Page 14

“Not exactly. Though some would argue it’s not far off.

” His captivated interest loosened my tongue more than usual.

“There’s an ongoing debate about their nature.

Some claim they’re soulless beings, caught between two worlds.

Though personally, I find theological arguments about souls rather tiresome. ”

“And last night… you were what, just hanging about, waiting for Damien to attack someone?”

“We’d been tracking his movements for weeks. Yesterday, I was conducting surveillance.”

Flynn let out a sharp laugh. “ Surveillance ? You were doing a terrible job of being subtle about it. Kept glaring daggers at us from across the room. I thought you were Damien’s jealous ex or something.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly helping matters, throwing yourself at a complete stranger with absolutely no sense of self-preservation. You practically handed yourself to him on a plate.”

Flynn’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me? Are you actually victim-blaming me right now?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My words had emerged far more judgmental than intended.

And god knew that I’d certainly indulged in my share of carnal pleasure throughout the centuries.

Perhaps twenty years of self-imposed solitude had made me forget what it was to be young and desperate for connection.

“You’re right.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “That was… unfair of me. Please forgive me. I understand the urge to seek comfort in the wrong places.”

Flynn raised a challenging eyebrow. “Do you?”

The way he looked at me—defiant, curious, perhaps even a touch flirtatious—sent a jolt through my lifeless heart.

Before I could reply, Flynn broke the moment by darting his gaze around the kitchen, landing on the small altar in the corner. “What’s that?”

The shrine sat on a worn wooden table beside the pantry—exactly where Issac used to perch when we gathered here. Fresh oranges nestled among incense and dried flowers. A worn leather jacket hung on a hook above, its sleeve touching a collection of photographs.

The familiar scent of leather and citrus carved a fresh wound through the pain I was trying my best to fossilise.

Beneath it lay the cloying sweetness of incense—a scent that still made my skin crawl after centuries, dragging with it half-formed memories of stone chambers and desperate prayers.

Of confession boxes and judgement halls, where I had served the Spanish Inquisition with misplaced devotion.

But I endured it, here in our kitchen. For Issac.

“That’s for Issac.” His name still caught in my throat, every time I went to say it. My fingers curled into my palm, nails biting skin. “We lost him last year.”

“Oh.” Flynn shifted closer to examine the shrine. “The fruit?”

“He used to juggle them when he was thinking.” My smile wavered, the memory both sweet and sharp. “Drove Kit mad, watching perfectly good fruit being tossed around.”

Priya had built the shrine the day after we lost him. She refreshed the offerings regularly—fresh fruit, burning sage, new photographs. The rest of us contributed too. Even Kit, who claimed he didn’t believe in “spiritual nonsense,” left small tokens.

Flynn’s fingers hovered over a photograph—from that last Christmas, Issac balanced on that very table, his face split in a wild grin as he pelted Rory with paper chains. That laughter echoed in my memories, a ghost of happiness that would never return.

Life at Killigrew Street divided neatly into two chapters: before and after.

Before was all noise and chaos and badly-juggled fruit.

After was hushed voices and empty spaces and the weight of words we couldn’t bring ourselves to say.

Some days the difference had felt like a physical thing, heavy as the hotel’s foundations.

But slowly, carefully, we were learning to write a new chapter—one where Priya’s tea flowed freely again, where Kit’s grumbling had regained its fondness, where Rory’s laughter, though different now, still brightened our halls.

“Just a warning…” I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. “Rory hasn’t quite accepted that he’s gone. Don’t bring Issac up with him when Kit’s in the room. It causes… the kind of conflict that leaves scars.”

I could see the question on Flynn’s lips— so how did Issac die? —and my muscles tensed.

“But anyway, back to lighter topics. Are you enjoying London, at least?”

Flynn’s laugh was as brittle as frost. “You want the truth?” His fingers worried at a loose thread on his sleeve. “People back home always say the same thing about cities, and it’s true. I’ve never been more surrounded by people, and I’ve never felt so bloody alone.”

The words struck a chord deep within me.

Our eyes met across the dim kitchen, and something electric passed between us.

His gaze held such raw honesty—a mirror to my own centuries of isolation.

The weight of endless nights spent watching the world change while I remained frozen in time pressed against my chest.

In that moment, I saw past his youth, past the warmth of his blood calling to me. I saw someone who understood what it meant to be adrift in a sea of strangers.

“I understand that more than you might think.” The truth of countless solitary years.

Flynn’s expression softened. “At least you’ve got this place, though. Everyone here seems so… connected. Almost like a proper family.”

If only he knew how temporary it all was.

How there had been different teams before them.

How this now, as wonderful as it was, would all be over in a heartbeat.

Kit and Rory’s wolf’s blood might grant them a slightly extended lifespan, but eventually everyone would grow old and grey while I remained unchanged .

They were all shooting stars, burning brilliant but brief across my eternal night. And like all the others before them, they would leave me behind, either by choice or by death’s inevitable hand.

Just as Issac had.

Just as everyone always did.

The weight of that knowledge pressed against my chest like a stone.

It was at times like these that I was grateful my memories prior to the last half a century were hazy at best. How many people had I lost over the course of my lifespan? How many names had I carved into my memory, only to watch them fade into history?

“Sebastián?”

It was the first time Flynn had said my name, and the tentative, unsure way he rolled the word across his lips sent a visceral shiver through me. The Spanish lilt he attempted was imperfect, hesitant, yet somehow extremely intimate.

“Are you okay?” The words ghosted between us, gentle as a feather, and he closed the small space separating us.

The predator in me purred at Flynn’s proximity.

His scent wrapped around me like a physical caress.

My fangs pressed harder against my gums, desperate to extend.

His pulse beckoned, calling to me like the tide pulls the moon, and my throat burned with need.

The vein in his neck jumped with each heartbeat, and I tracked the movement like a cat watching a mouse.

The hunger clawed at my insides, demanding satisfaction. If I just leaned forward slightly…

“I’m fine.” The words came out rougher than intended, my voice thick with barely contained need. I gripped the counter edge, hard. “Perfectly fine.”

Flynn stepped even closer, concern etched across his features. Sweet, innocent Flynn, who had no idea he was drawing nearer to a starving beast. The monster inside me stretched, reaching for him with phantom claws. Just one taste, it whispered.

The sound of footsteps made Flynn shuffle back from me, consciously or unconsciously .

Kit poked his head in, glaring at us. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to head home now.”

Ah . I’d forgotten to tell him I’d returned.

“Of course. Go home, Kit. Thank you.”

Flynn looked between us. “I should get some sleep too.”

Once they’d both left, I sagged against the counter. The canvas bag, containing the bags of blood wedged between ice packs, sat waiting by my feet.

I retrieved a glass from the cupboard, hands trembling slightly as I tore open one of the medical bags. The blood was chilled—which always tasted worse—but I couldn’t wait any longer. Not after being so close to Flynn, breathing in his scent, hearing his pulse…

The first swallow hit my system like lightning. My fangs extended fully as I drained the glass, and then another.

One bag already gone.

The desperate hunger dulled. For now.

My hands itched to tear open a second bag, but I restrained myself.

It would have to be enough.