beloved sister-he'd fought to save her, but in the end he'd betrayed her. His aunts-he'd tried so hard to save them, yet Xavier had controlled his body and he'd been the one to plunge a knife into his aunt's chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't find air to drag into his lungs.
His throat felt raw and he choked, closing his eyes, trying to shut out the guilt and horror of his actions. It mattered little that he had not been in control-that in itself was a terrible guilt-or that he hadn't been strong enough to stop Xavier. Fighting him every inch of the way hadn't been enough, and now this stranger, this woman, brought every horrifying, vivid and disgusting detail into his mind and branded his soul unredeemable.
"Razvan." Her voice was soft. Gentle. "Look at me."
He couldn't move. Couldn't face her. No, not her-himself. He cursed his body's resistance to death. How could he ever face anyone after the terrible crimes he'd committed? Bile rose and he choked on it, a bitter, metallic taste. He wiped at his face and his palm came away smeared in blood.
He scented her, although she made no sound as she drew closer to him, as silent as her deadly wolves. He shook his head. "Stay back. Don't come too close." Because hunger turned him savage, while guilt made him a little insane. Now it wasn't Xavier he feared; it was himself. He knew what even the best of his kind could do when starved, and he was so far from the best. He was damned-cursed, even-cunning and... so hungry. Ravenous.
Ivory crawled toward him. "You need to feed. I feed my pack often, it is truly of little importance. Just take the blood from my wrist."
Between his fingers he could see her now, in front of him, concern on her face, although she was smart enough to be wary. She didn't trust him-it was there in her eyes. One fingernail lengthened, razor sharp, and she reached down toward her wrist.
Razvan caught her hand, the rush of fear and adrenaline combining to give him strength when he really had little left. "No! I will not." The thought sickened him. Her offered wrist conjured up a vision of a greedy mouth tearing at a small wrist. He choked again and turned away from her.
How do you tell someone you are damned? He shook his head. "You have to take me to the surface and let me go."
"Why won't you feed? Perhaps if you tell me . . ."
He didn't tell her. He showed her. She had to see-know-the monster she'd brought into her lair. He seized her mind, flowing into her, shoving the memories into her head, forcing her to watch him tear at a frightened child's little wrist while she pleaded with him, letting her see the mother of his child rotting while he screamed and fought and wept blood, raging at the monster who imprisoned him. He made her watch as he betrayed his twin sister, Natalya, and as he plunged the knife into the breast of a dragon desperately trying to help his daughter escape.
She paled, but she didn't pull away from his mind. He felt her move inside of him, alert, the way she was naturally, but soaking up his memories, reading his life. And he fed it to her, hundreds of years with Xavier, watching him torture and kill. Xavier had used his body over and over to commit horrendous acts, to breed with chosen psychic women, slowly taking him over, and then later, using him as a puppet to do his evil bidding. She should have recoiled, should have plunged her fist into his chest and extracted his heart there on the spot, but she stayed, looking at everything, unafraid, quiet, giving nothing of her own thoughts away.
After a while he became aware that he was weeping, deep inside, for those years of torment and regret, for the arrogance of a young man who thought he could single-handedly defeat an enemy who'd eluded warriors and minds far older and wiser than his. He realized he was lying with his head in her lap, her hand stroking his hair, the blood of his tears smearing her thighs.
"Do you see what I am?" he asked. It was a plea. He had spent the last twenty years planning to escape, planning to let the sun cleanse his soul, to take his chances in the afterlife. But here she was, the one woman who could stop