Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

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    M arguarita Fernandez’s breath caught in her throat and she sank back on her heels. What she was doing? She could envision screaming at herself to stop, deep inside where no one else could hear her—but as much as she told herself to let him die, as he demanded—she couldn’t. There was no turning back now, and he surely would kill her. She dared to disobey a De La Cruz. Not just any De La Cruz, either. She had disobeyed the one the men whispered about. This was Zacarias, no one mentioned him unless they did so in terms of great respect—and even greater fear.
    He had already warned her. His voice carved the words forever into her heart. You will suffer as no one else has ever suffered for your disobedience. He had warned her repeatedly to leave him. She just— couldn’t. There was no way to explain that to him. She didn’t know the reason herself. And she had no voice. No way to soothe him other than to treat him as she treated the wild creatures around her.
    It took great courage and physical effort to wrench her gaze from the imprisonment of his. Pressing her lips together and ignoring her thundering heart, she yanked at his clothing to get the smoldering mess away from his skin. She gasped, nearly flinging herself backward when she saw his wounds. Congealed blood lay thick and ugly over the mottled burns. He’d been in a terrible battle, wounded repeatedly, and he hadn’t taken care to heal the lacerations or, judging by his pale complexion, feed.
    There was no time for niceties. He was probably being pursued. The undead would be in the ground as the sun rose, but they had all manner of foul servants. She had been drilled since birth on the readiness for assaults by the undead on their home. She ran through the hacienda, securing every window and door and distributing weapons for easy access before rushing to the kitchen to mix a solution to cool her master’s burning skin.
    She carried the pitcher back to the man lying on the floor. His gaze followed her, but he made no more effort to push fear into her mind. Maybe because she was already so filled with terror there was no room for anything more. Still, his eyes were ferocious with red flames, and a promise of retaliation. She avoided looking into those eyes, a little afraid he could somehow control her and she wouldn’t— couldn’t —step aside and allow him to die. Every cell in her body demanded she save his life—even at the cost of her own.
    Her hand trembled as she began to sponge the cooling solution over his body. She knew it had to sting the gaping lacerations, but she had to stop the burn before she could attend his other wounds. She tried very hard not to notice his defined muscle and impressive male equipment. She pretended he was a wild animal, and perhaps he really was, but it was difficult to view him that way when she was stroking the soft washcloth over his very masculine body.
    Marguarita was used to being in the company of men. She’d worked on the ranch for as long as she could remember, but none had a body like this. Zacarias was all hard muscle, broad shoulders and narrow hips. He had a fearsome reputation. Few ever saw him in the flesh, but the rumors were terrible. Cesaro Santos, the capataz of the ranch, had told her when she’d been attacked by the vampire that Zacarias had saved her life, but she’d never met him, spoken with him or even caught sight of him before. Still, she knew with absolute certainty that this man was the eldest of the De La Cruz brothers and the master of all the ranches.
    She carefully cleaned his wounds, all the while soothing him as she would one of her wild creatures, unaware if it helped or not. His body was totally dead, although his eyes remained wide open and fixed on her face. He needed blood. He was far too pale and it was evident from his wounds that he’d lost too much. She could hear her heart begin to accelerate, but she’d come this far already. What would going further matter? He’d already condemned her for her actions.
    Taking a breath, she drew the knife from its sheath at her waist and before she could think too much about what she was doing, she sliced her wrist. If she could have screamed aloud, she would have, but even opening her mouth wide, no sound emerged. She positioned her wrist over the master’s mouth, allowing her own blood to drip steadily. Silently she demanded he swallow. He could do that much, she was certain of it. When there was no