Page 8 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

Right. Because anxiety explained how that bastard had climbed a vertical wall like Spider-Man.

“Fine.” I stood up, gathering what remained of my dignity. “Thanks for your help.”

The doctor held something out. “Here’s a leaflet on counselling if you’d—”

I snatched the paper and stuffed it in my pocket, already heading for the door. The fluorescent lights of A&E made my head throb, then outside, the pre-dawn air was a slap in the face. I checked my phone: 03:47. Public transport wasn’t running, and a taxi was way over budget.

Fucking brilliant.

I pulled up maps and started the long walk home, hugging Emma’s tiny jacket to my chest in a futile attempt to combat the chill. Thank god she’d finally agreed to leave—at least she hadn’t been there to see the doctor laugh at me.

Each step brought fresh waves of mortification.

I’d brought this all upon myself by foolishly believing that Damien was interested in sleeping with me.

You fucking idiot. Your first night out in London and you broke every single basic safety rule. Don’t accept drinks within five minutes of meeting someone. Don’t follow them down dark alleys.

Don’t let yourself become a human ice lolly was a new one, but apparently it needed adding to the list.

I’d wondered earlier why Damien had selectedmeout of everyone in that crowded bar.

The answer was now glaringly obvious—easy fucking prey.

Not for the first time, homesickness washed over me. If I’d stayed in Ireland, I’d be safely tucked away in my cosy little room at Barbara’s house right now—my dear, sweet old landlady.

The empty streets echoed with my footsteps. Each shadow stretched longer, darker, more menacing than the last. The ice in my chest pulsed with renewed vigour.

Time stretched like treacle as I walked, my thoughts cycling between self-recrimination and panic. Three miles had never felt so far. The occasional rumble of a night bus or distant siren only emphasised how alone I was.

My pace quickened. The familiar outline of my tower block loomed ahead, its brutalist concrete edges stark against the sky.

Nearly home. Nearly safe.

Something scraped against the pavement behind me.

Don’t look back. Don’t run. Act normal.

The hair on my neck prickled. Footsteps suddenly perfectly matched my rhythm.

I sped up. They sped up.

Shit shit shit.My throat tightened at the thought of Damien’s cold hands on me again.

My mother’s voice rang in my head…Keys between your fingers, love. Like brass knuckles.She’d taught us both that trick years ago in our kitchen, Katie and I laughing until Mum made us practise properly. Katie’s face had turned deadly serious as she punched the air, and I’d never forgotten the look in her eyes—the same protective glare she’d given any boy who’d ever bothered me at school.

I fumbled in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal. The weight felt reassuring, familiar.

Twenty metres to the door. Fifteen. Ten.

The footsteps grew closer.

My hand shook as I reached for the security panel. Just one more step into the fluorescent light of the entrance—

A vice-like grip clamped around my arm, yanking me backwards. I spun, keys raised, ready to slash—

Another hand seized my wrist, stopping my attack mid-swing. The grip was iron, immovable.

A gasp of surprise left my lips as I found myself staring into dark eyes framed by tight chestnut curls.

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