“Move.” One word. An order. He expected them to obey, as everyone obeyed him. He had acquired wealth beyond imagining in his long years of living, and in the last few centuries he had not once had to buy his way into or out of something. One word from him was all it took and the world trembled and stepped aside for his wishes.

Reluctantly, far too slow for his liking, they parted to allow him to stride through.

“Do not do this, Zacarias,” Nicolas said. “Don’t go.”

“At least heal your wounds,” Rafael added.

“And feed,” Manolito pressured. “You need to feed.”

He whirled around and they fell back, fear sliding to terror in their eyes—and he knew they had reason to be afraid. The centuries had shaped him, honed him into a violent, brutal predator—a killing machine. There were few to equal him in the world. And he walked the edge of madness. His brothers were great hunters, but killing him would require their considerable skills and no hesitation. They all had lifemates. They all had emotions. They all loved him. He felt nothing and he had the advantage.

He had already dismissed them, left their world, the moment he’d turned his back and allowed himself the freedom to let go of his responsibilities. Yet their faces, carved with deep lines of sorrow, stayed him for a moment.

What would it be like to feel sorrow so deeply? To feel love? To feel. In the old days he would have touched their minds and shared with them, but they all had lifemates, and he didn’t dare take the chance of tainting one of them with the darkness in him. His soul was not just in pieces. He had killed too often, distanced himself from all he had held dear in order to better protect those he had loved. When had he reached the point where he could no longer safely touch their minds and share their memories? It had been so long ago he could no longer remember.

“Zacarias, do not do this,” Riordan pleaded, his face twisted with that same deep sorrow that was on each of his brothers’ faces.

They n his responsibility for far too long and he couldn’t just walk away without giving them something. He stood there a moment, utterly alone, his head up, eyes blazing, long hair flowing around him while blood dripped steadily down his chest and thighs. “I give you my word that you will not have to hunt me.”

It was all he had for them, his word that he would not turn vampire. He could rest and he was seeking that final rest in his own way. He turned away from them, from the comprehension and relief on their faces, and once again started his journey. He had far to go if he was to get to his destination before dawn.

“Zacarias,” Nicolas called. “Where will you go?”