Page 59 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Good luck. Continue to show no leniency. If any of Vale’s clan fail to demonstrate self-control after fair warnings, wewilleliminate them.”

“Goodbye, White.” I placed the handset back into its cradle with perhaps more force than necessary.

The cinnamon bun beckoned. I lifted it, inhaling deeply. Most food tasted like cardboard, but sometimes, if I concentrated hard enough, fragments of flavour broke through.

I ran my tongue along the sticky glaze. A ghost of sweetness, barely there but present enough to remind me of what I’d lost. The cinnamon came through stronger—spice always did. It lingered on my tongue, a whisper of warmth.

Acting of its own accord, my hand unlocked my phone, and swiped back to Flynn’s ridiculous photo. His eyes crinkled at the corners, cheeks puffed out like a hamster’s. Something twisted in my chest—an echo of an organ that hadn’t beaten in centuries.

There were crumbs all over Flynn’s face, and my thumb traced the screen, remembering how he’d let me wipe blood from his chin last night. How he hadn’t flinched away. How then he’d drawn my hand back to his graze, pushing my thumb against the wound.

The memory of his pulse under my touch, the way his breath had hitched—

I locked the phone.

This was dangerous territory. These thoughts led nowhere good.

But my gaze drifted back to the damned device anyway, to that stupid, wonderful photo of him being absolutely ridiculous in a coffee shop, living and breathing andhumanin all the ways I wasn’t.

There was no denying the attraction anymore—not when my thoughts constantly drifted to him, not when every message made my dead heart feel like it might stutter back to life. The first spark of genuinedesire I’d felt in twenty years, since James. Yet Flynn was nothing like James had been. Where James was measured and methodical, already settled into his thirties when we’d met, Flynn burned bright with chaotic youth. James had carried himself with the gravitas of an Oxford professor, all tweed jackets and careful words. Flynn wore his heart on his sleeve, spilling crumbs and sending texts with multiple exclamation marks.

What I’d shared with James had been intense, all-consuming—when it ended, my world had shattered so completely that I’d found myself on that bridge, ready for it all to be over. And now here I was, years of careful control later, finding myself lost in sea-blue eyes. Flynn, with his magnetic warmth and that maddening, beautiful ability to make me want to protect him, to shelter him, to lo—

No.I couldn’t allow myself to complete that thought. I’d sworn after James that I would never again let myself care for a human.

Their lifespans were cruel enough without having to watch them wither day by day, forced to witness every precious moment slip away like sand through an hourglass while I remained forever unchanged.

Besides, Flynn deserved more than a half-life with someone whose hands were stained with regret. Deserved better than to be bound to a monster who lived in the shadows. He was too full of light.

Though I’d dimmed that light, last night, when I’d crossed the kitchen and made to grab his neck. When I’d detailed how the beast in me would love to rip him apart. I should’ve been glad to hear his heart rate skyrocket with terror. But I hadn’t been. I’d been devastated.

My phone buzzed with another message from Flynn, and I hit the open button lightning fast.

Thanks for last night, btw. I don’t think I actually thanked you. For saving me at the marina and then everything in the kitchen. For letting me cry all over you, but also for showing me your true self. Even the scary bits. Makes me feel less alone with my own darknessx

He’d…thanked me. Thanked me for terrorising him, for showing him exactly what kind of creature lurked beneath this carefully maintained façade. The wave of emotion that crashed through me was too much—too raw, too honest, tooeverything.

I hurled my phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, before clattering to the floorboards.

“Bloody hell.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to inhale air.

What was I, a child having a tantrum?

I stalked over to retrieve the phone. The screen had shattered, but the device still functioned—likely a testament to Felix’s insistence on military-grade cases.

I’d faced down armies. Survived plagues, countless wars, and the Spanish Inquisition itself. I would not be undone by a few sweet messages from a man who enjoyed taking photos of himself with pastry crumbs all over his face.

This weakness had to end. Now.

The situation with Marcus Vale’s clan needed addressing. Their numbers grew weekly and two deaths would indeed spark retaliation—they’d want blood.

I didn’t have time for distraction, not with our equally pressing issue of frostbitten bodies cropping up all around London.

Of Flynn marked for icy death.

No!

My fingers curled into fists. I needed to focus. I needed Kit. He would calm me down. He always did, simply with his military precision and tactical mind.

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