Page 76 of A Bond with the Dark

“Thank you,” I respond. “He’s my whole world.”

“I can see that. You’re a great mom.”

I press my forehead to his and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I want you to tell me whatever you’ve been wanting to tell me for some time.”

The way his hazel eyes question mine is perplexing. Like a cross between being utterly terrified and also there’s some relief lingering in the golden flecks of his green irises.

“What?” he asks, backing his head away, and I immediately shake mine.

“Dom.” I pull his chin toward me when he tries to deflect. “You can tell me. I will not judge you, whatever it is. I promise.”

“Sayah, I can’t?—”

“Dom, please. You can tell me.”

“I’m a vampire,” he says bluntly, as though telling me he’s a mechanic.

“Ha!” I blurt out, but it’s automatic. I can’t help it.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.

“Sayah, I’m serious.”

I feel my eyes grow wide.

The words hang in the air like smoke between us, and I freeze. His eyes remain on mine, unmoving, and suddenly a fear larger than life itself rises in the back of my throat like bile. Fear that he’s a psychopath and in my home where my child sleeps.

“Vampire?” I ask dubiously.

Is he a serial killer?

Oh my gods, he’s in my house and the nearest gun is in my car.

I look toward the garage, thinking if I move fast enough I can get to the garage door, slam it in his face, tip over the dog food bin to slow him down, and jump over the handicapped railing to my car to grab my gun.

“Sayah, listen, I know that it’s a lot to take in,” he says, grabbing my hand.

I try to pull it away. “You’re crazy!”

“No, please, listen to me,” he pleads as I slip out of his grip and quickly stand. “I’m not going to hurt you, please believe me.”

“Vampires don’t exist!”

Even though I’m terrified, there’s a lingering softness in his eyes that comforts me. I remember reading about vampires in my grandmother’s grimoires.

They can exist, can’t they?

Maybe he’s telling me the truth; it makes all that strange shit that has been happening make more sense.

I mean, I’m a witch who practices real magick.

“Sayah, please. Look,” he says, standing with me as the jangling tension of an impending battle rages on in my mind.

His eyes change to a cat-eye shape and the irises drain of all hazel leaving only the color of white with black rims remaining. His skin goes pale, his touch grows cold, and the incisors shoot out from his gums.

Even though I should be scared, I’m not.

He is stunningly beautiful.

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