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“Have you ever thought about being a vampire?” I ask. She whips her head towards me.
“Uh,” she pauses, “Maybe as a fleeting thought. I dated a shifter once, so I thought about that more.”
I can’t stop my fangs from descending or the growl that escapes. “I don’t want to hear about you with anyone else,” I snarl.
“Sorry, I won’t talk about it again,” she whispers, watching me in fascination. “The topic of being a vampire is interesting.”
“Interesting,” I repeat. “Are you open to it?”
“Being one or talking about it?”
“Both.”
“Yes, to both,” she says.
“Good,” I say, turning to look over the rails. I would have to do whatever I could to convince her and ease her fears if she wasn’t. Watching her human body die while my endless life went on would be torturous. “The feeling of being invincible is intoxicating and addicting. The moment you are turned, all these new powers flood your body. You can run super fast, hear everything, see everything, and control the minds of others. You could lift ten cars if you so desired.” I swallow thickly. “Being with one of your kind sexually is euphoric. The idea that you can be as rough as you want, try anything, can be freeing.” I hear her heart speed up even more. I feel her gaze on me. I am conscious of her sitting in nothing but that offensive hoodie. She should be in silks or nothing. “It is a challenge to control the overwhelming desire for everything.”
“I’m not sure what to say to that,” she says. “Do you have to be careful when you are with humans?”
I turn to her. “Yes,” I say roughly.
“Do you want to be with me in that way?” she asked, gulping.
“Yes, but you are not ready for that,” I say. “I want to do this right. I don’t want to rush you.”
“Do you like being a vampire?” she asks.
“I do. I didn’t like being a human.”
“Ryker changed you, right?” she asks, tucking her legs underneath her and turning her body towards me.
“Yes,” I say. “He did as I asked.”
“Why did you want him to?” she asks.
“Lots of reasons. I didn’t want to be me anymore,” I say hesitantly.
“Why not?” she frowns.
“My hair, for one,” I say.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” she asks.
“It’s white. It wasn’t because of the change. I was born with it.”
“So what? I love your hair,” she says, looking at my head.
“Why?” I ask, truly curious.
“It’s not like everyone else. Anyone can have brown hair or black hair. It suits you. I can’t imagine you with any other color now.”
The truth in her words hit me. My hair is always a topic of conversation when I meet new people. Most of them ask about it. Why white? What made you choose that as your hair color? It’s annoying. Marie didn’t question it. She accepted it, and me.
“Come here,” I command, startling her. She’s only five feet away, but I want her on my lap.
“What?” she whispers.
“Sit with me,” I explain, patting my thigh.
