Page 89 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

The silence pressed against my ears like cotton wool. Even the usual creaks and groans of the old building had ceased. The world felt frozen, holding its breath.

CRASH!

The bakery windows exploded inward. A symphony of shattering glass filled the air as shards rained down, glittering like deadly diamonds in the moonlight. The display case splintered, sending fragments skittering across the floor tiles. The force of it sent the little tables near the windows toppling, their metal legs scraping against the floor.

I tried to scramble away from the destruction, but my frozen muscles refused to cooperate. All I could do was cling to Seb, fingers digging into his coat. “What’s happen—”

The world plunged into darkness.

Not like someone had flipped a switch—more like the light itself had been devoured, leaving nothing but a void so complete my eyes couldn’t adjust.

“Seb?” My voice came out small, frightened.

A rush of movement. Strong hands seized my ankles andpulled.

I slid across the floor, ripped away from Seb. The tiles scraped against my back as whatever had me dragged me through the darkness. Pain blazed through my frozen muscles.

“Flynn!” Seb’s voice cut through the darkness, desperate and raw. “Let him go—”

More sounds—crashes, thuds, the distinctive crack of breaking wood. Seb shouting words I couldn’t make out, his voice growing more distant.

Something hard struck the back of my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and a scream tore itself from my throat—only to be cut off by a cold hand clamping over my mouth. The pressure against my face was crushing, making it impossible to breathe.

The blackness pressed in, absolute and suffocating. My lungs burned for air. Through the crushing dark, Sebastián’s anguished cry of my name pierced the void, then faded into oblivion.

17

Sebastián

Iknelt in the wreckage of Rising Dough, blood dripping from my forearm onto shattered tiles. Glass crunched beneath my knees. The stench of decay still clung to my nostrils—rotting flesh animated by dark magic.Deadwalkers. Four of them. The last one’s head lay three feet from its body, mouth frozen in a rictus grin.

Flynn was gone.

Taken. Taken from me.

Mine.They’d taken what was mine.

The gash in my arm refused to heal at its usual pace, carved by no ordinary blade. My skull throbbed where they’d smashed it against the floor. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. Hunger gnawed at my gut, a savage beast demanding to be fed.

None of it mattered.

Flynn’s scent still lingered in the air—him,blended with fear and pain. The echo of his scream as they dragged him away tore through my chest like barbed wire.

I hadn’t been strong enough. Fast enough. The deadwalkers had delayed me, keeping me occupied by having to slaughter them while their companions spirited Flynn away through the darkness they’d conjured.

Five hundred years of existence, and I’d never felt rage like this. It burned through my veins like holy fire, consuming everything but the need to hunt. To destroy. To reclaim.

Whoever did this would soon feel the full wrath of my fury. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the way the world tilted. Blood and pain were temporary inconveniences. Nothing would stop me from getting Flynn back.

Even if it killed me.

18

Flynn

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, like a tide lazily lapping at the shore. First came the darkness, then disjointed sensations washing over me in waves: the metallic taste in my mouth, the throbbing at the base of my skull, the nauseating sway of movement.

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