Page 86 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

Christ, I was babbling like an idiot. But something about the way he was looking at me, like each fumbling word was somehow precious, made it impossible to stop. “Makes everything before seem a bit… I don’t know, grey? Like seeing in colour for the first time.”

His low chuckle settled somewhere under my skin. “Yes, I suppose it would.” Something flickered across his face. He adjusted one of his brass coat buttons, a habit I’d noticed he had when he was lost in thought. “Though sometimes a little monotony can be a blessing. Especially in our line of work.”

“Do you ever miss it? The normal world, I mean?”

Seb’s expression tightened. There it was—that familiar wall coming down, blocking out whatever glimpse of vulnerability he’d allowed me to see. “The normal world is a luxury I haven’t had in five hundred years. And memory…” He paused, eyes distant. “Memory can be treacherous.”

A curl had fallen across my forehead, and Seb’s hand moved to tuck it behind my ear. His cool touch sparked memories of last night—my hands in his curls, our bodies pressed together in darkness.

I wanted to lean into him. My body remembered how natural it felt in his embrace. But we weren’t alone, and whateverthiswas might not be something he wanted others to know about. Though they probably weren’t blind.

I stayed still, skin tingling where he’d touched me. His hand lingered a moment too long, and I caught something in his eyes—hunger? Longing? Before I could be sure, he’d stepped back.

Without thinking, I reached out and caught his wrist. “Don’t pull away from me,” I whispered, startling myself with my own boldness.

A small crease formed between Seb’s eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

My heart thundered out a warning I chose to ignore. Because I wanted to tell him how exhausting it was, this constant dance of coming close then retreating, how every time he pulled away it caused tangible pain. I started to form the words—

“Right, break’s over.” Maxwell’s crisp voice cut through the moment.

Seb straightened, shoulders squaring as he shifted seamlessly into leadership mode. “Of course.” His wrist slipped from my grasp. “Everyone back to their seats.”

I tried to catch Seb’s eye, wanting him to understand this conversation wasn’t finished. When he finally glanced my way, I held his gaze, trying to convey without words that we needed to talk about this—aboutus—properly.

Back home, my grandad used to say I was like a tide against a cliff face—wearing away at any obstacle through sheer bloody-minded persistence. Katie had called it my most infuriating trait. Tom had called it almost endearing, once.

But they’d all agreed on one thing: when Flynn Carter set his course, not even a storm could throw him off it.

And right now? My compass pointed straight at Sebastián Salazar.

16

Flynn

The morning rush at Rising Dough filled the bakery with fresh bread and coffee scents. After days of supernatural chaos, the normalcy of arranging the display case was a relief.

Emma cursed at the sink’s spray nozzle.

“This bloody thing’s been attacking me all morning,” she grumbled, holding up her soaked apron. “Your turn to deal with it.”

I took over the washing up, but the spray behaved perfectly—almost seemed to curve away from my hands. Emma stopped mid-pastry-fold to stare.

“How are you—? It was literally trying to drown me a minute ago.”

I shrugged. “Must be your technique.”

She muttered something unflattering and turned back to the pastries. I lost myself watching the water flow, oddly mesmerised by its movement until Emma’s voice snapped me back.

“Oi.” She poked me. “You’ve got that faraway look again.” She dabbed flour on my nose. “The cinnamon buns need checking.”

At a corner table, one of Maxwell’s officers sat reading, watching me discreetly. The arrangement had taken some arguing—Seb hadn’t wanted me working at all, but I’d refused to hide in that dusty hotel.

“They wouldn’t attack in broad daylight,” I’d insisted. He’d agreed reluctantly, his clenched jaw speaking volumes.

I felt guilty about the extra security, knowing the team had Damien to hunt for, and Greaves’s murder to investigate. At least Maxwell’s solution had worked out—his officer looked like any other suited professional enjoying coffee.

As sunset approached, Seb arrived in his signature black coat. The officer left without acknowledging him, just smiled at Emma and me before departing.

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