Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste.
She yanked her hand away as if he had burned her, rubbing her palm along her thigh. The feeling didn’t go away, and neither did the butterflies he had sent winging in her stomach. “How do you know you’re not a vampire?” She needed to distract him, distract both of them. “Maybe you forgot. You’re certainly capable of acting like one.”
This time he laughed, startling both of them. The sound was husky, low, and foreign to his ears, as if he had forgotten what it was like. His black eyes leapt to her face almost in fear.
“Not bad, wild man. First a growl, and now a laugh. We’re making progress.” Her eyes danced at him, reassured him.
Joy welled up in the midst of pain. Shea. She had created a world where his soul could somehow touch light. Vampires feel nothing but the momentary high a kill brings. They are amoral, deviant creatures.
Her chin lifted, eyebrows drawing together in concentration. “A kill?”
They always kill their prey when feeding. They do not place them in a trance. It feeds their high to experience their victim’s terror. They do not discriminate between man, woman, or child. The vampire has chosen to trade his soul for fleeting emotion.
“Do you kill?” Her fingers twisted together, and her breath seemed caught in her lungs. Why had she asked him that? She already knew the answer; she had glimpsed the darkness in him on more than one occasion.
Quite easily when necessary, but never my human prey. He answered matter-of-factly, without real thought. It was instinct, his predatory nature.
”People, Jacques,” she corrected. “We are people.”
You are Carpathian.
“I don’t even know what a Carpathian is. Do you? Do you honestly know? Maybe you do have a rare blood condition, and somehow it gives you extraordinary gifts.” Shea no longer seriously believed there was any hope of that. She was certain he knew the truth: he belonged to another species of people.
Exhaustion was winning the battle with Jacques. Mortal sleep was not rejuvenating, but until Shea became accustomed to her new life, he would not leave her unprotected. He closed his eyes. I have existed for over eight hundred years. I existed before Leonardo Da Vinci. The words were slurred in her mind.
She backed away from the bed until the wall brought her up short. Over eight hundred years? Shea pressed a hand to her head. What was he going to do next? Turn into a bat? A wolf? Nothing would surprise her now. I prefer the wolf, given a choice. There was a distinct smile in his voice, brushing in her mind. It softened the hard edges of his mouth, giving him that sensual, sexy look she could not resist.
You would, she sent back to him, inexplicable feelings for him spilling into her mind and heart.
There was so much about Jacques she didn’t know. Just how powerful was he? If vampires actually existed, had they originated from Carpathians, as Jacques implied? Did that mean a cold, merciless killer nature lay buried in Jacques, waiting to surface? Seven years buried alive should do a great job of bringing any latent hostilities out. Nor could she put aside the possibility that he was completely insane. She felt the madness in him, his struggle to find his memories and the truth, to suppress the violence within him. She sighed softly, touched his hair with a fingertip, her heart melting at the sight of him, so vulnerable, like a little boy. What was it about him that tore her heart out every time she faced the fact that he would get well and she would have to move on?
I am very powerful.
Startled, Shea looked at him. Jacques hadn’t moved. His eyes remained closed. “I’m sure you are.” Did he need reassurance?
I have no intention of allowing you to leave me.
She laughed softly. “I was just thinking what a vulnerable, boyish look you have in your sleep. Now I think you’re a spoiled brat.”