He didn't want to listen.
But he had no choice.
Releasing her, he forced himself to step away from her and the need she created inside him.
To his surprise, she didn't let him go. She pulled him back to her lips and ravished his mouth with hers. He closed his eyes and hissed in pleasure as she permeated every sense he possessed. Her scent of roses and powder made him drunk.
He didn't think he could ever get enough of that smell. Of her body grinding against his.
He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything.
She pulled away and looked up at him. Her green eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed by her passion. "You're not the only one who wants something impossible, Wulf. As much as you hate me for what I am, imagine how I feel knowing I've dreamt of a man who has slaughtered my people for how many centuries now?"
"Twelve," he said before he could stop himself.
She winced at his words. Her hands dropped away from his face. "How many of us have you killed? Do you even know?"
He shook his head. "They had to die. They were killing innocent people."
Her eyes darkened and turned accusatory. "They were surviving, Wulf. You never had to face the choice of being dead at twenty-seven. When most people's lives are just beginning, we are looking at a death sentence. Have you any idea what it's like to know you can never see your children grow up? Never see your own grandchildren? My mother used to say we were spring flowers who are only meant to bloom for one season. We bring our gifts to the world and then recede to dust so that others can come after us."
She held her right hand up so that he could see the five tiny pink teardrops tattooed on her palm in the shape of a flower's petals. "When our loved ones die, we immortalize them like this. I have one for my mother and the other four are my sisters. No one will ever know the beauty of my sisters' laughter. No one will remember the kindness of my mother's smile. In eight months, my father won't even have enough of me left to bury. I will become scattered dust. And for what? For something my great-great-great-whatever did? I've been alone the whole of my life because I dare not let anyone know me. I don't want to love for fear of leaving someone like my father behind to mourn me.
"I will be a vague dream, and yet here you are, Wulf Tryggvason. Viking cur who once roamed the earth raiding villages. How many people did you kill in your human lifetime while you sought your treasure and fame? Were you any better than the Daimons who kill so that they can live? What makes you better than us?"
"It's not the same thing."
Disbelief went through her that he couldn't see what was so obvious. "Isn't it? You know, I went to your Web site and saw the names listed there. Kyrian of Thrace, Julian of Macedon, Valerius Magnus, Jamie Gallagher, William Jess Brady. I've studied history all my life and know each of those names and the terror they wrought in their day. Why is it okay for the Dark-Hunters to have immortality even though most of you were killers as humans, while we are damned at birth for things we never did? Where is the justice in this?"
Wulf didn't want to hear her words. He'd never given any thought to the Daimons and why they did what they did. He had a job to do and so he killed them. The Dark-Hunters were the ones who were right. They were human protectors. The Daimons were the predators who deserved to be stalked and killed. "The Daimons are evil."
"Am I evil?"
No, she wasn't. She was...
She was things he dared not name.
"You're an Apollite," he said forcefully.
"I'm a woman, Wulf," she said simply, her voice filled with emotion. "I cry and I mourn. I laugh and I love. Just like my mother did. I don't see a difference between me and anyone else on this planet."
He met her gaze and the fire in his eyes scorched her. "I do, Cassandra. I see the difference."
His words cut her to the quick. "Then we have nothing more to talk about. We are enemies. It's all we can ever be."
Wulf took a deep breath as she spoke a truth that couldn't be changed. Since the day Apollo had cursed his own children, Dark-Hunters and Apollites had been mortal enemies.
"I know," he said softly, his throat tight with that realization.
He didn't want to be enemies, not with her.
But how could they ever be anything else?
He hadn't chosen this life on his own, but he had given his word to live it now.
They were enemies.
And it killed him inside.