laughter wrapped him in loving arms. If you like, I could always find someone to compare you with. She offered it sweetly.
    She felt the brush of strong fingers on her throat, curling around the fragile column. How did he do that?
    I'm so scared, macho man. Someone needs to drag you kicking and screaming into this century.
    The fingers brushed her face, caressed her lower lip. You love me the way I am.
    Love. The smile faded from her soft mouth at the word. She didn't want to love him. He already had far too much power over her. You can't hold me here, Mikhail. Obsession might be the right word, not love.
    Little rabbit. There are no chains on the doors, and the telephone is in working order. And you do love me; you cannot help yourself. I am perfect for you. Hurry up; you need to eat.
    You're a pain in the neck. As she brushed out her hair, she realized how much easier their telepathic communication was. Practice? Her temples didn't ache from the effort. She tilted her head for a moment, listened to the sounds of the house. Mikhail was pouring liquid into a glass; she could hear it clearly.
    Raven dressed slowly, thoughtfully. Her telepathic abilities were increasing; her senses were more acute.

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    Was it simply Mikhail's company, or was it something in the herb concoctions he was always pouring down her throat? There was so much she wanted to learn from him. He had great psychic talent.
    The skirt swung around her ankles with a sexy little swish, and the blouse clung to her curves. She had to admit that the outfit made her feel feminine, as did his choice of sheer lace panties and matching bra.
    Are you going to sit there and moon about me all night?
    Night! It had better not be night again, Mikhail. I'm turning into some kind of a mole. And don't flatter yourself; I was not mooning over you. It took great effort to lie blatantly; she was proud of herself.
    And you think I believe your nonsense? He was laughing again, and Raven found she couldn't help giving in to her own sense of humor.
    She found her way though the house, marveling at the artwork, the sculpture. Outside, the sun had already disappeared behind the mountains. Raven gave a little resigned sigh. Mikhail had set a small antique, beautifully carved table on the porch outside the kitchen. He turned his head as she approached, a smile warming his eyes, chasing away the shadows. Heat pooled in her abdomen, ran liquid through her body.
    Mikhail bent his dark head to hers, his mouth brushing hers tenderly. "Good evening." He touched her hair, skimmed his fingers down the side of her face in a long caress. She allowed him to seat her at the table, marveling at his gallant, old-world courtesy. He placed a glass of juice in front of her. "Before I go to work, I thought we could collect your things from the inn." His long fingers selected a blueberry muffin and transferred it to the antique plate. It was exquisite, but Raven was so shocked at his words, she could only stare at him for a moment, her blue eyes enormous.
    "What do you mean, collect my things?" It hadn't occurred to her that he might expect them to live in the same house together. His house.
    His smile was slow, wicked, sexy. "I could keep providing you with new things."
    Raven's hand trembled. She put it in her lap, out of sight. "I'm not moving in with you, Mikhail." The idea was scary. She was a very private person, needing large amounts of time alone. He was the most overwhelming being she had ever encountered. How would she ever be able to sort things out with him so near all the time?
    His eyebrow shot up. "No? You accepted our ways; we went through the required ritual. In my eyes, the eyes of my people, you are my lifemate, my woman. My wife. Is it the way of the American women to live apart from their husbands?"
    There was that infuriating trace of mocking male amusement in his voice, the note that always made her want to throw