Page 24 of Bonded Through Bite

Santiago has been tracking her relentlessly this last month, but she keeps giving him the slip. Or he’s letting her slip. I can’t be sure anymore.

Goddess save me from my ex and my maker. They both bring a mountain range’s worth of baggage to every interaction we have.

After one last check, I trudge back upstairs.

There’s nothing to do but wait.

Chapter Eight

Samantha

Everything aches—even my teeth and nails hurt. If this is how it feels to be dead, then I’m not impressed.

Slowly, I blink, trying to get my eyes open. It takes a lot of effort and, once I manage, I’m greeted with utter darkness. Well, at least that tracks with death.

It’s silent. No sounds of haunted souls being tortured or harp stings plucked.

Where do people who don’t believe in heaven or hell go? I had kinda counted on some form of recycling. An eternity in this empty void seems like a bore.

My fingertips tingle painfully, and I lift my hand, or at least I try to. It takes a second for the command from my brain to reach my arm—and then I almost smack myself as my hand flies up with way too much speed and force.

I manage to scratch my cheek in the process and the smell of blood makes me gasp. I’ve never smelled the coppery tang in such detail. Did I cleave my face open?

When I rub my cheek to check, I end up with another scratch. What the hell happened to my nails? They seem to be way too long and sharp. Carefully, I feel them out with my other hand, only to realize I now have what I can only describe as claws.

I’m sure there are plenty of women who would not consider them long or difficult, but they feel fucking weird to me. And the smell of my blood is fucking distracting.

A flare of panic rises deep in my core, but before I get to spiral too far, a door slams somewhere—the first sound I’ve heard besides my own ragged breathing—then footsteps approach.

My body decides that now is the time to heave in air, like it’s been starved for it. Or maybe it’s the building panic attack.

What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?

With all the air comes a scent, delicious and masculine. It reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it. It has layers to it and when I focus on it, I can separate the smell of fresh sheets and my shampoo from it.

Too much information at once overloads my brain, and I gasp out loud.

“Samantha!”

Someone pulls me into a hug, and instinctively I bury my face against his throat. Rafael. His arms band around me and hold tight enough that I can finally exhale. He rubs my back and his scent seeps into my pores, weirdly calming me.

I didn’t know vampires hung out with ghosts—or whatever the hell I am.

“Breathe, darling,” he murmurs and I obey. Every inhale brings more layers of his scent. His soap is something luxurious and deep, maybe roasted coffee; there’s a smell of blood clinging to him and something that reminds me of a dark chocolate cake.

My brain has to be totally frizzing. No one smells like that.

But there’s no way to deny I want to taste him. Lick him all over. Bite him. Drink him down.

What?

“Shh, Samantha. It’s all right. You are all right,” Rafael says and a huge part of me believes him, relaxing in his hold. Then there’s the part that’s screaming and fighting to be heard. I shake my head.

“No,” I rasp. Moving my lips renews the ache in my teeth and I lick them. My mouth is dry and throat parched.

“I’ll take care of you. Just relax.” There’s an underlying thread of dominance in his tone that makes me want to yield. As my hands curl into fists, my new claws prick my skin and shake me out of it.

“What’s going on?” My voice sounds off, too layered. I clear my throat, but I’m so, so fucking thirsty. Except, instead of wanting a glass of water, I desperately want to sink my aching fangs into Rafael’s throat.