Shea opened the door to the night and inhaled deeply. The amount of information that flooded her was shocking. Creatures were roaming the forest, and Shea knew the precise location of each animal, from a pack of wolves several miles away to three mice scurrying in the bushes close by. She could hear water roaring in cascading falls and bubbling softly over rocks. The wind played through the trees, the underbrush, and the very leaves on the ground. The stars glittered overhead like millions of jewels radiating prisms of colors.

Entranced, Shea stepped from the cottage, leaving the door open to allow the odor of blood and sweat and pain to seep outside, to be replaced with clean, fresh air. She could hear the sap running like blood in the trees. Every plant had a special scent, a vivid color. It was as if she had been reborn into a whole new world. She lifted her face to the stars, drawing air into her lungs, relaxing for the first time in forty-eight hours.

An owl slipped silently through the sky, its wingspan incredibly long, each feather iridescent to her new sight. The sheer wonder of it drew her toward the deep woods. Droplets of water sparkled like diamonds on moss-covered rocks. The moss itself looked like emeralds scattered along the winding stream and up the trunks of trees. She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

Her mind, as always, processed the data flooding into her brain. It was all a huge jigsaw puzzle, but the pieces were beginning to fit themselves together. She had been born to a woman who ate food and walked in the sunshine. Yet she - and others - displayed decided differences in sensitivities, metabolism, nutritional requirements. It was impossible to believe that the vampire legends were true. But could there be a separate race of people with incredible gifts who needed to drink blood to survive? Could they live incredibly long lives, survive the unthinkable, be able to control their hearts and lungs? Their bodies would have to process everything differently. Their organs would have to be different. Everything would be different.

Shea shoved at her hair. Her tongue swept her lower lip, teeth biting nervously. It was something out of a fairy tale. Or a horror film. Impossible. Wasn't it? A man could not survive seriously wounded, buried seven years in the earth. No way. It couldn't happen. But she had found him. It wasn't a lie. She had uncovered him herself. So how could one's sanity remain after seven years of being buried alive, of being in agony every moment? Her mind shied away from that question. She didn't want to dwell on it.

And what was happening to her body? She was different. Many changes had started seven years ago, with sudden pain driving her to the point of unconsciousness. That episode had never been explained. Then the nightmares, so persistent, so relentless, never giving her a moment's peace, had started.

Jacques.

Always Jacques. The picture, two years ago, the human butchers had shown her. The seventh one.

Jacques.

Something drawing her, calling her insistently to that horrible place of torture and cruelty.

To Jacques.

They had to be connected. Somehow, some way. Intellectually it seemed impossible. By every standard she knew it was impossible. Yet wasn't her very existence strange? Her need to transfuse blood wasn't psychosomatic; she had tried everything to overcome it. So maybe there was another explanation, one her human mind and prejudices could not comprehend, even with the facts in front of her.

Shea!

Thecall was loud, a flood of fear and confusion, an impression of strangling, of darkness and pain.

I'm here, Jacques.

She sent her answer back so easily it startled her. To reassure him, she tried to fill her mind with every beautiful thing she saw.

Come back to me. I need you.

She smiled at the demand in his voice; her heart somersaulted at the raw truth in his voice. He never tried to hide anything from her, not even his elemental fear of her leaving him to face the darkness alone.

Spoiled brat.

She sent it tenderly.

There's no need to sound like the lord of the manor. I'll be right in.

There was no reasonable explanation for the joy flooding her at the touch of his mind lingering possessively in hers. She shied away from looking at that one too closely, too.

Just come to me.

Hewas more relaxed now, beating back his fear of isolation.

I do not want to wake alone. I do need an occasional break. How was I supposed to know you would wake at this precise moment?

She was teasing him. Warmth curled in the pit of his stomach. He had no memory of such a thing before Shea. There was no life before Shea. There had been only ugliness. His world had been torment and hell. He found himself smiling.

Of course you should know when I wake. It is your duty. I should have known you would think that way.

Shea laughed aloud as she raced across the rough terrain back to the cabin, reveling in her ability to do so, at the sudden surge of strength she had never before experienced. For just a brief moment a heavy weight seemed lifted from her shoulders, and she knew carefree happiness.

Jacques found he couldn't take her eyes from her. She looked so beautiful, her red hair tangled and wild, just begging for a man's fingers to straighten it. Her eyes were sparkling as she came across the room to his side.

"Are you feeling any better?" As always she examined his wounds to see for herself if he was making progress.

He lifted a hand, needing to touch the silk of her hair.

Much.

It was a blatant lie, and she scowled at him.

"Is that so? I'm beginning to think you need a monitor like we have for newborns. I want you to lie quietly. I can tell you've been squirming around again."

I have nightmares.

Hisblack eyes never left her face, burning his brand into her heart. No one had the right to have eyes like his. Hungry eyes. Eyes that held fire and the promise of passion.

"We'll have to do something about them," Shea said with a slight smile. She hoped her own eyes weren't revealing her confused, unfamiliar feelings for him. She would get over them soon; it was just that he was the sexiest thing she had ever encountered.

No one had ever needed her as he did. Not even her own mother. Jacques had a way of looking at her as if his life, the very air he breathed, depended solely on her. Intellectually she knew that any living person would really do for him, but she wrapped herself up in his hunger and fire anyway. For this time in her life, when she was alone and hunted, near the end of her endurance, and coping with many bizarre happenings, she would enjoy this unique experience.

His black eyes smoldered, a velvet seduction.

I need a dream to rid myself of nightmares.

She backed away from him holding a palm outward to ward him off. "Just you keep your ideas to yourself," she warned. "You have that devil's look, the one that says no woman is safe."

That is not true, Shea, hedenied, the hard edge of his mouth softening into temptation.

Only one woman. You.

She laughed at him. "I think I'm very grateful you're in no condition to move around. The sun is coming up, and I have to secure the cottage for daylight. Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." Shea patted the one comfortable chair she had.

You will lie beside me where you should be, heinformed her.

Shea carefully closed the shutters on the windows and fastened them. She was always cautious in locking her home. During the day she was very vulnerable. Already she could feel her body slowing, becoming heavier, more tired.

I want you to lie beside me.

His voice was a sinful caress, enticing, insistent.

"I think you can manage all by yourself," she answered, refusing to look into his dark, hypnotic eyes. Instead, she shut off her computer and the generator and locked the door.

I have nightmares, little red hair. The only way to keep them at bay is to have you close beside me.

Hesounded very earnest, innocent, hopeful.

Shea found herself smiling as she poured him another unit of blood. She was beginning to think the devil himself had shown up at her doorstep. Jacques was temptation incarnate. "I removed a stake from your heart just a couple of nights ago, and you have a major wound there. If I move around while I sleep, I could easily bump into you and start it bleeding again. You wouldn't want that, would you'?"

He took the container from her hand, his fingers curling around the glass precisely over the spot where her fingers had been. He did things like that, intimate things that sent butterfly wings brushing deep within her.

Not my heart, Shea. They did not get me in the heart, as they should have. It is here within my body

can you not hear it? Your heart beats with the same rhythm so that it matches mine.

"Were you a playboy before they buried you'?" she asked him, tossing a mischievous grin over her shoulder. Shea checked her gun to make certain it was clean and loaded. "You need to drink that, Jacques, not just hold it. And then go back to sleep. The more rest you get, the faster you'll heal."

You persist in being my doctor when I so need my lifemate to come and lie beside me.

Again his voice was temptation itself.

"Drink, Jacques." She tried to sound stern, but it was impossible when he was looking so desperate for her company.

I am desperate.

She couldn't help but shake her head. "You're outrageous."

He made an attempt to raise the glass to his mouth, but his arm wobbled.

Icannot lift this without your aid, Shea. I am too weak.

"Am I supposed to believe you'?" She laughed aloud but crossed to his side. "You were strong enough to lift me off my feet with one hand when I found you. Don't give me that poor-little-boy look, Jacques, because it won't work."

But it was working. He needed to feel her touch, the brush of her fingers in his hair, and she stroked his thick mane without conscious thought. Her fingers lingered as if she enjoyed the sensation as much as he did. Jacques took the gun from her hand and pulled her down beside him, as hungry for the feel of her warmth beside him as he was for the sustenance she provided. Her scent drifted to him - the forest, the flowers, and the night air itself. He wrapped an arm around her and held her to him. She relaxed, allowing her eyelashes to drift down.

Shea slept fitfully, her body cumbersome in the light of the day. Jacques lay beside her, motionless, his arm a heavy weight curved possessively around her waist. Several times she struggled to surface during the afternoon hours, but it was an impossibility. Once she heard a noise outside the cabin, and her heart pounded in alarm, but she was unable to summon up enough energy to do more than clutch the gun beneath the pillow tightly. She knew she was responsible for their safety, yet she couldn't pry her eyes open or force herself to rise and check around the cabin to ensure no one was near.

The sun had long since sunk beneath the mountains before Shea managed to rouse herself. Hunger was a gnawing, relentless ache, but the thought of food made her stomach heave. She struggled to sit up, far weaker than she had ever been. She pushed a hand through her heavy fall of wine-red hair.

Jacques' fingers circled her arm, slid the length from shoulder to wrist. She was small and delicate, yet she had such inner strength. It amazed him how brave and courageous she was, how compassionate. He found her intriguing, mysterious even. The world as he knew it had begun seven years earlier: pain, isolation, and darkness. The monster in him had grown, eclipsed his soul. At first he had had no emotion at all, simply a will that would never die, an icy determination, a promise of retribution made in exchange for his lost soul. He would find them - the betrayer, the human assassins - and he would destroy them. But once he had found his lifemate, despite the distance that separated them, he had begun to feel. To smolder with a black fury that would never cease until he had found a way to retaliate for the loss of his soul. Every emotion he possessed was dark and ugly. Until Shea had changed him. Since the moment he had merged his mind with hers, he had stayed there in that haven, a part of her, a shadow so quiet she didn't always know he was there. He could not bear to be away from her.

Jacques' fist tangled in her thick, luxurious hair. She stirred things in him he had no name for. He would never endure closed-in places again, never endure being alone again. And he would never allow Shea to place herself at risk. Silently cursing his weakened body, he brought the silken strands of her hair to his face, inhaling her fragrance.

"I'm so tired, Jacques," she confessed, swaying slightly as she sat on the side of the bed. She found it strange to have someone to talk to, to wake up and not be alone. Shea should have been uncomfortable in the situation - she had never shared her life with anyone - yet with Jacques there was a weird familiarity, as if she had known him forever.

Her life had always been one of isolation, a certain distance always present between herself and others. Jacques had no respect for that barrier, slipping in and out of her head as if he belonged there. His touch was possessive, even intimate. Shea was bewildered by her own feelings, by her acceptance of their strange affinity. She was excited at her rare scientific find, perhaps holding an answer to the terrible disease that branded those so afflicted as nosferatu, unclean. The undead. Her kind was condemned to a life of hiding and loathing, always living in fear of being discovered. It was important to find out whether they were a separate species or whether some rare genetic code had given them a need for blood to sustain their lives.

Shea studied Jacques' worn but handsome face. He looked young, yet ageless. He looked tormented, as if he had suffered greatly, yet he looked like stone. She could see the power in him now; it clung like a second skin. Biting her lip, she drew away from him, her emerald eyes thoughtful. The strength and power in him was growing. His body might be mending slowly, but his unusual capabilities seemed to be recovering at a much faster rate. It occurred to her that she should be afraid of the creature now lying motionless in her bed. It was apparent that he could be extraordinarily dangerous, was capable of extreme violence. Especially with his mind so fractured, his rage so deep.

Jacques sighed.

I do not like that you fear me, Shea.

"If you wouldn't persist in reading my thoughts, Jacques," she said gently, afraid she had hurt him, "then you wouldn't have to see these things I worry about. You are capable of violence. You cannot deny it. I see it in you."

She stood up with a return of her quick, restless energy, and he allowed her silken hair to slide through his fingers. With half-closed eyes, Jacques watched the transparent thoughts slipping across her expressive face. Shea was incapable of subterfuge. What she was, who she was, was an open book.

"I didn't think things through, you know. I just rushed out and rescued you. I caused you great suffering." Her large green eyes fastened on his face. Storm clouds gathered instantly when she felt his faint, mocking amusement echoing through her mind. "What? What's so funny? Some idiot tried to put a stake through your heart, and he didn't even hit the darn thing!"

For which I am grateful. And I am even more grateful that you rescued me. I did not like being imprisoned and in such pain.

"I guess I'm glad I rescued you, too, but the truth is, Jacques, I have watched you healing faster than is possible. You're even more dangerous now. You are, aren't you?"

Never to you, he denied.

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that strictly the truth? I've been in your head, too, remember." She had touched his mind and had recoiled at the seething cauldron of raw violence and black fury often swirling within him. "Sometimes I can even read you as well as you read me. You have no idea what you're doing half the time. You have no idea who you are."

Perhaps not, Shea, but I know you are my lifemate. I could not harm you now.

Hisface remained granite, his eyes dark and ice cold. She was right. He was dangerous. He knew it in his soul. His mind was not to be trusted. Her presence kept him tranquil, calm, but his mind was a maze of dark, deadly trails. He had no idea if he would be able to distinguish reality from nightmare if their delicately balanced world tilted in any way. His black eyes went a glittering obsidian, and he looked away from her, ashamed. He should allow her to leave, give her her freedom, but he could not. She was his only sanity, his only path to the surface from the hellish nightmare he lived in.

Ihave sworn to protect you, Shea. I can only promise it is in my heart to do so.

Shea stepped away from the bed, suddenly close to tears. He was in a treacherous labyrinth; he walked a fine line between sanity and a world she did not want to try to comprehend. "I will protect you, Jacques. You have my solemn word, I won't let you down. I'll see you through this until you're right again."

And then?

Hisblack gaze slid lazily over her.

Do you intend to leave me, Shea? You save me, and then you think to desert me?

There was a kind of dark humor in his voice, a secret amusement that stirred something in her she hadn't known existed. Something that went beyond fear. Terror.

Her chin tilted a little belligerently. "What does that mean? Of course I won't desert you. I'll stay with you and see you through this. We'll find your family."

It was too late. Even if she attempted to put distance between them, she could not break their bond. His blood ran in her veins; his mind was familiar with the path to hers. Their souls called to one another. Hearts were following, and it was only matter of time before he possessed her body. Running would not save either of them. Jacques knew it with a certainty with which he knew few other things. But imparting the knowledge to her would frighten her more. His heart twisted, a funny somersault. His Shea feared death far less than she feared personal commitment. She really had no idea they were already bound together. She would need him, need him close, need him touching her in her mind, in her body.

I feel your need to perform the human functions you seem to enjoy. Go bathe. I am in no hurry to have you examine my wounds.

Shea blinked once, her green eyes thoughtful before she turned away to disappear into the other room. He was making an attempt to put her at ease, but it sent a chill through her. His voice held some note, one she realized was beginning to emerge more and more, one she found disturbing. It was possessive, holding complete authority. She had the feeling Jacques was slowly taking over her life. He was in her thoughts, in her head. He was everywhere, and she was allowing it to happen.

Jacques lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling. Shea was worried about the way she responded to him. Her brain intrigued him, the way she addressed every problem from a scientific or intellectual angle rather than an emotional one. He felt the smile that wanted to tug at the corners of his mouth. He knew her thoroughly; he spent more time in her mind than out of it. He was taking no chances on losing her.

She had been trying to reassure him with talk of his family. He had no family other than Shea. He wanted no other, needed no other. She hadn't accepted her role as yet. Half of her persisted in looking at him as a patient. She was a healer first, a researcher second. He was in her mind. He knew very well she never entertained the idea of a long-term arrangement. She didn't expect to live long, let alone share her life with anyone. The idea was so foreign to her nature, she couldn't yet conceive of it.

He listened to the water running in the other room, knew it sprayed over her bare skin. His body stirred uncomfortably, the beginnings of an unrelenting ache. It amazed him that his body was coming back to life, that he could feel signs of sexual awareness. He had a vague feeling he had not known such a thing in many centuries, let alone with his body so battered and his mind so fragmented. Shea had given him back life. More than life. More than existing. He couldn't wait to see the smile on her face, the way her hair was always such a flyaway mess begging for his attention. He loved to watch every gesture she made, every movement and turn of her head. He liked the way her brain worked, focused and absolute, the way her mind was filled with humor and compassion.

Jacques cursed the weakness of his body. He needed fresh blood desperately. He stilled his mind and body, calling on all of his reserve strength. He lifted a hand, concentrated, and focused on the cabin door. Pain beat in his head. Fire raced along his wounds. Cursing, he slumped back against the pillows. He could use physical powers, yet when he called on his mind for the simplest task, he could not perform it.

He smelled her first, her clean fragrance, the scent of flowers drifting from her hair. She had rushed in to the room so silently he had not actually heard the sound of her bare feet on the floor, but his mind never completely separated itself from hers, and he knew the exact moment she had caught up a towel and run to him.

"What is it, Jacques, did you try to move, tear something open?" There was anxiety in her voice, but her touch was coolly professional as she examined his wounds.

The towel was large, a pale peach sheath of cotton encasing her slender body. As she bent over him, a bead of water ran from her shoulder across the swell of her breast to disappear beneath the towel. Jacques watched the little bead of moisture and suddenly was incredibly thirsty. Her eyelashes were ridiculously long, her lush mouth set in a slight frown as she searched her small, precise stitches for signs of damage. She was so incredibly beautiful, she took his breath away.

"Jacques? What is it?" Her voice whispered over him like a caress.

No memories, no abilities. The simplest task is impossible.

Histhumb feathered gently back and forth along the inside of her wrist.

"You'll heal, Jacques. Don't be impatient. If you need something, I can get it for you." His thumb was sending butterflies winging through her stomach. It amazed her that she was so susceptible to his charm. She just wasn't like that.

Although his harshly sensual features remained a mask, something inside him melted, and he felt a leap of joy. He wanted to smile in spite of everything. The pain ceased to matter, his shattered memories and impotent body were merely inconveniences he would eventually get over. Shea mattered.

Open the door for me that I might breathe the night,

he said and tried not to devour her with his eyes. He was well aware she was beginning to see that no one - certainly not Shea with her gentle, compassionate nature - could oppose his will, a will honed in the fires of hell.

She did as he asked. "You didn't try to get up, did you? You can't, Jacques. You'll do too much damage. And if you keep adding scar tissue, you'll end up looking like Frankenstein."

He had closed his eyes to inhale the fresh, clean night air.

Carpathians never scar.

It came out of nowhere. He was elated he remembered something. He was even elated he remembered Frankenstein.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? Then what's that thin line around your throat? I barely caught it, but it's there."

His black eyes snapped open, a merciless fury burning there. Shea stepped away from him quickly, her heart pounding. She could actually see red flames burning in the depths of his eyes.

He looked like a demon, an invincible predator. The impression was so strong that she brought a protective hand to her throat to cover the evidence of the ragged wounds there.

Jacques was unaware of Shea, the room, even his own weak body. The sensation of battle was strong in him. He touched the uneven, faint white scar curving around his jugular. The impression of danger was so strong, he felt the beast in him rage for release. Fangs exploded in his mouth, and his nails began to lengthen. His muscles rippled and contracted, and his power and enormous strength bonded briefly with his will. A slow, venomous hiss escaped him. Then the pain in his body from muscles waiting for release made him aware of lying helpless in a bed. He dimly remembered a woman's anxious face, tears swimming in her large blue eyes. He should know her. He should know. Fists clenched, and he welcomed the exploding pain that drove the fragment of memory from his mind.

Shea saw his hands come up, clutch at his head to try to stop the pain. Instantly she was back at his side, soothing fingers brushing at the hair spilling across his forehead. "Jacques, stop tormenting yourself. It will all come back to you. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Things are already coming back." Shea padded across the room to her dresser and pulled out fresh clothes. "You persist in thinking your body can instantly set aside the trauma it suffered. It needs rest to repair itself, rest and care. So does your mind."

I cannot do the things I must. I remember nothing, yet I feel there are things important to both of us I need to know.

She smiled at his frustration. Jacques was a man unused to being ill or injured. "You referred to yourself as a Carpathian. You know you're from this mountain range. You remembered that."

She moved into the other room. He could hear the sound of her dressing, the whisper of silk panties and cotton jeans sliding over her bare legs. His body clenched, burned, the rush of heat adding to his discomfort.

"Jacques?" Her voice was so soft, playing along his skin and nerve endings like the touch of fingers. "Please don't be discouraged. Technically, you should be dead. You beat all the odds." She moved back into the room, towel-drying her hair. "You thought I was one of your people. A Carpathian. Who are they? Can you remember?"

I am Carpathian. We are immortal. We can...

He stopped, the information eluding him.

Shea leaned against the wall, regarding him with fascinated awe. Her mouth was suddenly dry; her heart slammed hard against her chest. "What are you saying, Jacques? You live forever?" What was he? And why was she beginning to believe him? Seven years buried alive. Surviving on the blood of rats. She had seen the red glow in his eyes on more than one occasion. She felt his impossible strength, even injured as severely as he was.

Her hands, clutching the towel, were trembling so much, she put them behind her back.

Vampire.

The word came unbidden to her mind. "It isn't true," she denied in a whisper. "It's impossible. I am not anything like that. I won't believe you."

Shea.

Hisvoice was calm, tranquil, as she became more agitated. He needed all his memories, not these shattered bits and pieces that frustrated him so.

"Jacques, you might be a vampire. I'm so confused, I'll almost believe anything. But I am not like that." She was talking more to herself than to him. Every horrible tale of vampires ever told rose up to haunt her. Her hand crept up to her neck as she recalled the vicious way he had taken her blood the first time they had met. He'd nearly killed her. "You didn't because you needed me to help you," she said suddenly, softly. It didn't occur to her that she had become so accustomed to his reading her mind, she simply accepted that he would know what she was talking about. Was he controlling her all the time? Couldn't vampires do that?

Jacques watched her closely, his body motionless, his icy black eyes unblinking. He could taste her fear in his mouth, feel it beat at him in his mind. Even while she was afraid, her brain processed information at a remarkable rate. The way she shoved emotion aside to concentrate on the intellectual was a protection. He had given her a glimpse of the darkness in him, the violence. It was something that was as natural to him as breathing. Sooner or later she would have to face what and who he really was.

Shea felt caught in the trap of his merciless, empty black eyes, like a mesmerized rabbit. As frozen as she was, her body wanted to move toward him, as if under a strange compulsion. "Answer me, Jacques. You know everything I'm thinking. Answer me."

After seven years of pain and starvation, little red hair, after torment and suffering, I thought to take your blood.

"My life," she corrected bravely, needing all the pieces of the puzzle.

He stared relentlessly, the watchful eyes of a predator. Shea twisted her fingers together in agitation. He looked a stranger, an invincible being with no real emotion, only a hard resolve and a killer's instincts. She cleared her throat. "You needed me."

I had no thought but to feed. My body recognized yours before my mind did.

"I don't understand."

Once I recognized you as my lifemate, my first thought was to punish you for leaving me in torment, then bind you to me for eternity.

Therewas no apology, only a waiting.

Shea sensed danger, but she did not back down. "How did you bind me to you?"

The exchange of our blood.

Her heart slammed painfully. "What does that mean, exactly?"

The blood bond is strong. I am in your mind, as you are in mine. It is impossible for us to lie to one another. I feel your emotions and know your thoughts as you do mine.

She shook her head in denial. "That may be true for you, but not for me. I feel your pain at times, but I never know your thoughts."

That is because you choose not to merge with me. Your mind seeks the touch and reassurance of mine often, yet you refuse to allow it, so I merge with you to prevent your discomfort.

Shea could not deny the truth in his words. Often she felt her mind tuning itself to his, reaching out for him. Disturbed by the unwanted and unfamiliar need, she always imposed a strict discipline on herself. It was unconscious on her part, something she did automatically for self-protection. Jacques, within minutes of her need arising, always reached for her to merge them.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You seem to know more about what is happening here than I do, Jacques. Tell me."

Lifemates are bound together for all eternity. One cannot exist without the other. We balance one another. You are the light to my darkness. We must share one another often.

Her face paled. Her legs weakened. She sat down abruptly on the floor.

Hermother. All of her life she had condemned her mother for living a shadow existence.

If Jacques was telling the truth, and something in her feared he was, had this happened to her mother? Had Jacques sentenced Shea to the same terrible fate?

Shea's hand found the wall. Using it as a support, she pulled herself up. "I refuse to buy into this. I am not your lifemate. I made no commitment, nor will I." She began edging along the wall toward the door.

Shea, do not!

Itwas no plea, rather an imperious command, his harsh features an implacable mask.

"I won't let you do this to me. I don't care if you are a vampire. You can make the choice to kill me, Jacques, because there is no other way."

You have no conception of power, Shea, its uses or misuses.

Hisvoice was a soft menace, the tone sending a shiver down her spine.

Do not defy me.

Her chin lifted. "My mother's life was a waste and my childhood hell. If the man who was my father was like you and somehow bound her to him, then abandoned her - " She broke off, took a deep breath to regain control. "I'm strong, Jacques. No one is going to own me or control me or abuse me. I will not kill myself over a man's desertion. Nor would I ever leave my child alone in the world while I withdrew and became an empty shell."

Jacques could feel the hurt she had suffered as a child. Her memories were stark and ugly. She had been utterly alone and in need of support and guidance. Like any child, she had blamed herself for her isolation. On some level she thought she was not lovable, too different to be loved. The child had retreated from her emotions - it was unsafe there - and had trained her intellect to take over when she was frightened or threatened in any way.

She stepped backward out the door, her eyes still locked with his. Jacques made an effort to tamp down his dark fury, the promise of retaliation, but it was impossible to hide the swirling emotions from her. She was too close, too aware of him now. Jacques simply withdrew from her, silently. He turned his face away from her. Shea whirled and ran, tears for her mother, tears for herself, running down her face. She never cried, never. She had learned a long time ago that tears never helped. Why had she been so foolish as to think she could tamper with things she didn't understand?

She ran fast, her body sleek and streamlined, making a silent dash over rotting logs and moss-covered boulders. It took some time to realize she was barefoot, and never once had either foot come down on a dry branch or small rock. She seemed to skim over the ground rather than pound on it. Her lungs were fine, no fierce burning for oxygen. There was only hunger, sharp and gnawing, growing with each step she took.

Shea slowed to a steady lope, lifting her face to the stars. Everything was so intensely beautiful. The wind carried scents, stories. Fox kits in a den, two deer nearby, a rabbit in the brush. She stopped abruptly beside a small stream. She had to have a plan. Running away like a wild animal was totally ridiculous. Her hands found the trunk of a tree, fingertips feeling each whorl, hearing the sap running like blood, the very life of the tree. She knew each insect invading it, making its home in the wood.

She sank down in the soft soil, guilt washing over her. She had left him alone, unprotected. She had not fed him. Her forehead slipped into her open palms. Everything was so crazy. Nothing added up. Hunger ate at her like an insidious monster, and she could hear the heartbeats of the animals in the forest beckoning.

Vampire.

Wasthere such a creature? Was she such a creature? Jacques took blood from her so easily, in so practiced a manner. She knew what was in him; he could be utterly cold and merciless, raging with venomous fury. It never showed on his face or in the way he talked to her, but it was there, seething below the surface. Shea picked up a stone and threw it toward the bubbling stream.

Jacques. What was she going to do about him? Her body rippled with discomfort, her mind with unease. She had an overwhelming urge to reach out to him, to assure herself he was all right. Her mind was trying to comprehend, to believe the impossible. He was a creature far different from a human being. She wasn't like him, but her father must have been.

"What are you thinking, Shea?" she whispered. "A vampire? You think this man is an honest-to-God vampire? You're losing your mind."

A shudder shook her slender frame. Jacques had said blood exchanges bound them together. Had he somehow managed to make her completely like him? Shea's tongue ran along the inside of her mouth, explored her teeth. They seemed the same, small and straight. Hunger burned, rose sharp and voracious.

At once she could hear the heartbeat of a small rabbit. Her heart sang with exultation. A fierce, predatory joy rushed through her, and she turned toward her prey. Against her tongue, fangs exploded, sharp incisors, hungry and waiting.

Jacques knew the precise moment Shea discovered the truth. Her heart beat frantically; her silent cry of denial echoed through his mind. She believed herself to be vampire. She believed him vampire. What else could she possibly deduce with so little information? Her thoughts were desperate, even life threatening. He lay very still, gathered his strength should it be needed to stop any foolish decision she might make. He simply waited, monitoring her thoughts and the telltale signs of her body.

To be alone was a kind of agony in itself. Jacques would not have been able to bear it if his mind was not a shadow dwelling in hers. Sweat broke out, bathing his skin in a fine film. His every instinct was to force her back to his side, and he was gaining strength daily now. But a part of him wanted her to return to him on her own.

What had she said to him? Her mother was Irish. Shea did not believe she was like him. What if she hadn't been? What if he had inadvertently turned her? Jacques had never considered that possibility. Their bond was strong. It had crossed man's boundaries. Jacques had assumed he had known her all of his existence, long before the betrayer had delivered him into the hands of the two human butchers and into madness, into the absence of memory. His suffering, his agony, had been hers. He had felt her with him. He wasn't mistaken about that. He had been certain he had always known her, that she was his lifemate. When she did not come for him, his every waking moment had been spent gathering his strength to bend her will to his in his eternity of hell. What if she had been human? He had been carelessly cruel that first day, wanting her bound to him, under his domination.

Jacques called on his fragmented memories.

Three blood exchanges. Psychic ability.

A human possessing psychic ability might be converted under the right conditions if three blood exchanges were made. He closed his eyes against the guilt and remorse sweeping through his head. If she were human, that would explain her strange feeding habits, her human ways. She never took necessary precautions, never scanned before leaving the cabin.

She didn't know how.

She had said she could not shut down her heart and lungs. She never slept the rejuvenating sleep of a Carpathian.

He cursed himself eloquently. The night she had been so sick, her body had gone through the conversion. There was no other explanation. She had believed she'd contracted a very virulent strain of the flu. He loathed himself for his inability to remember important information. It came only in fragments, and she was suffering because of his ignorance.

Shea's bond with him had been so strong, it had never occurred to him that she was not Carpathian. He thought her courageous as a Carpathian woman to dare venture into his prison and save him. It was nearly impossible to believe a human female had been so compassionate and brave to return to his gravesite after the callous way he had treated her. She had been terrified, yet she had returned to him.

A scent drifted in with the night breeze. Game, fairly close. It wasn't human, but the fresh, living nourishment would help. If he could feed enough, he could safely make an exchange and try to keep Shea alive. She was refusing food. Or perhaps not refusing. Perhaps she was unable to feed. He focused, inhaled deeply, and sent forth a call. Closer, closer, on the porch, the first step into the cabin. First one, a doe, usually a shy and skittish animal, padded across the floor to the side of the bed, her dark, liquid eyes fixed on him. A second doe and then a third followed, bunched together, awaiting his attention.

Hunger rose. Sharp fangs exploded into his mouth, and he seized the first doe with his enormous strength, found the artery pulsing in the neck. The wildness grew in him, rushed through him, and he welcomed it. Hot blood, pulsing with life, sweet and powerful, poured into his depleted system, swelling shriveled cells. He drank greedily, his hunger insatiable, his mutilated body craving the dark liquid of life.

Shea lifted her face to the stars, felt the tears on her cheeks. Her throat was raw and burning, her chest tight. If her father had been one such as Jacques, contaminating her blood, Jacques had finished what her parent had started. She hadn't mixed up her blood samples with Jacques' because she had been so tired. Her blood matched his exactly.

She made an effort to control her trembling. She needed to think; it was her only salvation. Her brain could overcome any problem. She breathed deeply, calming herself as she always did in any threatening situation. At once she thought of Jacques alone and helpless in the cabin. She couldn't desert him. She would never leave him when he was so helpless. She would set things up for him so he could survive on his own. She would no longer eat or drink anything other than water. She couldn't take any chances until she was certain what she was dealing with.

She wandered downstream, away from the cabin. She felt very alone. This time her mind insisted she had to reach out to him. She needed his warmth, the reassurance of his touch. Shea turned that thought over. Jacques obviously was telling her the truth. She had been alone her entire life. She had not needed anyone, least of all a creature whose mind was shattered, whose nature was that of a killer. Yet she had to know he was not suffering, that nothing had happened to him while she was gone.

Deliberately she waded into the stream, the ice-cold water shocking her, numbing her body but not her mind. Imposing her will, strong and disciplined through a childhood of isolation, Shea resisted merging with him. The water was so cold, she could no longer feel her feet, but it helped to clear her head somewhat.

Jacques released the third deer and inhaled sharply. Shea was strong-willed. He knew she would try her best to resist their bond. Her childhood had been hell, yet she had survived, and it had shaped her into a strong, brilliant, courageous woman. He longed to calm her, to reassure her, but knew she would not welcome his intrusion. She had reason to fear him. He remembered so few things. Betrayal. Pain. Rage. He had been so clumsy in his handling of her conversion, in his handling of everything.

The deer stirred, stumbled to their feet, and, wobbling unsteadily, plodded out to the freedom of the forest. Jacques would have finished them off, utilized every drop of life-giving nourishment he could, but Shea would have thought him a monster. His body tuned itself to hers, craved the sight and scent of her, the touch of her. Perhaps he was a monster. He really didn't know anything other than that he needed Shea.

Shea wandered aimlessly until she could no longer think of anything but Jacques. The emptiness inside her yawned like a enormous black void. Her skin crawled with need, her mind was chaos, reaching, always reaching, so that she was worn out with fighting herself.

What if something had happened to him? Again the thought crept in unbidden, unwanted, and her sense of isolation increased, threatened to become a terrible thing. Grief welled up, enveloping her, driving away her logic and reason, leaving raw, gaping emotions. Shea could no longer function properly, and she knew it. Whether or not her pride allowed, she had no choice but to go back. It was not only humiliating but frightening, too. Jacques had acquired more power over her in a short time than she had ever thought possible. She had no choice but to accept it for the moment.

She walked slowly, reluctantly, dread filling her, yet with every step back toward the cabin, toward Jacques, the heaviness of her heart lifted. At the edge of the clearing before the cottage, three large deer rested beneath the swaying branches of a tree. She stood for a moment watching them, all too aware of what had transpired. Shea stepped onto the porch, hesitated, and went inside.

Jacques was lying motionless in the bed, his black eyes wide open, fixed unblinkingly on her face. Shea felt as if she were falling forward into those black, fathomless depths. He held out a hand to her. She didn't want to go to him; she went because she had to go. She needed to go to him. A part of her brain analyzed that, how it could possibly be, but she went without fighting the strong compulsion.

His fingers, unexpectedly warm, closed around the coolness of hers, his hand enveloping hers. He tugged at her gently until she had no choice but to sit, then lie beside him. His black eyes never once relinquished their hold on hers.

You are cold, little red hair.

His voice whispered over her skin, mesmerized her mind, dispelled the chaos to replace it with a soothing, tranquil calm.

Allow me to warm you.

His hand shaped her face, traced each delicate bone, stroked down her throat. Shea blinked, confused, unsure whether she was awake or dreaming. Her body moved restlessly. Again her brain attempted to sort things out for her, but she could not pull away from his hypnotic eyes. Part of her didn't want to. She wanted to be trapped there for all time, sheltered by him, belonging to him.

Ignoring the screaming protest of his body, Jacques shifted so that his large frame half pinned her smaller one to the bed. His hand continued to caress the soft, vulnerable line of her throat, moved to trace the neckline of her cotton top.

Feel the way our hearts beat together.

His hand pushed the concealing fabric aside so that her full breasts gleamed in the silver light of the moon.

His mind felt the protest of hers, his soft voice murmuring to weave her deeper under his spell. In the depths of his eyes was hunger, fire, need. He trapped the emerald green of her eyes in the intensity of his hot gaze. A slash of razor-sharp talons, and cotton floated to the floor. His hand found warm softness, and with his black stare still holding hers, he slowly lowered his head.

Shea's breath caught in her throat as his perfect mouth hovered a scant inch above hers. She burned for him. Burned. Her long lashes swept down as his mouth fastened on hers. She nearly cried out at the rush of liquid heat racing through her body at his touch. His mouth explored every inch of hers, caressing, demanding, gentle, and dominant, a sweet stroking along her incisors, a stark male possession.

His mouth left hers to trail kisses down her throat, her shoulder, lower to find the swell of her breast. Shea's hands found his hair, its rich softness bunched in her fists as his tongue traced a path over her pulse. Her body clenched, waited in anticipation. His teeth nipped gently, moved again so that she shuddered with pleasure as his mouth drew her rich softness into its moist heat.

I want you, Shea. I need you.

And it was true. His body didn't seem to understand that claiming her was an impossibility. He hurt, a pain to rival all the others. His skin burned and was unbearably sensitive. Reluctantly he released her breast, moved once more to stroke his tongue over her pulse.

Shea.

He murmured her name, and his teeth sank deep.

She gasped at the white-hot lance of pain, the wave of intense pleasure washing over her. Her body arced upward, her arms cradling his head.

It was ecstasy, holding her like this, feeding on sweetness, exploring her softness with his hands. The pleasure was such that Jacques' battered body swelled, every muscle taut, rigid. She tasted hot, spicy, addicting. He needed to bury himself in her as he fed. Every natural instinct he possessed, as both man and beast, urgently demanded he unite them in the way of his people, sealing them together for all eternity. Her breasts were soft, perfect, driving him to the brink of madness. Did her ribcage have to be so small and delicate, her waist so tiny? He didn't just want. He needed. He lifted his head, his tongue stroking across the tiny wound, reluctantly closing it.

Shea's eyes were closed, her body soft and pliant.

You need, my love.

He kissed her gently.

Kiss me, my chest. Let me feel that your need is as great as my own.

It was sheer black magic, an erotic whisper of seduction she seemed helpless to resist. Her mouth tasted his skin, lingered, found his throat, the heavy muscles of his chest. Jacques knew he was playing with fire. His body could not take much more. His hand caught the nape of her neck, pressed her head to him.

You hunger, my love.

Self-preservation interceded, and her body stiffened.

Jacques' voice was purity itself.

You will take what I freely offer. It is my right, and you cannot deny me.

The touch of her tongue sent fire racing through his blood. When her teeth pierced his skin, he cried out with the ecstasy of it. He gave himself up to the sensual pleasure, his hand stroking her hair, encouraging her feeding. He needed this closeness, this erotic intimacy. If he could not have all of her at this moment, he could at least ensure their bond.

He held her, blanketing her body in the age-old dominant way of his people, yet there was tenderness in his hands as they caressed her. Slowly his hand slid over her silky hair, stroked, lingered, moved around to trace the delicate lines of her face. Then carefully he began to insert his hand between her mouth and his chest.

Enough, Shea. Close the wound with your tongue.

His gut clenched hotly, his body shuddered as she obeyed him. He wanted her, needed, even hungered for their union. For a moment he felt that need was far more tormenting than wounds.

He caught her hair in both hands, dragged her head up to his, when everything in him screamed to push her down, to force her to give him some relief. Jacques felt as if he was in hell all over again. His mouth found hers, tasted his own blood. Something inside him raised its head and roared, wild, untamed, something close to breaking free of his tight control. Instinctively his mind sought hers.

Shea!