Page 73 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Why are you using that voice?” I said.

“What voice?”

“That come-hither-and-fuck-me voice.”

Flynn broke into a shocked coughing fit. The sound yanked me from my blood-drunk haze, though not enough to stop the eighth sip from passing my lips.

“Look, if that’s what you’re hearing, that’s on you,” he said.

The final drops beckoned. I tipped the glass back, letting the sacred liquid pool on my tongue. Flynn’s essence filled my mouth—bright and alive and truly the most delicious thing I ever remembered tasting.

I swallowed, once.

It was over. My last ever taste of him.

I mourned its loss as a visceral thing, like watching the last ember of a fire fade to ash. The last hint of him lingered on my tongue. His warmth coursed through my limbs—leaving me feeling strangely strong, considering the tiny amount. Even my fingertips tingled with vitality, as if I could feel every grain in the crystal glass beneath them.

“Show me where Priya cut you. I want to see a photo.”

I needed to ensure they hadn’t mutilated him. Priya and I clearly had very different definitions of acceptable risk.

“Give me a sec.”

The line went quiet. I turned the empty glass in my hands. The remnants of his blood clung to the sides, taunting me.

My phone buzzed.

I swiped—and there he was. Not his arm, but Flynn himself, sprawled across his bed in those ridiculous red-chequered pyjamas. His eyes crinkled with pure joy as he stuck his tongue out at the camera, playful and perfect.

My dead heart tried to beat again.

I almost couldn’t believe my luck. I’d looked at the other picture he’d sent me—him stuffing a croissant into his mouth—countless times, and now I had another one to join it.

“That’s not what I asked for.” I tried to sound stern.

“I know. But you seemed stressed. Thought you could use cheering up.”

I stared at the photo again. The warmth in his expression, the way his hair fell across his forehead, slightly messy. The casual intimacy of seeing him in his nightwear. I reached for the metal cask, pouring a measure of blood into the glass. I took a sip. Flat, lifeless—nothing like the symphony of flavours that had danced across my tongue moments ago. Like tap water compared to wine.

I tried not to think about where this blood might have come from, and with how much consent.

“You still there?” Flynn asked.

“Yes.” I drained the glass. “Thank you. For both the blood and the photo.”

Warning bells erupted in my mind, but I ignored them.

“You know,” he said, dropping his voice to a level that bordered on husky, “I was just thinking about photos. It got me wondering about where sexting comes into your vow of celibacy.”

“Sexting?”

The photo glowed up at me from my phone screen. Felix had set my lock screen to Monet’s water lilies. Would I even be able to work out how to replace it with Flynn’s face?

“You know, like sexy messages.” He was back to sounding like his usual, slightly awkward self, and my lips tugged into a smile.

“Flynn—”

“This is your fault. You’ve made me all hot and bothered by accusing me of using acome-hithervoice.”

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