Dark Predator by Christine Feehan Page A

beating, that distinct rhythm calling to him, driving him into a frenzy of hunger, each separate beat pulsing through his own veins. He knew exactly where she was. Marguarita was her name. The treacherous wench who dared to defy a direct order from her master. He’d warned her she would pay for her disobedience—her deliberate defiance. He’d expected her to run like a little coward, but the foolish girl waited for him in the very house— his house—alone.
    The taste of her lingered until he thought he might go insane with craving. He crossed the room in long, ground-eating strides, shoving air at the door so that it exploded open before him, allowing him to move with unerring swiftness through the long living room to the back of the house where her bedroom was. If he hadn’t already known where the room was located, he still would have found her. Her heart pounded in fear, thundering in his ears. He didn’t bother to turn down the volume, wanting, even needing to hear her terror.
    She deserved to be terrified. If he’d awoken vampire, he would have broken his vow to his brothers. After centuries of honor, his life of emptiness, his struggle to protect his family and his people would all be for nothing. And it could still happen. He was close—too close to turning. He needed—something. Anything. The anticipation of taking her blood was a rush he didn’t welcome—a sign of walking that thin edge between honor and the ultimate failure.
    His fingers itched to wrap around her slender neck. These people working the ranch had sworn loyalty to the De La Cruz family, served them, father to son, mother to daughter for centuries, yet she had so carelessly risked them all. He slammed his palm against her door, deliberately splintering the wood rather than opening the door.
    Marguarita made no effort to flee, her eyes wide with terror, fixing on his face as he kicked aside the broken wood. She huddled in the corner of the room, her hand over her mouth, her face pale beneath her smooth, golden skin. As he approached her, she held out a placating hand with a piece of paper clutched in her fingers—a poor defense when he was starving.
    He jerked her to her feet, aware of how light she was. How soft. How warm. How alive. He was vividly aware of her heart calling to his—that rhythmic pulse setting up such hunger—such want. Through the red haze of madness, the softness of her skin registered. Her fresh, clean fragrance was reminiscent of rain forest mist and the unique and beautiful heliconias that grew up the tree trunks and called to the hummingbirds with their sweetness. The scent enveloped him as he trapped her in arms of steel and bent his head toward her slender neck.
    She struggled wildly and he pinned her with one arm and caught her thick rope of hair with the other, crushing the silken strands in his fist as he jerked her head back. He lowered his head toward that sweet vulnerable spot where her pulse pounded so frantically. He didn’t try to calm her mind or in any way control her knowledge of what was happening. He wanted her to know. He wanted her fear. He intended to hurt her so she would never forget why she should obey.
    Rain battered the windows. Wind blasted the hacienda. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the roiling black clouds. Thunder crashed, shaking the earth so it rolled beneath his feet, feeding his black mood.
    Zacarias sank his teeth deep into that soft, defenseless flesh. He bit hard, without a numbing agent, puncturing her neck deliberately close to her throat. She should have remembered the vampire attacking her. She shouldn’t have been so careless as to disobey. She needed another lesson in just what a dangerous, uncaring vile creature could do.
    Her skin was warm satin, soft and fascinating, the sensation a shock, her natural fragrance alluring. But it was her blood that truly stunned him. Rich. Innocent. Fresh. The taste was exquisite. As addicting as that first taste when