Page 27 of A Bond with the Dark

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you!” he yells over the pounding music.

His voice is strangely dangerous, inciting fear and unease. Little bubbles of excitement swell up inside me and intermingle with the fear, concocting emotions I’m unfamiliar with.

He. Is. Gorgeous.

He’s tall with short dark hair and bright hazel-green eyes. Muscles jump under tattoos covering his arms and peeking out from under his V-neck tee. The energy around him is a strange mixture of excitement and intrigue mixed with a little danger. He smells delicious, like Earthy musk and cedar wood bathed in a winter-spring.

“It’s okay,” I answer, flicking my phone off and setting it on the table. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.”

“I’m Dominic.” He holds out his hand for me to shake.

I take it. “Lasayah.”

“What?” he shouts.

“La-say-ah!” I yell at him.

“Oh, beautiful name.” He leans in to kiss my hand.

I can feel the warmth of his breath; the scents of fresh linen and pine needles engulf me.

“Nice to meet you, Lasayah.”

“My friends all call me Sayah.”

“And mine call me Dom.”

Through my disbelief at having this handsome man sitting across from me, I offer him a smile that consists of charm and a little bit of a don’t-fuck-with-me sparkle in my eyes.

He gets up and moves chairs to sit next to me. The minute his hazel eyes bore into mine, any unease slips off me like oil.

“I’m sorry to be so forward, but I noticed your tattoos. I love it when women have sleeves.”

“Thank you,” I say, twisting my arm out to see the backside of the fairy. “I love ink.”

He pulls my wrist toward him, examining the artwork. “Very nice detail.”

“You got some pretty badass ink yourself,” I return, nodding toward his arms.

“Thanks,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “It’s the story of my life.”

I admire them. They seem to have the theme of light and dark—angels and demons, flowers and skulls, the moon and sun. Latin words and Roman numerals are interspersed throughout the pictures. I’m about to ask him what they represent when the girls arrive.

“Hey,” they both say, wry smiles painted upon their drunken faces as they slide into the chairs across from us.

“Dominic, this is Claire, and this is Anna. Guys, this is Dominic.”

“Hi, Dominic,” Claire says, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Dominic takes each hand and presses his lips to the top, like someone from another time. Even the way he moves is lithe and calculated.

Claire blushes, taking a swig of her beer. “So, where are you from, Dominic?”

He scoots his tall bar chair closer to the table, leaning his ink-clad arms on the surface. “Originally, I was born in Florence, but I came to the U.S. pretty young. I lived in New York for a long time and just moved out this way a few months ago for work.”

Even though he’s yelling over the music, his deep voice is soothing, the kind of sound that could make anyone feel better even if they were dying.

“Wow, Italy?” Anna says, leaning in, interested.

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