Carpathian 22 - Dark Predator

the teapot her mother had made so many years earlier and was always careful of it. Using it always made her feel closer to her mother and, right now, comforted. She couldn’t imagine Zacarias having nothing like that in his life.
    “I was not aware you could feel my emotions,” he finally, almost reluctantly, admitted.
    She turned to face him again, leaning against the counter and studying his face. She found it amazing that he could look so stern and tough, but yet be so brutally handsome. His hair was long, even for a Carpathian, almost as long as hers. A few strands of gray enhanced the deep midnight color. The mass of hair had wave to it—enough wave to spiral into several long swirls from the leather cord he bound it with. The spiraling waves didn’t soften his appearance, but only made him that much more attractive.
    He didn’t appear to be relaxed or at ease. He appeared exactly as he was—a killing machine. No one would ever mistake him for anything else, but maybe she was getting used to his presence because the inner tremors had finally ceased.
    I can.
    “Explain it to me.”
    He seemed genuinely puzzled, but how could she explain? She tried to picture a volcano with masses of churning magma. I can feel what’s inside of you. Anger. Sorrow. It’s very turbulent and intense, but I can tell you don’t feel it in the same way as me.
    His eyes didn’t leave her face. She couldn’t help the sudden rise of color. She felt a little like an insect under a microscope. Clearly he was studying her—a human specimen.
    “Tell me about your friend Julio.”
    Her stomach knotted. That way lay disaster. His expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes had. There was only a subtle difference in his eyes, but she could feel the volcanic emotion roiling inside of him. She turned back to making her breakfast so she wouldn’t be afraid.
    She did her best to show him her relationship with Julio. We grew up together. He is but a few months older than me, so we were raised as brother and sister.
    She found it difficult to project that concept, but, glancing over her shoulder at his dark face, she persisted. There were no other children around. This is a working ranch and even as children, of course, we were expected to help.
    Again, she tried to send impressions of the two of them working in the stables, and in the fields with the cattle. I could do a better job with my pen and paper.
    “You are doing just fine.”
    She risked another quick look at his face. She wasn’t doing just fine. He still had death in his eyes. She forced down panic, feeling as if she was failing Julio. My mother died when I was very young and I was inconsolable. I lost myself in the animals. In the rain forest.
    He stirred as if the thought of that little girl alone in the rain forest bothered him, but she couldn’t imagine that he could conceive of her pain as a child at the loss of her mother. Or that he might worry for a human child that was of little consequence to him. But Julio had worried. He was only a little boy himself, but he defied his parents and followed her to keep her safe.
    And then his mother caught a fever and she died a year after my mother. That created a bond between us. I was careful to stay close to him, as he had done for me. Again she tried to convey the deep sorrow that both of them had felt and the lifelong connection that had been established.
    Marguarita turned then and studied his face, the dark turbulence in his eyes. She took a deep breath, feeling a little desperate for him to understand. Can you see my memories of the two of us? If he could get into her mind and see for himself, maybe he would be able to feel her affection for Julio and realize it was sisterly, not that of a woman loving a man.
    “Of course. Our blood bond is strong, but I would have to go deeper into your mind. You already fear me.”
    Her heart pounded. They both could hear it. She took a breath as she cut two slices of bread for herself and broke open two eggs to scramble with some ham. Does it hurt?
    “It would not hurt. It would feel . . . intimate.”
    The last word whispered over her skin like a soft caress. Marguarita shivered. He was close to her. She could feel the warmth of his body as he stood behind her, watching her cook. It felt dangerous, standing in her kitchen performing everyday tasks with him so close, watching her every move. Breathing when she breathed. She swore their hearts kept the same rhythm.
    She swallowed