Page 141 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

I slammed the receiver down, an icy chill of rage and fear spreading through my limbs, crystallising my thoughts into jagged shards of ice.

Your pet. Your human.

My fist connected with the desk, slightly splintering the ancient mahogany. The pain barely registered—everything felt distant, frozen, as though I’d been plunged into the depths of an Arctic sea.

These aren’t my instructions.

Who could he possibly be referring to? The question frosted over in my mind, refusing to form into anything coherent. I pressed my palms against my temples, pleading for the return of rational thought.

The soft creak of hinges broke through my spiral. I lifted my head to find Flynn standing in the doorway, his figure haloed by the dim hallway light. His blue eyes widened, taking in my face, my posture, the splintered desk beneath my fist. A shadow of understanding crossed his features.

“Flynn,” I rasped, his name like broken glass in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

29

Sebastián

The Halloween revelers had thinned as we drove towards Richmond Park, their garish costumes and fake blood a mockery of the real horrors awaiting us. A full moon hung bloated in the sky, its silver light filtering through wisps of cloud.

Priya’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as she navigated the van through London’s outskirts, her lips moving in silent prayer. The dashboard clock blinked 10:37 p.m.

“Take the next left,” I instructed, though my attention kept dragging to the rear of the van.

Flynn sat wedged between Kit and Rory, his head lolling against Kit’s broad shoulder. Dark veins spread like a web beneath his translucent skin. The shifters’ supernatural heat radiated from their bodies, amplified by the approaching moon, yet Flynn’s lips remained blue, his breath forming tiny ice clouds with each shallow exhale. The wolves’ heat—possibly the only thing keeping him conscious—was a bitter reminder of my own useless cold, sending further spikes of rage through me.

Behind them, Adrian Knox sat bound and hooded, occasional grunts marking each bump in the road.

“Ten minutes,” Priya murmured.

The crucifix burned cold in my pocket. I was torn in two—by the desperate urge to know why Vale had asked me to bring it, and the suffocating dread of what it might mean.

The mere thought of seeing Padre Rodrigo again made bile rise in my throat. Five centuries had passed, yet I could still feel his cold handsblessing my forehead, still hear his whispered promises of salvation even as he damned me.

And the notion of Flynn anywhere remotely near that monster…

I was sure I’d feel less panicked if White had answered her phone this morning. Often just the sound of her voice, her clear directives and her simple logic, calmed me. But she hadn’t answered.

We weren’t completely on our own. Maxwell was going to do his part from a safe distance. Plus, following behind us was another vehicle containing some of Dale and Mags’s pack, backup courtesy of Kit’s connections with the South London shifters.

The team radio crackled. “North entrance clear,” came the update.

A soft whimper from Flynn had me turning again. His fingers clutched Rory’s jacket, knuckles white with effort. Rory, uncharacteristically silent, tightened his protective hold around Flynn’s shoulders. Another visible breath escaped Flynn’s blue-tinged lips, and I found myself counting the seconds between each one. As expected, he had deteriorated throughout the day, drawing ever closer to the moment the dark magic would consume him.

And now you’re essentially delivering him hand-wrapped.

But we could only take this chance, or watch him die.

Rain began to patter against the windscreen, the wipers marking a steady rhythm as London dissolved into parkland. Mist crept across the road, thick tendrils steadily inching towards us.

The van’s headlights swept across Sheen Gate Road as Priya pulled into one of the lay-bys near the pedestrian entrance. Beyond the locked vehicle gates, the park stretched into darkness, our section of carefully orchestrated emptiness waiting. The weather had worked in our favour—no sane person would choose to be in Richmond Park on a night like this. Still, Dale’s pack had spent the last hour patrolling the Pen Ponds area in high-vis jackets, turning away stubborn dog-walkers with warnings about “emergency tree removals.”

“Our cameras are all live, boss,” Felix’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “I’ve got eyes on all approaches to the ponds. Dale’s pack are in position—nothing else out there currently.”

Kit was already moving, helping Flynn out of the van. The bitter wind whipped at us as soon as the door slid open. Flynn stumbled, caught between Kit and Rory’s steady hands.

Dale’s car pulled in behind us, wolves spilling out silently into formation, shedding their clothes.

Kit and Rory were already showing signs of the inevitable change—muscles twitching, shoulders hunching. The full moon pulled at them mercilessly. Kit caught my eye, and I gave a sharp nod.

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