Dark Curse (22 page)

This time, Xavier was ready for her. He threw her down and lashed her repeatedly with the whip, drawing thin red streaks across her body. She rolled and covered her head as he lashed her viciously.

"You want him free? You want that, girl? He'll smell the blood and come sniffing at you like a hungry hound. He hasn't had blood in days and he'll tear into you." The old man kicked her and shuffled across to her father.

Razvan fought at the chains, threatening Xavier and calling out to Lara to run. Nicolas couldn't get up. The pain of the whip, the burns and he was certain a cracked rib were too much for the small body they occupied. He could only lie there helplessly covering Lara's spirit, doing his best to shield her while Xavier stabbed a needle into Razvan's neck and dispensed a yellowish liquid.

Xavier stepped back from his grandson and watched with gleeful eyes. "She wants you free, Razvan, and I grant her wish."

Tatijana! Branislava! You must come to her aid. Please, please get her away from me. Block her mind, block my mind. I cannot bear to harm her again. This is too much, even for me.

Nicolas heard the plea in his head and Lara's small body tried to push itself up. He could see Razvan's face contorting. Saw Xavier step away from him, his expression cunning. Razvan's eyes glowed red and his teeth lengthened.

Fear consumed Nicolas, ate him from the inside out. He scrambled with Lara, trying to dig into the ice for purchase to get away, but only slipped. Razvan lifted his head and sniffed the air—scenting the blood, just as Xavier said he would. He turned his head slowly until his mad eyes focused on Lara.

She whimpered and tried to crawl away. Growling, he was on her, licking at the drops of blood beading on her skin from the whip marks.

She fought, trying to push him away, but he pulled her arm to him and sank his teeth deep into her wrist. She screamed.

Nicolas felt the slice through his skin, the tearing of muscle and tissue, the puncture into his vein. It burned. More than physical was the agony of knowing he was so helpless. No matter how he fought, no matter how many blows he landed, there was no escaping those teeth gnawing at his flesh, or gulping at his blood.

Every moment made him weak until he felt he couldn't lift his arms to ward off his inevitable death. He almost welcomed death. It was preferable to being so powerless. His heart jumped in alarm. This then, was how he had made Lara feel. Hopeless. Filled with despair. So weak and vulnerable instead of making her feel powerful and cherished. This was the sin he would carry for all time.

Xavier pushed Razvan away and jerked Lara's arm to his mouth. The pain of his teeth was worse than Razvan's. His grandson pushed back, clawing at Lara and growling as the two men scuffled and fought over the prize. Lara wept softly until her body was too weak even for that. She lay panting, wheezing, her lungs struggling for air as Xavier controlled Razvan using magic, caging him in a field of energy and walking him back to his chains.

The old man turned to look at the child sprawled on the floor, his face a mask of fury. "You dare touch me? Kick me? I give you food. Life even. Ungrateful little brat." He reached down and hauled Lara up by her hair, the long red-gold curls framing her face.

Energy crackled and light sparked around his open palm. Shears appeared, sharp and wicked. Without preamble he hacked at the curls so that great chunks of silky hair fell to the floor of the ice cave. Lara screamed and writhed, trying desperately to wiggle free. Xavier took a firmer grip and kept cutting, all the while humming.

Horrified, Nicolas shoved Lara aside, knowing Xavier was purposely humiliating her, cutting the hair as close to her scalp as possible. Long strands of black hair began to rain down to pile on top of Lara's head, until the long thick strands of midnight black covered every inch of silky red.

Carpathian hair grew fast, long and thick and luxurious, almost like the pelt of an animal and few ever cut their hair. It was a sacred tradition in their culture and the ancients especially had an aversion to a shorn head. Nicolas was no exception. As the chunks of hair fell, he felt sick inside.

Lara's spirit stirred. Whether she liked it or not she was his lifemate and as her distress weighed on him, so did his on her. She pushed deeper into his mind, allowing him to pull her away from the childhood memories. Nicolas didn't hesitate, treating her sudden capitulation as a gift. He surrounded her spirit and took them fast from the past to the present, understanding completely why the aunts and her father had blocked her memories. He had lived them with her and he was shaky and sick inside.

Nicolas held Lara in his arms, looking down into her face, breathing for both of them, calling her name softly. "Come back to me,
o jelä sielamak
. Light of my soul, be with me, Lara."

She blinked up at him, her eyes swimming with tears, exhaustion on her face, mouth trembling, her fingers sliding off his arm when she tried to hold on to him. She lifted her hand and stared, horrified at the blood smearing her palm.

Chapter 9

Nicolas looked down into Lara's opaque eyes. Glass eyes. Unseeing eyes. He had forced her spirit close to the surface—he still surrounded her there refusing to let her go—but she had not committed herself to life. She refused to commit herself to him.

I cannot blame you, Lara, but I am asking for a second chance. Come back to me.

She flinched. First her spirit, and then her physical body. She saw him as the enemy, a man who would imprison her and take her blood. Crave her blood. Need it. Hunger after it. The knowledge flooded his mind and as merged as they were, as honest with her as he insisted on being, he couldn't deny those things. He would crave her taste. She was his lifemate and part of their bonding—a huge part of their lovemaking—was the exchange of blood. It was a reaffirming of the love and commitment to one another, not only of the heart and mind and soul, but the physical life as well.

He pressed his forehead to hers.
We will find a way to satisfy both our needs. We have only to make that commitment.

He was a man who always was certain of his every move, who knew what to do under any circumstance, yet suddenly he was off balance, uncertain of the right thing to say or do. He had never in his life, even as a boy, felt helpless or vulnerable, he'd had no way of understanding her at all, or the trauma she'd dealt with.

He could hold her as he was doing, rock her gently back and forth, feeling lost.
I have no words to make this right.

She was still, too still. He felt almost desperate.
My life was so different from yours. I had parents who were loving, four strong brothers who always had my back. I have always had enormous strength of body and will. My skills were superior to many others and, I think, from an early age, I developed a very unflattering arrogance. I was always able to get my way no matter what I wanted
.

He brushed his lips against her eyelids, feeling them flutter, a whisper of movement much like the gentle grazing of a butterfly's wings. Was she listening? Did he have a chance of bringing her back to him? Or would she be forever caught in a half-world where he couldn't quite reach her?

I was there with you this time, Lara. I learned what it is like to feel helpless, to feel small and filled with despair.

There was a small silence. He found himself holding his breath. She was aware of him, she was close—so close his every instinct was to grab her and jerk her the rest of the way into the land of the living, but he fought that dominant side of his nature and waited as patiently as any hunter.

There was a stirring in his mind.
I did not want that for you
. Her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes. Sorrow and guilt mixed with fear. Her gaze drifted over his face and then up to his hair. Her body jerked as if struck.

Nicolas looked down at himself. He was covered in blood from the whip marks and gouges, and his ribs were bruised from the kicking. There were wounds on his wrists, deep punctures and gaping lacerations. Still holding her, he reached one shaky hand to touch his shorn head. His hair was gone, leaving only patches.

His heart leapt and then he took a breath and let it out. "Lara,
fél ku kuuluaak sívam belso
. Beloved, you must come back fully to this world."

Her gaze continued to drift over his face, blue-green eyes swimming with tears, melting that stone-cold spot deep inside him he had never quite managed to make function.

I am not beloved.

He captured her hand with gentle fingers and brought her knuckles to his mouth. "You gave me back my soul,
paläfertiilm
, and now you have restored my heart." He placed her palm over his heart. "It beats again, and it is beating for you."

He was covered in fresh whip marks that were already fading, but he had to see for himself what Lara's body retained of those childhood years. She wasn't fully Carpathian and he doubted if her injuries had healed the way his already were doing. She had had years of abuse. Why hadn't he already discovered that?

Nicolas turned her hand over to examine her wrist. The multitude of scars piled one on top of the other. Slices and punctures and gouges formed a bracelet. The fresh tears had come from her own teeth trying to open her vein to escape the darkness in him. His gut knotted at the sight. It had been the scar tissue from the continual childhood abuse that had saved her life, but like a wolf willing to chew off its leg when caught in a trap, she had been more than prepared to do the same.

The sight of those marks shamed him as nothing else could have. He had relived only a small portion of her life and it had left him shaken and sick inside. She had endured years of it. He pressed her wrist to his mouth. Her entire body jerked and she whimpered softly, closing her eyes, several tears tracking down her face.

Trust me, o jelä sielamak
. Light of my soul. "Trust me, Lara." He kept his voice low, mesmerizing without being hypnotic. He breathed warm air over the rough band of scars and then lowered his mouth to her wrist. His tongue stroked a healing caress over the rigid skin. His lips brushed back and forth in a small, soothing motion. He whispered a healing chant, rhythmic and beautiful to the ear, the words ancient and flowing in his melodic voice.

She stopped resisting, but he felt her holding herself very still as if waiting for betrayal. His heart wept for her, for that small child who had been made to feel so helpless, and for the grown woman whose lifemate had carelessly made her feel exactly the same way.

He turned her other wrist over and performed the same ritual, a slow bathing of her skin with the healing agent in his saliva, all the while watching her face, her eyes, for a sign of withdrawal. There was no movement one way or the other. She became completely still, too frightened to even blink up at him, a wild animal trapped.

"I am not going to hurt you," he assured, keeping his voice soft, intent on drawing her wholly back to the surface. She hovered there, ready to flee back into a place of childhood horror rather than be imprisoned as an adult. "Stay with me, Lara. Let me show you how a Carpathian man cherishes his woman."

He pushed aside the long rope of bright hair to examine the marks at her neck. His was there, two small puncture wounds and a small strawberry. He pressed his mouth there, sweeping his tongue across the mark of possession to heal it completely. Where before it had been important to him for the world to know she was his, now it was important to him that she be free of any reminder of her childhood. She shuddered, her body stiff, but again, her spirit seemed to hover there, just waiting.

Do not be alarmed, Lara, I need to examine your back
. He chose to use the more intimate form of communication, mind to mind, so that his motives would be absolutely clear to her.
I have to take a look at your back and legs
.

The urge to see for himself was a need, had grown into a monstrous compulsion he couldn't fight. His body was covered in thin white stripes already healing, which meant, he was certain, that she carried scars all over her body, constant reminders of being helpless and humiliated. His hands were gentle as he laid her facedown on the soft blankets he'd fashioned for her. It took moments of thought to have her skin gleaming beneath the flickering candlelight. She was so tense she was shaking, but again she lay quiet under the caressing pads of his fingers.

Her back was crisscrossed with white ridges and lines. The pattern continued all the way down her buttocks to the backs of her legs. Most were shallow and faint, but scar tissue had formed over a few of them. He knew, from the fire in his back and legs, that he bore the same marks, although within another hour, they would disappear from his body as if they'd never been.

His eyes burned and he closed them for a moment, despising himself for not knowing this, not taking the time to know every inch of his lifemate's body, know every bit of her past in order to secure the happiness of her future. He had vowed to cherish her, to place her happiness above all things and, even without the lifemate bond, honor should have dictated that he do so. He had been consumed with his own importance, his own desires and his belief that he was always right and others owed him their allegiance.