Kyla

I couldn't have heard him right. Could I have? I am this monster mate? What does that even entail? There is no way he can be telling me the truth; a human and vampire cannot be mated. Can they?

I back up from his body so I may look him in the eye. As I do, I can see how serious he is. The truth is held in his chocolate brown eyes.

Backing away to put some space between us, "You must be mistaken. I have heard about mating, not a lot, but some. Humans and vampires cannot be each other's mates." I put my arm around my center and hold onto myself. Just hoping it helps slow down my racing heart.

"I know, Darius and I were looking into it before I made my way here." He looks at me and I can tell he is holding something back, but what I don't know.

"What? What are you thinking about?" My voice comes out in barely a whisper. I'm holding onto my sanity by a thread.

"Perhaps we should sit for this conversation." When he waves towards the couch we were just on, I look warily in his direction.

He must know what I'm thinking because he gives me a wicked smile, "I swear I won't bite." At my gaping mouth he gives off a laugh.

"Unless of course you'd like me to." He cocks his eyebrow, the smart ass.

"No, I don't." I try to sound stern, but my response comes out a bit breathless. As though I've been running. He must know I'm still feeling quite aroused just being in the same room as him.

His smile grows as his eyes dilate. I can practically see his mouth water at the possibility of him tasting my blood. I wouldn't really let him bite me. Would I? Why does the thought of his fangs extending, and sinking into my skin to taste me make my body wet with need?

How come I- Kyla- a born Rebel that fights against the vampires, wants to watch as he looks into my eyes, while the blood flows from my body into his, nourishing him, and making him stronger? What is wrong with me?

My legs move on their own accord to the couch, and I sit. Not being able to look at him any longer because I feel ashamed of myself, I look to my feet that are firmly placed on the floor. As the scent of my clothing reaches my nose, I find myself wondering how he can still be in the room with me when I smell so horrible. Like decaying animal carcasses, blood, and sweat.

At my scrunching nose he must know I just smelled myself because he says, "when we are finished with this conversation you may shower." I look up at him in confusion.

Licking my lips, afraid he will find me unintelligent I ask, "what do you mean by shower?"

Tilting his head to the side he stares back a little dumbfounded, "have you never showered before?"

"I don't know, all I've ever done is wash in lakes and rivers among the mountains."

He nods his head in understanding, "well I will show you what it is in a moment, but first I have a question to ask."

He places his hands into his pant pockets and paces the floor in front of me. Whatever he has to ask must be making him feel uncomfortable. Which is odd because I've always heard he is a very put together, serious guy. No one has ever seen him flabbergasted. Until today that is. Until for some reason or another I came into his path.

Thinking he was going to ask me about my history with a boy, or my experiences. I was already finding myself fidgeting in place because I didn't want to tell him I was a virgin. However, what he asks me scares me even more, not because it's about my experience. More because of who it is about, and I have no honest answer for him.

"Who is your father?" His voice is soft, as though he's trying not to frighten me.

At my stunned silence he stops pacing and faces me. When he sees there are tears lining my eyes, he makes his way to me until he is in front of me. Before I know it once again, I'm looking into his mystical obsidian eyes, as he kneels in front of me. His elbows are placed on his knees, and he just sits there, looking at me, awaiting my answer.

"I.." looking down I try to hide the shame I feel. I have always been the only one among the rebel community to never know who my father really is. My mother died when I was only a year old, and no one ever met or really heard about him.

He places his hand under my chin, and gently careens my head up so I'm looking into his eyes again. "It's all right."

Not fully understanding my body's response but loving to have someone that will listen. That I can talk freely to about this topic helps me feel a bit better about it.

"I don't know." I look into his eyes begging with mine that he won't judge me and think of me as a 'bastard child' as so many do.

"My mother died when I was only a year old. I never got to ask her. Whenever I asked my uncle, he would get upset with me. Tell me to forget about it, and to never bring up the question again."

There are a few moments of complete silence. You can feel the tension grow in the room. He looks deep into my eyes like he's trying to read all my secrets. Trying to figure me out. Then, he nods his head. He understands something I do not. Perhaps someday soon he can enlighten me. Because I have no idea what he just figured out about me, that I don't know myself.