Page 52 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

That explained that beloved heavy coat of his.

“And garlic?”

“A myth.” His mouth curved into something almost like a smile. “Ironically, it’s one of the few herbs I can taste, just about. In large doses.”

“What about holy water? And crosses?” The questions tumbled out before I could stop them, memories of the small St. Christopher medallion my grandfather always wore while sailing flooding back.

Seb flinched—a tiny movement, but I caught it. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Sorry. No, technically, a cross has no effect on a vampire. But I personally can’t stand the sight of them.” He paused, as if weighing his words. “I came of age when Catholicism was more than faith—it was law. The Spanish Inquisition.” His voice had gone quiet, distant. “Some scars last five hundred years.”

“The Spanish Inquisition? Like… the witch hunts, and the mass executions? Were you… tortured?”

Seb’s laugh was harsh, like glass breaking. He set down his mug with enough force that tea sloshed over the rim, spreading across the counter like a dark stain.

“No.” The word came out sharp, brittle. His eyes fixed on some distant point. “Not myself, I—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “It’s not something I discuss. Those memories are… unclear. Like looking through murky water.”

Something in his voice made me wish I could take back the question. There was more there—something dark.

Staring at the tea spilled on the counter, it suddenly occurred to me he hadn’t had a single sip.

I sighed. “You can’t drink tea, can you?”

He chuckled. “Darn. I thought I was going to get away with that. I’ll have a few sips, as you made it for me. But no. As you may have gathered, my dietary requirements are rather more… haemoglobin-based.”

My fingers tightened around my own mug. “How much do you need? Like, per day?”

“Two bags, ideally.” He took a performative sip of tea. “I exist solely on bagged blood, usually from hospitals. It’s more… ethical than the alternatives.” His eyebrow raised meaningfully.

The steam from my tea curled up between us. The memory of him tasting my blood rose sharp and clear—his tongue against his thumb, those eyes blazing with something wild and hungry.

“Though lately, my supply has been… unreliable.” His jaw tightened. “Which has made things rather difficult.”

Was that why he always seemed so tightly wound? Living on the edge of hunger, controlling not just his strength but his very nature? The thought made my own throat feel tight with sympathy.

“And,” I said, heat creeping up my neck. “Does it taste nice?”

His dark eyes fixed on mine, and time stretched between us like the moment before a storm breaks.

“Not quite as nice as feeding directly, no.”

I swallowed hard and took another sip of tea, focusing on the warmth spreading through my chest rather than the weight of Seb’s gaze.

Movement caught my eye. Seb had pushed away from the counter and was walking towards me with measured steps, each footfall deliberate. My muscles locked in place.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. The space between us shrank until mere inches remained. This close, his scent soon washed over me—something floral like jasmine, from his shampoo, but underneath lay something wilder.

His hand reached out. I suddenly forgot how to breathe as his fingers caught the hem of my pyjama top, which had ridden up slightly. With careful precision, he tucked the fabric into my waistband.

My skin blazed where his knuckles had brushed against it. Itriednot to focus on the proximity of his hand to my groin, but my cock took no notice of me, and heat rushed south.

“Why did you do that?” I said, embarrassingly hoarse.

“That strip of skin was tormenting me.”

Blood rushed in my ears, my pulse a wild drum against my ribs. The kitchen felt too small, too warm, the air between us charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

“Why?”

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