Vampire Bonds: Love me till the end

My back slammed against the rough bark of an ancient pine, my hands bound in place by unseen, crushing pressure. Cold air burned in my lungs, but my pulse hammered against my throat like a trapped bird.

Out of the fog, Patricia stepped forward. Her green eyes no longer held warmth; they burned with an ethereal, predatory hunger.

“You’re safe,”she whispered, her fingers gliding over my thrumming carotid artery.

Then, her lips parted. White, razor-sharp fangs glistened beneath the moonlight. She leaned in slow, deliberate, and drove them deep into my flesh.

Love is the only thing that makes death feel like a promise instead of an ending. I learned that the night I first saw her fangs—or rather, the night I stopped caring that she had them.

It all began on the evening of August 6, 2003.

It was a cold night in central Spain, the kind of biting wind that slips straight through your jacket and settles deep into your bones. Above us, the sky stretched out in vast, indifferent shades of deep violet, dotted with distant stars that watched the earth without caring what became of the mortals on it.

I left home five minutes before six. There was a welcome party at school—a loud, chaotic event I would normally avoid at all costs. But that evening, something tugged at my chest. It wasn’t curiosity, and it certainly wasn’t courage. It was something quieter, a subtle pull that felt like a decision I had already made long before my mind caught up to it.

The heavy black iron gate of the courtyard stood open. I hesitated on the threshold, feeling instantly out of place. I hated school, and I hated crowds even more. Yet, my feet kept moving forward.

Inside, the atmosphere pressed in on me. Voices overlapped in deafening waves, laughter echoed off the stone walls, and music pulsed rhythmically through the courtyard. People moved together effortlessly, bound by social threads I couldn’t see. I was entirely alone. Quick, dismissive glances flicked over me—cold and uninterested. My chest tightened, urging me to turn around, disappear into the night, and pretend I had never come.

Instead, I walked deeper into the crowd, as if driven by a quiet internal compass. As if someone was waiting for me.

Suddenly, a pair of hands shoved my shoulders from behind.

I stumbled, breaking my train of thought, and when I caught my balance, there she was.

Brown hair falling effortlessly around her face, slender frame, tall and strikingly composed. Her eyes were green—a shade so deep it felt like looking into a chasm rather than a pair of eyes. She wasn’t just looking at me; she was looking straight through me.

“You’re going to fall, dummy,” she said, her lips curving into a playful smile.

And just like that, the entire night shifted off its axis.

“I’m Patricia,” she added, taking a half-step closer. “Don’t you remember me?”

I couldn’t answer. Words died in my throat. Everything around us—the music, the flashing lights, the roaring crowd—faded into background noise. Her presence seemed to drain the surrounding world of color. Her nose was sharp and precise, her lips delicate, her beauty almost unnerving.

Before I could stutter a reply, she reached out and seized my hand.

“Not mute, just slow,” she teased, tugging me along behind her.

That was the first detail that felt wrong: her hand was warm. Unnaturally warm. Like a flame against the bitter August chill.

She dragged me over to her circle of friends—three other girls, each as striking and sharp as she was. Their laughter and high-energy chatter battered against my ears. I froze, paralyzed by embarrassment, feeling utterly out of my depth.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I blurted out.

They laughed at my blunt desperation, of course, but I didn’t care. I turned and escaped into the school building.

Inside the dimly lit lavatory, the mirror offered no comfort. My reflection stared back—dark eyes, pale skin, uncertainty etched into every feature. I washed my face, wondering how a guy like me could ever hope to stand beside someone like Patricia. But as I dried my face, I noticed a tiny detail in the glass: a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of my nose, matching the exact pattern I had seen on hers. A ridiculous, insignificant detail, yet it granted me just enough misplaced confidence to walk back outside.

“What happened to you?” Patricia asked the moment I returned to her side, leaning in. “You look different.”

“Nothing,” I murmured.

She smiled, but her green eyes lingered on my face a second too long, studying me like a riddle she was determined to solve.

“You look like a sword,” I blurted out, unable to filter my thoughts.

She let out a bright laugh. “Because I’m aggressive?”

“No,” I replied softly. “Because you’re elegant.”

She liked that. I could see it in the way her eyes softened. She reached out, her warm fingers lacing through mine. “Take me to dance.”

We moved toward the center of the courtyard, but before we could reach the crowd, a wall of flesh blocked our path. Three older guys stood in our way.

“This place is taken,” the largest one sneered, stepping into my personal space. He didn’t budge an inch. “Unless you want me to kiss you.”

Something snapped inside me. Overwhelmed by adrenaline, I stepped forward and shoved him with all my weight.

He didn’t move. It was like shoving a solid brick wall.

“You’re dead,” the boy said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Before he could raise a fist, Patricia moved. She didn’t just step in—she blurred. A flash of motion, a heavycrack, and the guy was sent flying backward, crashing hard onto the stone floor.

The courtyard erupted into chaos. Shouts echoed, bodies surged, and panic rippled through the crowd. But at the center of the storm, Patricia stood completely still. Sharp. Controlled. Unruffled. She didn’t look like a girl who had just started a brawl; she looked like someone executing a pre-ordained plan.

“Run,” she whispered, grabbing my wrist.

We sprinted away from the noise, ducking through dark corridors and slipping into the narrow alleys behind the school grounds. But we weren’t fast enough.

Three shadows cut us off, pinning us against the damp brick wall of a dead-end alley. Heavy hands grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back with unnatural, bone-crushing strength. A tall redhead shoved Patricia hard against the stone.

“Wait,” one of the attackers grunted, staring at Patricia. “She’s Mike the Beast’s sister.”

The tension in the alley shifted instantly. The mention of the name brought a sharp flicker of fear to their eyes.

Desperate to protect us, I shouted the only shield I thought I had: “My brother is Tom Rodríguez!”

It was a stupid, fatal mistake.

The redhead turned his gaze to me, eyes cold. “Tom’s brother?” Without another word, he drove a heavy fist straight into my stomach.

Agony exploded through my midsection. The air rushed out of my lungs, and my knees buckled, driving me to the pavement.

“Leave him,” Patricia’s voice sliced through the dark.

It was completely different from before—icicle-sharp, freezing, and utterly devoid of warmth. It wasn’t loud, but it held a commanding authority that made the three guys freeze. They exchanged uneasy glances, backed away from us, and melted into the darkness.

Patricia knelt beside me, her expression instantly shifting back to gentle concern as she helped me to my feet. “Are you okay?”

Just like that, the air cleared. Everything went back to normal.Too normal.

We walked back toward the lights of the courtyard and rejoined the party, dancing as if we hadn’t just been cornered in a dark alley, as if she hadn’t just leveled a guy twice her size with a single strike. But deep inside, a quiet voice told me something was deeply wrong.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she murmured in my ear, pulling me toward the edges of the dance floor.

That’s when I saw her.

Emma.

A hollow ache opened in my chest. You were standing near the grand arches, surrounded by a court of admirers, yet completely untouched by any of them. It was as if the world moved around you, but never truly managed to reach you. Your skin was pale as moonlight, your grey eyes colder than winter ice, your presence distant and majestic.

Standing right beside you was my brother, Tom. Perfect. Effortless.

A wave of shame washed over me for staring at you the way I was. Patricia had been nothing but kind to me, yet the sight of you pulled at something ancient and dormant in my chest.

Then, across the crowded courtyard, your grey eyes locked onto mine.

The world stopped. The blaring music dropped into silence. The sea of people blurred into abstract shapes. Even the warmth of Patricia’s hand in mine felt thousands of miles away. It was just you, staring directly into my soul.

Your expression remained unreadable, but your pale lips moved. Barely a breath.

Run.

My breath caught in my throat. I leaned forward, desperate to read your mouth.

Your eyes sharpened with a sudden, terrifying urgency. You spoke again, slower, forcing every syllable through the noise:

“Run... from... the... vam—”

The word fractured. Your jaw tightened, as if an invisible chokehold had seized your throat for speaking forbidden truth.

“Vam... pire...”

My chest constricted tightly. “What?” I whispered under my breath. “What did she say?”

“I found you,” Patricia’s voice cut in sharply.

Her hand clamped around mine with sudden, iron pressure. I turned to look at her. Her face was a masterclass in innocence—soft, confused, flawlessly serene.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently. “Vampire? Who?”

Her smile was warm and convincing. But for a split fraction of a second, the green in her eyes flickered—darkening into something hungry and ancient. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the mask slipped back into place.

“Take me home,” she murmured softly, tugging me away from the crowd.

I looked back over my shoulder one last time. You were still standing beneath the archway, Emma, watching me go. But your lips were sealed. You said nothing more.

Patricia didn’t let me walk her all the way to her front door, insisting her parents were picking her up a few blocks away. Her tone left no room for argument, so I let her go into the night.

At dinner, the atmosphere in our house was quiet. Tom spent the entire meal talking about you—Emma, his perfect, untouchable girlfriend. I sat across from him in silence, staring at my plate, unable to erase the image of your grey eyes or the silent warning you had carved into the air.

Run.

That night, sleep offered no refuge.

I dreamed of you first, Emma. You were standing in a thick, swirling fog, watching me with cold, somber eyes.“Run,”you repeated into the mist. But this time, I didn’t wake up in my bed.

The dream shifted, solidifying into oppressive reality.

I couldn’t move. My back was jammed hard against the rough, sap-stained bark of a massive pine tree. My wrists and ankles felt bound by heavy, invisible chains. My breathing came shallow and panicked.

Out of the swirling mist, Patricia stepped forward.

She looked like herself, yet entirely transformed. Her eyes glowed with an amber, predatory flame, burning through the dark.

“Patricia...?” I choked out, but my voice sounded frail, belonging to someone else.

She tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, terrifying smile.

“What?” she asked softly. “Vampire? Who?”

The exact same words. The exact same gentle pitch. But here, in the dark, they carried the weight of a death sentence.

I thrashed against the tree, but my body refused to obey. Patricia stepped into my space, her glowing eyes locking onto mine. And then, a strange, unnatural wave swept over me. The terror dissolved. The desperate need to fight vanished, replaced by an intoxicating, warm numbness. A total surrender.

“You’re safe,” she purred, brushing her warm fingers across the side of my neck, tracing the heavy, thumping rhythm of my pulse.

I didn’t resist. I couldn’t.

She leaned in close. Her lips parted, and there they were—two pristine, needle-sharp fangs, glistening under the pale moonlight.

She pressed her mouth against my throat. A sharp, stinging bite pierced my skin, followed immediately by a rush of overwhelming heat. And then—blackness.

I sat up in bed with a violent gasp, clutching my chest as air rushed back into my lungs.

Morning light filtered through the blinds of my bedroom. Everything was normal. Safe. I reached up with trembling fingers and traced the skin of my neck. Nothing. No blood, no puncture wounds, no pain. Just smooth skin.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning my head against the wall.It was just a nightmare. It had to be.

But as I closed my eyes, I could still feel the phantom warmth of her breath against my collarbone. I could still hear her voice echoing in the quiet room, perfect and deceptive:

“Vampire? Who?”

And somewhere deep beneath the rationalizations of my mind, a dark, undeniable truth settled into my bones.

It wasn’t a dream.