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“It had better be.” I unfolded a canvas bag from my pocket. “Ten bags, Greaves. Not nine, not eight, and certainly not five.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Though if we’re talking about raising quantities, perhaps we could discuss adjusting the price—”

“The price stays exactly where it is.” I let my lip curl, just enough to flash my slightly extended canines.

“Fine, fine. Five hundred is… Five hundred is perfect.”

“Wonderful.” I opened the car door. “Same time next week. Ten bags. At least. ”

The night air hit my face as I stepped out, carrying the precious cargo. Five bags. I only had one left at Killigrew Street. That meant six bags—less than a bag each day this week .

It was going to be tough, especially with this cursed hunger riding me so hard lately.

I couldn’t deny it—this endless rationing was slowly destroying me.

The memory of Flynn reaching for me earlier, the column of his neck so easily accessible, flashed through my mind, and my fangs ached.

Blood had pulsed so temptingly in his neck, his heart rate spiking with every breath. My heightened senses picked up the rush of it beneath his delicate skin, that steady thrum calling to the predator within me.

The scent of him lingered in my nose, even now. Clean sweat, traces of cinnamon sugar from the bakery, and beneath it all, that intoxicating hint of fear . God help me, but the monster inside me had tuned into it like a shark scenting blood in the water.

I’d spent centuries learning to control these urges, to master the beast that dwelled beneath my skin. But the vile creature that I was, I couldn’t help imaginingsinking my fangs deep into that tender flesh, drinking down his essence until—

No. No.

But the thought had already taken root. Of course, that led me to imagine what Flynn’s moans might sound like, as the euphoric pleasure hit him. That blissful high that came with a vampire’s bite, the way victims melted into it, surrendering completely…

My fangs pressed hungrily against my gums. The canvas bag of blood felt impossibly heavy in my hands.

God help me.

I could not allow myself to fantasise about drinking from anyone, let alone gorgeously innocent blond men with warm smiles.

If the few times—those dire emergencies—where I’d drunk from Kit had taught me anything, it was that centuries of being a vampire still hadn’t granted me the iron control I pretended to possess.

The bloodlust owned me, no matter how I tried to cage it.

Each time, the hunger had nearly consumed me, and I always took too much .

The last time—the very last time, I’d vowed—Priya and Rory had to use their combined strength to wrench me off Kit, who took one wobbly step away from me before fainting.

The memory of fresh blood—rich, intoxicating, alive —made my tongue tingle in anticipation.

No. Flynn would never know that side of me. I refused to let him see the monster that lurked beneath this carefully constructed facade of control and civility.

He was a guest in my hotel, under my protection.

Six blood bags. I’d make them last.

I made my way back through the tunnel network in record time.

Voices from the kitchen drifted down across the ground floor as I climbed the basement stairs—Felix’s hesitant tones mixed with…

Flynn’s? At this hour? My hearing picked up their conversation with perfect clarity.

“And then the whole system crashed.” Felix’s voice carried none of its usual nervous energy. “But I’d already copied the data, so…”

Flynn’s laugh, sweet as honey, rang through the air. “Oh my god, that’s brilliant. Did they ever find out?”

“N-no. But I felt so bad, I sent them an anonymous email explaining the security flaw.”

“Of course you did.” Another laugh.

I paused outside the kitchen door, frowning. I’d never heard Felix speak so freely. The boy barely managed two sentences in team meetings, yet here he was, chatting away like they were old friends.

“Want another tea?” Flynn asked. “I found some proper loose leaf stuff in this cupboard.”

More tea? Shouldn’t they want to sleep?

“Yes, please. Though technically that’s Kit’s private stash…”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Another easy laugh rolled forth. Something tight coiled in my chest. What sort of magic had Flynn worked to draw Felix out of his shell so effortlessly? The rest of us had tried for months without success.

“So, how long have you worked here?” Flynn asked.

“About a year. After I hacked their—”

I didn’t quite realise I’d barged in until both of them jumped at my sudden appearance. Felix’s mug clattered against one of the vast stainless steel workbenches, while Flynn nearly dropped the kettle.

“I thought I told you to go home, Felix.” The harsh words escaped before I had time to censor them. “I mean, you should be at home resting, Felix.”

Felix hastily dumped his mug in the sink. “S-sorry, I’m going.” He practically fled past me.

Flynn’s shoulders hunched inward, his earlier warmth vanishing as he busied himself with the kettle. The sight of him shrinking away from me felt like a knife to the gut.

“I didn’t mean to…” I cleared my throat. What was even my excuse for being here? “I was actually looking to see if any of that sourdough made it to the kitchen.”

Flynn’s hands stilled. “Oh. No, it’s all gone. Never seen people eat bread so fast.” His lips twitched. “Or violently.”

“Ah.” I shifted my weight, hyper-aware of how I must appear to him—lurking in doorways, frightening everyone. “Well, perhaps you could bake some more for us?”

What? I cringed at myself. I needed to leave before I suggested indentured servitude.

Flynn’s laugh filled the kitchen, but this time it held a nervous edge. “God no, I can’t bake to save my life. I just work the till.” He fiddled with his mug. “Been there two weeks now. Took me an entire week to find work in London, actually.”

I shifted further into the hotel’s kitchen, past the wall lined with industrial ovens to lean against the dumbwaiter system, now sealed shut.

“What did you do before?” Really, I shouldn’t have encouraged conversation, not when the hunger gnawed at me like this. But since our first encounter at Wilde Card, my curiosity about him had only intensified with each passing moment, each laugh, each fidget of those restless hands.

“Back home, I spent ten years working for my grandfather’s boating company.” Flynn’s expression clouded. “Well, dead grandfather’s boating company. Think it’s in Mum’s name now…”

The words trailed off, weighted with unspoken pain. I recognised that look—the careful way people stepped around sharp memories, like avoiding broken glass.

Flynn moved suddenly, reaching past me for the sugar pot on the counter behind. His shoulder brushed against my chest, and the scent of him hit me like a tidal wave. Cinnamon and warmth and life , coursing just beneath that delicate skin.

I should have drunk one of those blood bags on the way back. My fangs pressed against my gums, desperate to extend. The predator in me fixated on his pulse point, so tantalizingly close.

No.

I gripped the edge of the counter, willing myself to stay perfectly still as Flynn retrieved the sugar and stepped away.

A draft whistled through the spacious kitchen—our old building had terrible insulation. Flynn visibly shivered. Unsurprising as his pyjamas appeared paper thin.

“You’re cold.”

He blinked at me in surprise. “I’ll be okay. I didn’t pack many jumpers when I left Ireland.”

“What about that one you were wearing yesterday?”

The memory of him in that crocheted garment was one I wouldn’t forget in a hurry—the holes had revealed tantalising glimpses of delectable skin, like some kind of torturous connect-the-dots puzzle.

That damned jumper. Professional duty had dictated I concentrate on the supernatural threat at hand, yet I’d been thoroughly compromised by that strategic arrangement of holes and skin.

“Though I have to say,” I continued. “It was more decoration than defence against the cold. ”

He grimaced, two pleasant pink dots appearing on his cheeks. “Damien ripped it. To shreds.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” And it was, though perhaps not for the purely practical reasons I should have been concerned with.

“Is it?” Confusion swam in his eyes. Or was it… a challenge? His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and I found myself tracking the movement with minute precision.

“So you’ve just moved here?” I redirected.

He stirred his tea, the spoon clinking against china. “To this hotel? Yeah, pretty sweet rates.” His mouth quirked. “Thought I’d save on rent.”

His humour caught me off guard, and dormant muscles in my face formed what might have been a grin. “Where did you say you lived?”

“Braymore Bay.” Flynn’s shoulders tensed.

“Little tourist trap on the Irish coast. One of those places that’s packed in summer, dead in winter.

Lots of fancy holiday homes owned by rich Dublin folk who show up twice a year.

We moved there from England after my dad died when I was fifteen.

That’s when I started at the boating company—fishing trips, seal watching tours, that sort of thing. ” His fingers tightened around the mug.

“And what brought you to London?”

The question hung in the air. Flynn stared into his tea as if it held answers, the steam rising between us like a barrier.

“It must be very different here,” I said, to fill the silence.

“Yeah.” He scrunched up his nose in the most adorable way. “So, you were at Wilde Card last night watching Damien? Did you know he was…?”

“A cambion?” I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “The product of a demon coupling with a human.”

Flynn’s eyes widened. “That’s… possible?”

“More common than you’d think.” I watched his reaction carefully. “Many end up in service to more powerful entities—demons, various… ot her creatures. Their mixed blood makes them particularly… susceptible to influences.”

“Service?” Flynn frowned, leaning forward. “You mean like slavery?”