"I thought you said we needed to study her, that she wasn't as strong as the others and we had a better chance of controlling her. In any case, she doesn't have black hair." Don got up abruptly and paced across the floor to hide his expression from the others. It had been far too long since he'd had a woman completely in his control. His body grew hot and hard at the memory of his time in the basement with the last one. She had lasted three delicious weeks, and every moment of it she had known he would eventually kill her. She had tried so hard to please him, done anything and everything to please him.
He wanted Shea O'Halloran in his hands for a long, long time. She would learn respect. The icy contempt in her vivid green eyes would be replaced with pleasing, begging. He fought to control himself, cursed the others sharing the small confines of the cabin keeping him from indulging his fantasies. Don turned his head to catch Smith watching him. His mask slipped into place, his friendly smile. Smith was weak, always whining. He got off watching Don perform, but he rarely had the guts to do anything exotic himself. One of these days, Don resolved he would show Smith just how weak he really was. Their longtime partnership was coming to an end.
Slovensky dragged a blanket around his shoulders. In his sixties, he felt the chill of the rain seep into his bones. He detested these mountains and all the memories that came with them. Twenty-five years ago he had brought his younger brother, James, on a vampire hunt with other members of a secret society dedicated to wiping out the loathsome creatures. They had trapped a vampire, but it had killed James.
Shea O'Halloran was the key to all of it now. He would use her to ferret out his brother's murderers and deliver retribution, as they deserved. Donnie would put a stake through the Vulture's heart and rid the world of a detestable worm. And then the society could study the woman, obtain the proof they needed to be finally recognized as scientists, as they deserved.
"How long are we going to be stuck in this hellhole?" Smith demanded.
Wallace and Slovensky exchanged another long, knowing look. Wallace shrugged, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one loose. "You should know by now never to go outdoors when the land is so unsettled. It means they're out tonight."
"Every time it rains we're locked in? Damn, Don, the least we could have done was get decent accommodations."
"Stop whining," Slovensky snapped. "The last thing we want to do is advertise our presence here. They control the locals, bind them to them in some way so that the villagers are loyal to them."
Jeff turned away from them, staring out at the darkening land. Slovensky was a total whacko. Wallace he had met in college. Don had been everything Jeff was not. Cocky, self-assured, handsome, and tough. Wallace had cornered one of Jeff's constant tormentors, held him, and encouraged Jeff to beat the kid to death. The sense of power was incredible, and the two of them became inseparable. Don was sadistic, violent. He'd enjoyed watching snuff films, shared the experience with Jeff, and eventually became obsessed with the idea of making them. Jeff filmed Don's private performances, each of which became a classroom for torture. At first they'd used prostitutes, but twice they were able to lure a student to their warehouse. Afterward, Don was always mellow for several weeks, a month or two even, if the sessions had been to his liking. Jeff knew that the need to kill was riding Don hard now, and anyone close to him had better keep a low profile.
When the older man went outside to relieve himself, Jeff went to stand beside Don. "You ever think what it would be like, the power we'd have if we forced one of them to make us like them?" He whispered it softly to be sure Slovensky could not possibly overhear what he would consider sacrilege. "We'd be immortal, Don. We could have anything we ever wanted. Any woman we wanted. We could do anything."
Wallace was silent for a few minutes. "We'd need to find out more about them. Most of what I know, the old man and his freaky friends told me, and it's probably all bullshit."
"You sure?"
"Superstitious crap. All the people around here are superstitious. They believe these vampires can direct your mind, even shape-change. If they had all these great powers, Jeff, why didn't they use them when we were having-fun with them?"
Jeff shrugged, disappointed. "Maybe you're right. But they just hang on to life so long…" He trailed off.
"Hate keeps them alive." Don laughed in anticipation. "They're almost as much fun as women." He looked thoughtful. "But there's the Vulture."
The sun gave up its feeble fight, the storm and the late hour completely obliterating its paltry light. The sky darkened still further, and the clouds grew heavier. The wind began to strengthen, driving the rain so that it pelted the ground hard enough to bruise leaves and vegetation. A low moan rose, echoed through grotesquely swaying branches.
The wind raced northward, howled down a canyon, rushed through the darkened forest, and climbed higher into the steep mountains to find a cabin dark and silent. Inside, away from the sheets of silvery rain and the monstrous wind, two bodies lay motionless, entwined on the bed. Shea was curled up, small and slight, her wine-red hair spilled across the pillow like blood. Jacques' much larger frame was curved protectively around her. Jacques' arm was firmly locked around her waist, holding her to him. His heart began a rhythm, a strong, steady sound in the silence. He drew air into his lungs to inflate them, to resume their normal function.
Jacques waited for the familiar rush of agony his awakening had triggered these last seven years. It would surge through him with the first circle of life, blood heating every cell and nerve ending. The rush didn't come. Instead he was sore, his muscles ached, but he felt strong and alive again. The healer's blood was incredible, his internal healing beyond Jacques' wildest expectations.
Gregori. The dark one.
The words came floating out of nowhere, one of those elusive fragments he could never seem to hold on to. Jacques tried to do so, wanting the information, knowing it was important, yet pain exploded in his head.
It didn't matter. He calmly allowed the fragment to drift away and slowly released his hold on Shea. Before giving her the command to wake, he scanned their surroundings to locate possible danger. There were others of his kind close by. It put him on edge. It was imperative for a Carpathian male to find a female, his true lifemate. If he did not succeed in binding Shea to him, every male in the vicinity would be pressing his suit, hoping against hope his chemistry would match hers. As with all the knowledge that came to him, he felt the truth and rightness of it, knew it was real and not imagined.
A silent snarl lifted his lip, revealing his white teeth. Deliberately, Jacques stretched, a slow, languid movement designed to reacquaint himself with his muscles, with his strength. His body was still a little sluggish, but it was alive again. As he moved, he felt the softness of Shea's body brushing along the hardness of his. His body responded, a sweet ache unknown to him for centuries, now ever present. He turned on his side and stared down into her still, pale face.
His body hardened aggressively. His hand went to the buttons of her shirt, his fingers brushing against her cool, creamy flesh. His heart jumped, and his breath caught in his throat. Such exquisite torment. He'd had no idea anything could be so soft. As he pushed her blouse from her shoulders, he leaned close to her ear. "Wake, little red hair. Wake needing me." He kissed her eyes, took her mouth, tasting her first breath, his hand closing over her breast to feel the way her heart raced into his palm.
Blood rushed, a symphony of sensation sending heat and need and an urgent ache coiling through Shea. Jacques' mouth was magical, reverent, a slow seduction, while his hands traced the contours of her body. He could feel her awakening, her mind opening to his. Her emotions were mixed—longing, need, a reluctant caring for him, overpowering fear of what she was, and a deep sorrow. He brushed his hand down her face to trace every beloved line already committed for all eternity to his mind, to his heart. Her face was damp. Jacques bent his head and followed the trail of tears down the slender column of her neck. Her skin was warm honey flowing up from melting ice, the combination irresistible. His tongue swirled over her pulse, and need slammed into him so hard that his body clenched painfully. Shea made a sound, a soft moan somewhere between despair and acquiescence. Her body was arcing into his, pressure and hunger building to drown out all good sense.
"You are safe with me, little Shea." Jacques used his voice, a blend of heat and velvet. He was willing to utilize every weapon in his arsenal of centuries of experience to bind her to him. "I need you." His body moved restlessly, aggressively, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat while his hand slid down her narrow ribcage, fingers splayed possessively across her flat stomach. "I know you are afraid. I feel it in my mind. Let yourself feel what I am feeling. There is no doubt, no other love for me. I know you are my other half. Give yourself into my keeping." His beautiful husky voice rasped softly, slightly hoarse as the fire began to spread. Flames were leaping, hunger rising, and the beast inside was fighting for freedom. Dark purpose began to swirl as Carpathian instincts fought with the man.
The effort to control the wild cravings, the need for dominance, a frenzied, heated mating, his stamp of possession, was riding him hard. He found her mouth a little desperately, pushed further into her mind, not waiting for complete acceptance, afraid it might never come. Her mind was a mixture of tears and sorrow and smoke and flame and burning desire.
Jacques.
His name was a whisper echoing in his head. Her hands were on his, stopping him from pushing the jeans from her hips.
He deepened the kiss, possessive, erotic, deliberately sharing the urgent hunger, the burning desires in his own mind.
You gave me back my life, Shea. Give me my soul. I need you, only you. Make me complete again.
The tension went out of her hands enough that he could slide the jeans from the curve of her hips, down her legs, exposing the beauty of her body to him, to his exploring hands.
Shea heard Jacques' swift indrawn breath, felt his heart jump, his body savage with need, his mind a red haze of burning hunger. The intensity of his emotion was overwhelming to her, threatening to her. She closed her eyes, her arms creeping around his neck, knowing she could not find the strength to refuse such a terrible need in him. Anyone else, but never him.
He inhaled deeply, breathing her scent into his lungs, his hands moving slowly over her body, taking his time with her, fighting off the beast raging to possess her. He had already hurt her too much, taken from her parts of her life he could never give back. He wanted her first time with him to be beautiful, to be as right as he could make it.
"Don't cry, love," he whispered softly into her throat, his mouth resting over her pulse, his tongue stroking the frantic rhythm. His body clenched; pain and hunger rose until it beat at him, at her. His teeth scraped her neck, a sweet torment for both of them. He nuzzled her breasts, marveling at how soft she was, how perfect. Her bones felt small beneath his seeking hands, yet her muscles were firm and her skin like satin.
He was trembling now, a shudder of effort to hold back his wild nature, a fine sheen of sweat bathing his body. Sensations and textures danced with swirling colors and heat. After centuries of no emotion, no feeling, after seven years of damnation and pain, Jacques would never forget the feel of this moment. The way she looked, smelled, and felt to his touch, the reluctant love, the sorrow, the matching hunger and desire in her mind was forever etched into his soul.
Shea felt the change in him, in the way his hands caressed her thighs, the absolute conviction in his mind. She felt his fierce hunger, the burning in his body, his urgent need. His body blanketed hers, imprisoned her, his knee effectively parting her legs. Her body clenched hotly as he pressed against her, hard and insistent. Her heart jolted in sudden rebellion, but his mouth was on her breast, driving out sane thoughts. With every hot pull of his mouth, moist heat throbbed and beckoned him deeper until he met innocent resistance.
His mouth reluctantly released her breast, found her pulse, where his tongue swirled erotically. "You are my lifemate." His teeth scraped her soft, creamy flesh. Liquid heat bathed him invitingly. "I claim you as my lifemate. I belong to you. I offer my life for you." His hands found her small hips, cupped her in his palms. His body was a relentless, savage ache of burning hunger. "I give you my protection, my allegiance, my heart, my soul, and my body. I take into my keeping the same that is yours. Your life, happiness, and welfare will be placed above my own for all time."
"Stop it, Jacques," Shea whispered desperately, feeling every word, every breath weaving them so tightly together that she couldn't tell where he left off and she began.
"You are my lifemate, bound to me for all eternity and always in my care." His teeth sank deep; his body surged into hers. White-hot pain exploded over both of them, leaving shimmering flames leaping high and hot.
Shea's cry was lost in her throat. She wrapped her arms around his head and cradled him to her. Welded together, body, mind, and heart, her life flowing into him, his body took command of hers. He moved—a slow, careful test of her response to him. She was hot and tight, the friction threatening to engulf him in the frenzied, uninhibited sexual mating of a Carpathian male. With effort he controlled himself, savoring the sweet, hot spice of her blood, the velvet fire gripping his body.
He moved gently, tenderly, a long, sure stroke designed to coax her, to calm him. Her muscles clenched around him, and he surged forward, buried himself deep in her very core, his mouth drawing the essence of her life into his keeping. The world narrowed, receded, until she was his breath, his heart, the blood flowing in his veins. There was no darkness, no shadows, only Shea's body with its heat and flowing colors and leaping flames.