Page 28

Sebastián

T he silver crucifix lay heavy in my palm, its familiar weight a burden that transcended mere metal.

Dark stains marred its surface—blood that had refused to fade.

I traced the ornate edges with trembling fingers, fighting the wave of emotions that always accompanied this compulsive ritual: guilt, grief, an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

Even now, centuries later, the blood seemed to mock me. A permanent reminder of choices I could never undo.

I kept this crucifix wrapped in silk, locked away in the chest that held my most guarded possessions. It was one of only a few items I had from my human life. Though the sight of it filled me with poisonous darkness, something compelled me to keep it.

The crucifix had been a special gift from him. Padre Rodrigo. The priest who’d turned me into a monster. Even thinking his name made bile rise in my throat.

It was cruelly unfair. My human memories were a fog of half-formed shadows.

Even Magdalena, my sister, only came to me in fragments, like a painting left out in the rain.

But him? Padre Rodrigo remained crystal clear: those dark, hungry eyes that followed my every movement during confession.

The way his black cassock would brush against stone floors as he drew too close, the stark white of his collar.

His voice, honey-sweet and venomous, as he whispered promises of salvation into my ear.

Some memories, it seemed, refused to fade, no matter how desperately I wished they would .

I rewrapped the crucifix with sharp, angry movements, forcing it back into its silk prison. The chest clicked shut with quiet finality.

My gaze drifted to the rotary phone on my desk. I’d come up here to make a call before finding myself distracted by the cursed object.

Sitting in my chair, my fingers touched the cold brass rim.

I forced my thoughts to shift to a much more recent memory: Flynn, and the events of last night.

His vulnerability, his tears, the way he’d opened up.

How marvellously warm he’d been when he’d wrapped himself around me, pressing his head to my chest.

The cinnamon bun I’d purchased from his bakery now rested beside my ink pot, taunting me with its intoxicating smell.

My fingers stopped their idle wandering and gripped the handset with newfound purpose.

Our next call wasn’t due for days, but I was going to call White, regardless.

In the twenty years I’d known her—since that night she rescued me from my darkness, offering me purpose beyond the blood-soaked mess I’d been after James—I’d met her face-to-face only a handful of times.

Our calls were always brief, impersonal affairs, with strict agendas and rigid protocols.

The dial tone hummed as I picked up the receiver. Each number clicked and whirred as I turned the dial, muscle memory taking over. One, then another, until the full sequence was complete.

Ring.

Ring.

“This better be important, Black.” White’s crisp voice cut through the line on the third ring. “You’re disrupting my breakfast.”

“Good morning to you too.” I leant back in my chair, the leather creaking. “I do enjoy your pleasantries.”

“If you wanted pleasant conversation, you’d have waited for our scheduled call.” A pause. “What’s happened?”

The edge of genuine concern in White’s voice transported me back to that night she found me—feral, drenched in the blood I’d spilled.

Standing on London Bridge, on the wrong side of the railing.

This I remembered with crystal clarity—staring down at the dark river, thinking how cruelly sardonic it was that vampires couldn’t drown.

That even the Thames denied me the peace I sought.

“Eliza.” The name tasted like ash on my tongue. “Fledgling vampire under Marcus Vale. Lived with five others in that house in Brixton. She attacked us last night. By a small marina. Nobody saw—one small mercy.”

“Eliza Rosewood?” White’s tone sharpened. “What was she doing there?”

“Watching us. Watching me.” I trailed my fingers over a knot on my desk, smooth from years of worrying my thumb into it. “Then she went for Flynn Carter. I had to—” The image of her body crumpling flashed behind my eyes. “I eliminated the threat.”

“You killed her.”

“Yes.”

The static hum of the line stretched between us.

“That’s concerning, Black. This will only anger the Vale clan further, a second death to their number by your hand.”

“I’m aware.” I gritted my teeth.

“And the fact she was stalking you…”

“I know.” My jaw clenched. “She appeared from nowhere. Could have been following us for who knows how long. And if she was watching—”

“Others might be too.” White finished my thought. “How’s the boy holding up?”

The boy.

“Flynn is…” I stared at the cinnamon bun, remembering how he’d helped clean that yacht after, his hands steady despite everything. “He’s stronger than you might think. Handled it better than most would.”

“You sound impressed.”

“He’s resilient.” The words came out soft as silk. “After everything—the cambion assaulting him, being marked, Eliza’s attack, learning about our world—he’s still standing. Still trying to help , however he can.”

“Interesting.” White’s tone shifted, almost amused. “You usually describe things with rather more… clinical detachment.”

My fingers stilled on the desk. “It’s my job to keep him alive.”

“Did I suggest otherwise?”

There was an awkward pause.

The cinnamon bun caught my eye again.

Flynn had volunteered to accompany Rory to Fat Cat’s thirty minutes ago, taking the long route through the tunnel for their coffee run. It was immensely difficult for me to allow it—to allow him out of my sight, my protection.

As if summoned by my anxiety, my phone vibrated, and a photo of Flynn filled the screen.

I’d asked him to message me when they arrived, not take a picture of him stuffing an entire croissant into his mouth, but I’d happily take it.

Flynn

Rory says I shouldn’t waste perfectly good pastries on silly photos but he’s just jealous of my model potential LOL

Then, a second later:

(laugh out loud, not lots of love) xxx

I stared at the messages, hypnotised by the Xs. Before I could reply, another message came.

just in case you thought I meant lots of love LOL

btw the xxx was a typo, soz, I’m not flirting!!!

I felt my forehead tug into the frown that surfaced anytime my teammates tormented me with their silly acronyms.

Thank you for clarifying, Flynn .

I hit send before I could add any Xs.

“Black? Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’ll have more information by our next call. I just wanted to keep you in the loop, should this develop into anything further.”

“Good luck. Continue to show no leniency. If any of Vale’s clan fail to demonstrate self-control after fair warnings, we will eliminate 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 and human in 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 genuine desire 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 darkness x

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

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.

I grabbed my coat from the rack, shrugging it on as I strode towards the door. The brass buttons caught the light as I reached for the handle. Time to be the leader they needed, not the lovesick fool I was becoming.

Kit would be in the weapons room, methodically cleaning each piece of equipment.

First, though, I dialled Felix’s number.

“Magpie? I need a new phone screen.”