Page 40 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Ha!” Rory’s voice made me flinch. “Flynn, make sure you don’t use text speak if you ever message Seb. He refuses to learn even the most basic of acronyms.”

“I do notrefuse to learn,” I seethed. “I simply refuse to give in to the ridiculous notion that we can’t type in full sentences!”

Flynn’s legstillremained glued to mine, his whole body shaking with suppressed laughter. The warmth of his thigh burned through the fabricof my trousers, each tiny movement raising every hair on my body. His scent—sweet, alive, intoxicating—filled my lungs with every breath.

I couldn’t focus. My thoughts scattered like leaves in a strong wind, replaced by base instincts I fought to suppress. The hunger clawed at my insides as my gums tingled.

“I can make you a little chart, like I made my grandpa,” Flynn said, shoulder bumping mine as he closed the laptop.

The casual touch threatened my control. I gripped the edge of the sofa, wood creaking beneath my fingers. “As delightful as that sounds,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’ve witnessed the evolution of countless languages, so deciphering whether LOL means laugh out loud or lots of love is, quite frankly, beneath my level of intelligence.”

Flynn laughed then—louder this time, a booming sound that lit up his whole face, his head tipping back in ecstatic joy. The sight struck something in me. My eyes fixed on the vulnerable curve of his throat, that delicate patch of skin where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. The urge to taste him there, to feel his laughter vibrate against my lips, crashed through me with devastating force. To press my mouth to that spot and drink in the sound, the life, the warmth of him…

I forced my gaze away, my fangs threatening to extend. “How’s your chest?” I asked, mostly to remind myself of why he was here, in my hotel.

Flynn’s hand went straight to his heart, fingers playing with the material of his oversized green jumper. “It’s… alright now. There was another episode, though, back in the morgue.”

“Was it the same severity?” I shifted to face him properly, ignoring how the movement brought us closer together. “The same length?”

Flynn’s fingers twisted further in his jumper. “I… I don’t know. Maybe? It’s hard to think about all that when it’s happening.”

“You need to start logging these episodes.” I patted my coat for a notepad, but found none. “Time, duration, severity. Text it to me every time, and I’ll write it all down. Every detail matters.”

“Right.” Flynn’s voice trembled. “Because if they get worse, that means…”

“Don’t think about that.” The words came out sharp.

His blue eyes met mine, wide and vulnerable. “But there’s no point—”

“We’re not letting it get that far.” I fisted my hands into balls, lest they reach out to comfort him. “I need you to record everything. Even the smallest twinge. Can you do that for me?”

Flynn nodded, but his face had fallen further into a frown.

Thump thump thump

My eyes fell straight to Flynn’s chest. His heart rate had quickened, along with his breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hand pressed harder against his sternum.

“Is it happening now?”

Another nod, more frantic this time.

“Look at me.” I caught his chin, tilting his face up. “Focus on my voice. You’re safe here.”

His pulse raced beneath my fingers, but his eyes locked onto mine with startling intensity. The fear in them slowly gave way to something else—trust, perhaps. Or hope. The change was subtle but profound, like watching dawn break over dark waters.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” The words were barely a whisper.

“No.” I kept my voice firm, certain. “I won’t let that happen.”

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. His breathing steadied, syncing with my performative exhalations. That look remained in his Delft-blue eyes—complete faith that I could,would, save him.

“Okay,” he whispered.

It hit me like a freight train. The weight of his trust. The responsibility of it. The way he looked at me like I was his salvation.

Saving lives was my job, the very purpose of Killigrew Street—my penance for all the lives I’d taken. So why did this feel different?

Something about his trust cut deeper than duty, past my carefully constructed walls.

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