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. His face 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. I have 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? His black 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. His thumb 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. His voice 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. There was 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. Her mother. 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! It was 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. His voice 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. Was there 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.

Chapter Five

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.