Page 57 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

The steel in his tone brooked no argument, but I caught the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as I slipped out the door.

Climbing the stairs to my room, I touched my fingers to my chest. How could someone without a heartbeat make mine race quite so fast?

11

Sebastián

The silver crucifix lay heavy in my palm, its familiar weight a burden that transcended mere metal. Dark stains marred its surface—blood that had refused to fade. I traced the ornate edges with trembling fingers, fighting the wave of emotions that always accompanied this compulsive ritual: guilt, grief, an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

Even now, centuries later, the blood seemed to mock me. A permanent reminder of choices I could never undo.

I kept this crucifix wrapped in silk, locked away in the chest that held my most guarded possessions. It was one of only a few items I had from my human life. Though the sight of it filled me with poisonous darkness, something compelled me to keep it.

The crucifix had been a special gift fromhim.Padre Rodrigo. The priest who’d turned me into a monster. Even thinking his name made bile rise in my throat.

It was cruelly unfair. My human memories were a fog of half-formed shadows. Even Magdalena, my sister, only came to me in fragments, like a painting left out in the rain. But him? Padre Rodrigo remained crystal clear: those dark, hungry eyes that followed my every movement during confession. The way his black cassock would brush against stone floors as he drew too close, the stark white of his collar. His voice, honey-sweet and venomous, as he whispered promises of salvation into my ear.

Some memories, it seemed, refused to fade, no matter how desperately I wished they would.

I rewrapped the crucifix with sharp, angry movements, forcing it back into its silk prison. The chest clicked shut with quiet finality.

My gaze drifted to the rotary phone on my desk. I’d come up here to make a call before finding myself distracted by the cursed object.

Sitting in my chair, my fingers touched the cold brass rim. I forced my thoughts to shift to a much more recent memory: Flynn, and the events of last night. His vulnerability, his tears, the way he’d opened up. How marvellously warm he’d been when he’d wrapped himself around me, pressing his head to my chest.

The cinnamon bun I’d purchased from his bakery now rested beside my ink pot, taunting me with its intoxicating smell.

My fingers stopped their idle wandering and gripped the handset with newfound purpose.

Our next call wasn’t due for days, but I was going to call White, regardless.

In the twenty years I’d known her—since that night she rescued me from my darkness, offering me purpose beyond the blood-soaked mess I’d been after James—I’d met her face-to-face only a handful of times.

Our calls were always brief, impersonal affairs, with strict agendas and rigid protocols.

The dial tone hummed as I picked up the receiver. Each number clicked and whirred as I turned the dial, muscle memory taking over. One, then another, until the full sequence was complete.

Ring.

Ring.

“This better be important, Black.” White’s crisp voice cut through the line on the third ring. “You’re disrupting my breakfast.”

“Good morning to you too.” I leant back in my chair, the leather creaking. “I do enjoy your pleasantries.”

“If you wanted pleasant conversation, you’d have waited for our scheduled call.” A pause. “What’s happened?”

The edge of genuine concern in White’s voice transported me back to that night she found me—feral, drenched in the blood I’d spilled.Standing on London Bridge, on the wrong side of the railing. This I remembered with crystal clarity—staring down at the dark river, thinking how cruelly sardonic it was that vampires couldn’t drown. That even the Thames denied me the peace I sought.

“Eliza.” The name tasted like ash on my tongue. “Fledgling vampire under Marcus Vale. Lived with five others in that house in Brixton. She attacked us last night. By a small marina. Nobody saw—one small mercy.”

“Eliza Rosewood?” White’s tone sharpened. “What was she doing there?”

“Watching us. Watching me.” I trailed my fingers over a knot on my desk, smooth from years of worrying my thumb into it. “Then she went for Flynn Carter. I had to—” The image of her body crumpling flashed behind my eyes. “I eliminated the threat.”

“You killed her.”

“Yes.”

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