Page 13 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

I snatched my hand back, disgusted with myself.Get it together, Sebastián.Twenty straight years of immaculate control meant nothing if I couldn’t keep myself in check around one randomhuman.

But there was something about this Flynn Carter…

“You’re not mad, Flynn. But you are in danger.”

Flynn leaned closer. “What sort of danger?”

His proximity hit me like a slap. That scent—salt and sugar andlife—wrapped around me, drawing me in. My throat burned with sudden, vicious thirst.You fool.I should have drunk before leaving Killigrew Street. How long had it been? Twenty-four hours? More? The hunger clawed at my insides, sharp and insistent.

“Are… are you alright?” Flynn’s face swam into focus. He’d moved even closer, close enough that I could count each individual eyelash, see the subtle variations of blue in his irises. His features held such open concern, such sweet innocence, that my dead heart clenched.

“I am fine.”

“Am I going to die?” The question fell from his lips, soft and frightened.

My fingers twitched with the bizarre urge to cup his face, to promise him everything would be fine. His question—those exact words—echoed through the centuries, spoken by countless voices I could no longer put faces to. I gripped the edge of the table, anchoring myself against the wave of protective fury that swept through me.

I couldn’t lie to him. Not when the demon, its master, and god knows how many more monsters were still out there, waiting. “You need to come with me.”

Fear flashed across his face, and I ground my teeth together. Maybe Ishouldhave sent someone else to do this job after all. Social graces were not my forte, as Rory was so keen on reminding me.

“Please,” I tried, making my voice feather soft. “The doctors didn’t believe you, but you’re not going mad. Thereissomething inside your chest. They can’t help you, but I can. Let me help you, Flynn.”

He continued to study me, clearly weighing up my words and his remaining choices. I recognised the irony in the situation—I’d lectured him on running off alone with strangers, and now I was demanding he do just that.

But there was little other choice.

“After last night, you might find this hard to believe, but I promise you that you’re completely safe with me. But if you don’t let me help you, Flynn, that feeling in your chest…” I trailed off. The implication was clear.

Our gazes continued to bore into each other.

Then, to my immense relief, he nodded.

I offered him my hand to shake, and if I was being honest, it was mainly so I could feel the warmth of his skin once more.

“Sebastián Salazar,” I said, allowing the Spanish accent I’d lost a hundred years ago to resurface. “Go get your things.”

5

Flynn

What kind of idiot follows their armed stalker to an unknown location? Oh, right—me.

Clearly, last night had taught me nothing.

Sebastián Salazar either enjoyed walking in silence, or had nothing to say to me. Given that he’d basically demanded I walk out of my shift to go to some undisclosed place with him, his lack of communication soon grated on me as we navigated street after street. He kept wanting to cross the road and then back again, seemingly in a bizarre, random pattern, until I finally realised he was favouring the shadier sides. He must have been hot in his stupidly thick coat.

Here I was, trailing after this strange, oddly dressed bloke like a lost puppy. He was wearing another skinny tie today—this one a dark grey—though it hung slightly looser than last night. I suppose I had to admit his outfitdidsort of suit him—the navy-blue tailored trousers hugged his legs in a way that did not escape my notice. I forced my gaze elsewhere. Getting distracted by a potentially dangerous stranger’s ass wasn’t going to help my situation. I’d experienced that first-hand yesterday.

“Can you please just tell me where we’re actually going?” I eventually blurted, and he turned to me with obvious surprise, freezing in his tracks.

I peered up at him, though he wasn’t much taller than me. I couldn’t decide how old I thought he was—late twenties? Thirties? Last night he’d appeared terrifying, but now his face displayed only confusion as he lifted his hand to run it through those tight curls of his. They bounced right back into perfect ringlets, shiny andsoft-looking.

“Killigrew Street,” he said, like this was a perfectly acceptable answer, then proceeded to keep walking.

“Right. And what’s on Killigrew Street?”

No response. Just the click of his fancy boots against concrete as he strode ahead, still clutching that paper bag with his bread in.

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