Page 154 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“It wasn’t the wind!”

I concentrated harder. The puddle rippled again, definitely this time, and then—

“Ha!”

A single droplet leapt up like a tiny performer, hanging suspended for a heartbeat before splashing back down. My heart shot straight to my throat.

“Definitely not the wind,” Seb said, a smile evident in his voice.

I couldn’t stop from grinning. After months of trying, something had finallyhappened. Something real, tangible—proof that I still had magic coursing through my veins.

“I knew I just needed to come home!” I said, then caught myself. Because Braymore Bay wasn’t home anymore.

The same hotel room I’d stumbled into months ago had somehow become home, my temporary refuge transforming into something permanent when no one seemed keen on me leaving. Even Seb had gradually migrated his things over, one vintage waistcoat at a time, until the wardrobe became an amusing clash of my wrinkled T-shirts and his meticulously pressed clothing.

Still, there were moments—usually late at night—when I’d wonder if I was overstaying my welcome. If the others secretly thought it odd that the random Irish bloke who’d wandered in during a crisis had just… never left. But now? That droplet of water might as well have been a key, unlocking something I hadn’t even realised I’d been searching for. I wasn’t just the guy dating the boss anymore, or the accidental tourist who’d stumbled into their supernatural world.

I hadmagic. Maybe not the impressive kind that sent demons flying or healed wounds, but it was mine. A gift from the sea itself, echoing the life I’d left behind in Braymore Bay, but transformed into something new. Something that made me truly part of Killigrew Street’s peculiar family.

I beamed at Seb, then gestured dramatically at the vast ocean surrounding us. “Now for my next trick—”

“Flynn.”

“I shall part the English Channel—”

“Flynn.”

“Moses style.”

Seb’s laugh was wonderful. “Perhaps you’ll be able to use your superpower to help with our task?”

Right. Of course. The real reason we’d sailed out here, far from prying eyes.

I helped Seb lift the makeshift raft of driftwood we’d cobbled together into the ocean. His collection of diaries—the ones from his human years, the dark and painful ones—sat in a small wooden box beside us. The silver crucifix lay wrapped in cloth, its presence still making my skin crawl even through the fabric.

“Are you certain?” I asked, watching Seb’s face carefully. “These are your only records of… well, everything.”

His fingers traced the edge of the oldest diary, its leather binding cracked and worn. “I don’t need them anymore.” He met my eyes. “They serve no purpose save to cause me pain.”

I understood. These weren’t just journals; they were chains, binding him to memories of guilt and manipulation, years of forcing himself to relive those memories, punishment for crimes that were never truly his.

Together, we arranged the diaries on the makeshift raft. I held his umbrella over him as he placed the crucifix in the centre, its evil somehow palpable even through its wrappings. It deserved to rust away in the depths.

“Ready?” I asked, holding up the lighter.

Seb nodded, and I flicked the lighter. The flame caught quickly on the sun-dried wood. We pushed the burning raft away from the yacht, watching as the fire spread to the diaries. The pages curled and blackened, their edges glowing orange before dissolving into ash and smoke.

For long minutes we stood in silence, watching his past turn to cinders. The sea air fed the flames, carrying sparks up into the darkening sky. Each diary succumbed in turn, decades of pain transformed into drifting embers.

The crucifix was the last to go, glowing an unnatural red as the flames finally reached it. By then, the heat had taken its toll on the makeshift raft; waterlogged wood finally gave way, splitting apart with a hiss of steam. We watched as the burning remnants scattered and sank, that cursed piece of silver the last thing to disappear beneath the waves.

Seb stood motionless, watching until the last traces of his darkness slipped into the depths. I slipped my hand into his, and he squeezed it gently.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For being here.”

“Always,” I replied, meaning it with every fibre of my being.

Always.

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