forearm. They peeked out on both arms from under the rolled sleeves of his shirt, quasi - tribal markings done in a unique, variegated color blend of pale scarlet and gold. On first glance, she thought maybe they were some kind of membership markings, like the kinds American gangs used to show their allegiance.
No, not like that, she decided the longer she stared at them. Not like that at all.
The markings on Rio's arms were very much like the symbols and strange writings that were on the walls and crypt inside that cave.
He brought his hand down and the flash of warning in his eye all but dared her to question him about them.
"Tell me what they mean," she said, looking up to meet his hard gaze. "The tattoos. Why do you have the same kind of symbols on your body that were in that mountain cave?"
He didn't answer. In silence, he stood there unmoving, looking even more dangerous in his civilized, tailored clothing than he had in the tattered rags he'd been wearing before. She knew he was immense, tall and broad and covered in lean, hard muscle, but he looked even more so as she approached him, determined to have this answer.
"What do the markings mean, Rio?" She took hold of his arm. "Tell me."
He stared down at her fingers wrapped around him. "It doesn't concern you."
"Like hell it doesn't!" she replied, her voice rising. "Why would you have the same kind of markings on your body that are in that cave - on that crypt?"
"You are mistaken. You don't know what you saw. Then or now."
It wasn't an argument so much as a complete refusal to take the conversation any further. And that really pissed Dylan off.
"I'm mistaken, am I?" She grabbed her long, loose hair and lifted it around to one side of her neck. "Look at this and tell me I don't know what I saw."
She bent her head, putting the exposed base of her neck - the patch of skin that bore her unusual birthmark - in plain view to him.
The silence seemed endless.
Then, finally, a hissed curse.
"What does it mean?" she asked him, lifting her head and letting her hair fall back in place.
Rio didn't answer her. He backed up as if he didn't want to be near her for another second.
"Tell me, Rio. Please...what does all of this mean?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his dark brows low over his eyes as he stared at her.
"You will know soon enough," he said softly as he went to the door and stepped outside.
He closed her in, then turned the lock, leaving her in there alone and confused, and very certain that the path her life had been taking had just irrevocably changed course.
Chapter Nine
A Breedmate.
Madre de Dios, but he hadn't been expecting that. The small crimson birthmark on the nape of Dylan Alexander's slender neck changed everything. The teardrop-and-crescent-moon skin marking she bore wasn't something that occurred very often in nature, and its meaning was indisputable.
Dylan Alexander was a Breedmate.
She was a human female, but with the specific, extremely unusual blood properties and DNA that made her cellular physiology compatible with that of the Breed. Females like her were rare, and once women like Dylan were known to Rio's kind, they were cherished and protected as closely as blood kin.
They had to be. Without Breedmates to carry the seed of future vampire generations, Rio's kind would cease to exist. It was the curse of the Breed that all offspring of its hybrid race were born male - a genetic anomaly that occurred when the cells of the vampiric otherworlders mixed with those of the special human females that bore their young.
Women like Dylan Alexander were to be revered, not stalked like common prey and abducted off the street in fear for their lives. They were to be treated with great respect, not locked up like prisoners and held against their will, no matter how elegant the cage.
"Cristo en cielo," Rio muttered aloud as he stormed down the Darkhaven estate's gleaming mahogany staircase to the foyer below. "Un que desastre."
Yes, this truly was a disaster. He himself was a disaster - one that worsened by the moment. His skin was tight with hunger, and he didn't have to check the dermaglyphs on his forearms to know that they were probably no longer their normal pale henna hue, but reddish-gold, reflecting his mounting need to feed. A nagging throb was kicking up in his