Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

understand the enormity of her sin and the grievous position she’d placed him in. That was all. Why he found her horror disturbing, he was uncertain. It seemed to bother him on a primitive level, although intellectually, he was sure she needed to be afraid. There were terrible, vile creatures in his world and she lived there. Served him. It mattered that she listened to him.
    I am saving your life—as I did before. Perhaps reminding her that he’d saved her from the vampire would help.
    Marguarita’s body shuddered and moved subtly from his, as if touching him was foul. Thunder crashed again, echoing the rioting in his mind. He had chosen life for her. She should be grateful he’d bothered when she was so disobedient. She would not soon forget this lesson and maybe, just maybe, she would know not to meddle in things that were none of her business. And she would obey his commands, which often meant life or death.
    The only answer was the rain hitting the roof. The wild beating of her heart. Her ragged breathing. He sighed. Her fear bordered on terror. No, it was terror and, quite frankly, he found he didn’t like it. There was no letup. Not even now when he treated her with care.
    You have taken enough.
    He went to insert his hand between her mouth and his chest, to carefully pull her away as one would expect he would have to do, but she jerked away from him so unexpectedly she nearly fell from his arms. He tightened his hold, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. His blood had provided strength for her, and now that he was connected with her, he knew she intended to try to vomit, to rid herself of the substance.
    He smiled at her, slowly shaking his head. “My blood flows in your veins already, silly woman. Your body absorbs it. It will not go to your stomach as your foul food does.”
    Zacarias was prepared for her to fight and he was not going to allow her up until he was ready. Marguarita remained perfectly still, her gaze locked on his face, hardly breathing now, as still as any prey hiding in the trees or grasses might be. A small frisson of unease went down his back. She was exhibiting the exact signs the creatures in the rain forest manifested when he was near. There were no warning alarms, none of the normal shrieking monkeys and birds often used when spotting a predator. Even insects stilled when he was near.
    He wanted obedience from her, not stark, raw fear. Well . . . he’d wanted her to be afraid—to learn her lesson. Fear was simply a tool to him, one he wielded easily. Perhaps she was more sensitive than he had considered and he should have toned his message down.
    He felt the first slight movement of her body, nothing more than a whisper of space between them, but he knew she was fleeing him. Instinctively he tightened his hold on her, breathing in and out for both of them, his lungs calling to hers to follow his rhythm. His heart beat slow and steady, in an effort to slow the wild acceleration of hers. He barely recognized his need to calm her, or even the reason for it—the need simply existed.
    From a place long forgotten, a memory surfaced of a child, a young boy shifting too late and embedding himself in a tree. Zacarias remembered his youngest brother, a fast learner, but trying things he wasn’t ready for because his older brothers could. He rocked Marguarita in the same manner as he had Riordan, to comfort her, murmuring in Carpathian, soft words that meant nothing. Noise really. The memory shocked him almost as much as the entire night’s events did. He hadn’t thought of those days in hundreds of years.
    He wasn’t a man who felt compassion, but her fear disturbed him. It made no sense and he didn’t trust anything he couldn’t explain. He set her on the floor. The moment his hands released her, she crawled away from him to huddle in the corner, staring at him with her enormous, frightened eyes.
    Tremors wracked her body over and over. She twisted her fingers together, twice reaching as if she might touch the darkening bruise on her neck, yet halting before she brushed her damaged skin. She wore his brand now, color coming up under her skin with two punctures centered almost perfectly. She didn’t touch the spot, and he found himself frowning. Puzzled.
    As a rule it was easier to use women to feed. His younger brothers moved in political circles in order to achieve the things they needed, such as their larger estates. Decorative women hanging on their arms were always a