Page 27 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My words had emerged far more judgmental than intended. And god knew that I’d certainly indulged in my share of carnal pleasure throughout the centuries. Perhaps twenty years of self-imposed solitude had made me forget what it was to be young and desperate for connection.

“You’re right.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “That was… unfair of me. Please forgive me. I understand the urge to seek comfort in the wrong places.”

Flynn raised a challenging eyebrow. “Do you?”

The way he looked at me—defiant, curious, perhaps even a touch flirtatious—sent a jolt through my lifelessheart.

Before I could reply, Flynn broke the moment by darting his gaze around the kitchen, landing on the small altar in the corner. “What’s that?”

The shrine sat on a worn wooden table beside the pantry—exactly where Issac used to perch when we gathered here. Fresh oranges nestled among incense and dried flowers. A worn leather jacket hung on a hook above, its sleeve touching a collection of photographs.

The familiar scent of leather and citrus carved a fresh wound through the pain I was trying my best to fossilise. Beneath it lay the cloying sweetness of incense—a scent that still made my skin crawl after centuries, dragging with it half-formed memories of stone chambers and desperate prayers. Of confession boxes and judgement halls, where I had served the Spanish Inquisition with misplaced devotion. But I endured it, here in our kitchen. For Issac.

“That’s for Issac.” His name still caught in my throat, every time I went to say it. My fingers curled into my palm, nails biting skin. “We lost him last year.”

“Oh.” Flynn shifted closer to examine the shrine. “The fruit?”

“He used to juggle them when he was thinking.” My smile wavered, the memory both sweet and sharp. “Drove Kit mad, watching perfectly good fruit being tossed around.”

Priya had built the shrine the day after we lost him. She refreshed the offerings regularly—fresh fruit, burning sage, new photographs. The rest of us contributed too. Even Kit, who claimed he didn’t believe in “spiritual nonsense,” left small tokens.

Flynn’s fingers hovered over a photograph—from that last Christmas, Issac balanced on that very table, his face split in a wild grin as he pelted Rory with paper chains. That laughter echoed in my memories, a ghost of happiness that would never return.

Life at Killigrew Street divided neatly into two chapters: before and after. Before was all noise and chaos and badly-juggled fruit. After was hushed voices and empty spaces and the weight of words we couldn’t bring ourselves to say. Some days the difference had felt like a physicalthing, heavy as the hotel’s foundations. But slowly, carefully, we were learning to write a new chapter—one where Priya’s tea flowed freely again, where Kit’s grumbling had regained its fondness, where Rory’s laughter, though different now, still brightened our halls.

“Just a warning…” I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. “Rory hasn’t quite accepted that he’s gone. Don’t bring Issac up with him when Kit’s in the room. It causes… the kind of conflict that leaves scars.”

I could see the question on Flynn’s lips—so how did Issac die?—and my muscles tensed.

“But anyway, back to lighter topics. Are you enjoying London, at least?”

Flynn’s laugh was as brittle as frost. “You want the truth?” His fingers worried at a loose thread on his sleeve. “People back home always say the same thing about cities, and it’s true. I’ve never been more surrounded by people, and I’ve never felt so bloody alone.”

The words struck a chord deep within me. Our eyes met across the dim kitchen, and something electric passed between us. His gaze held such raw honesty—a mirror to my own centuries of isolation. The weight of endless nights spent watching the world change while I remained frozen in time pressed against my chest.

In that moment, I saw past his youth, past the warmth of his blood calling to me. I saw someone who understood what it meant to be adrift in a sea of strangers.

“I understand that more than you might think.” The truth of countless solitary years.

Flynn’s expression softened. “At least you’ve got this place, though. Everyone here seems so… connected. Almost like a proper family.”

If only he knew how temporary it all was. How there had been different teams before them. How this now, as wonderful as it was, would all be over in a heartbeat. Kit and Rory’s wolf’s blood might grant them a slightly extended lifespan, but eventually everyone would grow old and grey while I remained unchanged.

They were all shooting stars, burning brilliant but brief across my eternal night. And like all the others before them, they would leave me behind, either by choice or by death’s inevitable hand.

Just as Issac had.

Just as everyone always did.

The weight of that knowledge pressed against my chest like a stone.

It was at times like these that I was grateful my memories prior to the last half a century were hazy at best. How many people had I lost over the course of my lifespan? How many names had I carved into my memory, only to watch them fade into history?

“Sebastián?”

It was the first time Flynn had said my name, and the tentative, unsure way he rolled the word across his lips sent a visceral shiver through me. The Spanish lilt he attempted was imperfect, hesitant, yet somehow extremely intimate.

“Are you okay?” The words ghosted between us, gentle as a feather, and he closed the small space separating us.

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