Page 26 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

I should have drunk one of those blood bags on the way back. My fangs pressed against my gums, desperate to extend. The predator in me fixated on his pulse point, so tantalizingly close.

No.

I gripped the edge of the counter, willing myself to stay perfectly still as Flynn retrieved the sugar and stepped away.

A draft whistled through the spacious kitchen—our old building had terrible insulation. Flynn visibly shivered. Unsurprising as his pyjamas appeared paper thin.

“You’re cold.”

He blinked at me in surprise. “I’ll be okay. I didn’t pack many jumpers when I left Ireland.”

“What about that one you were wearing yesterday?”

The memory of him in that crocheted garment was one I wouldn’t forget in a hurry—the holes had revealed tantalising glimpses of delectable skin, like some kind of torturous connect-the-dots puzzle. That damned jumper. Professional duty had dictated I concentrate on the supernatural threat at hand, yet I’d been thoroughly compromised by that strategic arrangement of holes and skin.

“Though I have to say,” I continued. “It was more decoration than defence against the cold.”

He grimaced, two pleasant pink dots appearing on his cheeks. “Damien ripped it. To shreds.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” And it was, though perhaps not for the purely practical reasons I should have been concerned with.

“Is it?” Confusion swam in his eyes. Or was it… a challenge? His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and I found myself tracking the movement with minute precision.

“So you’ve just moved here?” I redirected.

He stirred his tea, the spoon clinking against china. “To this hotel? Yeah, pretty sweet rates.” His mouth quirked. “Thought I’d save on rent.”

His humour caught me off guard, and dormant muscles in my face formed what might have been a grin. “Where did you say you lived?”

“Braymore Bay.” Flynn’s shoulders tensed. “Little tourist trap on the Irish coast. One of those places that’s packed in summer, dead in winter. Lots of fancy holiday homes owned by rich Dublin folk who show up twice a year. We moved there from England after my dad died when I was fifteen. That’s when I started at the boating company—fishing trips, seal watching tours, that sort of thing.” His fingers tightened around the mug.

“And what brought you to London?”

The question hung in the air. Flynn stared into his tea as if it held answers, the steam rising between us like a barrier.

“It must be very different here,” I said, to fill the silence.

“Yeah.” He scrunched up his nose in the most adorable way. “So, you were at Wilde Card last night watching Damien? Did you know he was…?”

“A cambion?” I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “The product of a demon coupling with a human.”

Flynn’s eyes widened. “That’s… possible?”

“More common than you’d think.” I watched his reaction carefully. “Many end up in service to more powerful entities—demons, various… other creatures. Their mixed blood makes them particularly… susceptible to influences.”

“Service?” Flynn frowned, leaning forward. “You mean like slavery?”

“Not exactly. Though some would argue it’s not far off.” His captivated interest loosened my tongue more than usual. “There’s an ongoing debate about their nature. Some claim they’re soulless beings, caught between two worlds. Though personally, I find theological arguments about souls rather tiresome.”

“And last night… you were what, just hanging about, waiting for Damien to attack someone?”

“We’d been tracking his movements for weeks. Yesterday, I was conducting surveillance.”

Flynn let out a sharp laugh. “Surveillance? You were doing a terrible job of being subtle about it. Kept glaring daggers at us from across the room. I thought you were Damien’s jealous ex or something.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly helping matters, throwing yourself at a complete stranger with absolutely no sense of self-preservation. You practically handed yourself to him on a plate.”

Flynn’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me? Are you actually victim-blaming me right now?”

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