Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

utterly still, her hands wrapping around the bird’s legs. Once he gained altitude, he sped his way through the rain forest back toward the hacienda. Harpy eagles easily flew a good fifty miles per hour when they wanted, and with the ferocious wind at its back, the bird swiftly covered the distance, reaching the ranch in record time.
    Zacarias dropped Marguarita gently in the grass just outside the front door. He shifted as his feet touched the ground beside her. She didn’t attempt to run again, but lay quietly, her hands pressed tightly over her waist where the talons had clutched her so tightly. Zacarias bent down and caught her up in his arms, cradling her to his chest.
    Her eyes took up half her face and the fear was back, all traces of temper gone. She couldn’t scream and her mouth wasn’t open to try to call for aid, and that upset him more than it should have.
    “Do not look at me that way,” he snapped. “Had you simply come with me without a fuss, I would not have had to drag you back in such a manner. Has no one ever taught you consequences?”
    She looked away from, shifting her gaze to somewhere over his shoulder, but she couldn’t contain the shudder that went through her. Perhaps his voice had been too harsh. He had to remember her infirmity. Her father certainly should have addressed her need to flout authority, but he was there now, and he had no doubt he could get the job done.
    He waved his hand at the door and it opened for him. He swept through with Marguarita in his arms and placed her on the sofa while he turned back to employ safeguards. He wove intricate, very strong guards around the entire structure, taking his time, determined no one would enter—and no one would leave while he slept. The workers on his properties knew when a De La Cruz was in residence, they were not to be disturbed during daylight hours. When he was satisfied no one—not even one of his brothers—could get through his weave, he turned back to study the woman who embodied the word mystery .
    Marguarita sat up slowly. He saw her catch her breath and pain flashed across her face. He frowned and stepped close to her. The scent of blood hit him. Zacarias pulled her to her feet. She kept her hands pressed tightly to her waist. He could see small red droplets trickling through her fingers. Humans didn’t heal themselves. He hadn’t spent time around humans in years. He’d fed and was gone, a ghost in the night no one ever saw—or remembered.
    “Let me see.” He softened his voice when her gaze jumped to his. “Take your hands away, woman. I need to see the damage done.”
    Apparently he sounded just as menacing when he used a low tone because she shivered, but couldn’t seem to move.
    Very gently he gripped her wrists and moved her hands. The puncture wounds from the grizzly-sized talons of the harpy eagle wrapped around her, front to back on either side. He should have thought about what those talons would do to human flesh, not about her defiance. Watching her face, he spit into his hands. His saliva would not only help mend the punctures, but he had numbing agent that would stop the pain as he healed her. He fit his palms easily over the marks, pressing into her, his hands nearly spanning her midsection.
    “You will feel warm, but it should not hurt you,” he assured her.
    She was trembling so hard he wasn’t certain she could remain standing. Her eyes stared into his with the exact look he’d seen on the prey of cobras. She looked mesmerized and terrified, unable to look away from him.
    “Stop fearing me.” He had wanted her to be afraid, now he wished he could take it back. She looked very fragile, vulnerable, and so very alone. “I will not allow anything to happen to you. It is my duty to look after you.” He was telling the truth to her. Nothing would take this woman from him—certainly not death. By some miracle or some devilish trick, he was at long last coming to life, his body reborn, his mind once again intrigued.
    He looked around the room and everything in it remained a dull gray. When he looked back at her, he could see emerging color, faint, but there. Her eyelashes were that same amazing black as the rope of her hair. Enormous eyes of deep dark chocolate stared back at him. Her eyebrows were black. Her lips were definitely pink. Colors could only be restored by a lifemate. Emotions—and he was having unfamiliar reactions to her—could only be restored by a lifemate. The fact that