Page 6

Sebastián

Terrier - Followed up on the Finchley Road case. Three victims found drained. Confirmed rogue vampire. Forensics matched dental records to previous attacks in Manchester. Suspected new recruit of Marcus Vale’s expanding clan.

Poodle - Infiltrated meeting between West and South London wolf packs in Greenwich. Growing unrest about territory boundaries.

Noctule - Intercepted attack at Wilde Card. Target: human male, mid-twenties. Target suspected to have been—

The scratch of my fountain pen halted at footsteps down the corridor. I sighed and set it down on my mahogany desk. It had travelled with me through five countries before finding its home at Killigrew Street Hotel. One of life’s few constants.

A loud series of sharp knocks—Kit’s, for certain—dragged me to my feet.

“Seb.” Kit’s broad frame filled the doorway, his expression as rigid as his posture. Even after all these years, his military bearing hadn’t left him. Sometimes that stance of his triggered hazy impressions of other soldiers in other lives. “We’ve located the target.”

I gestured for him to enter, closing the door behind him.

“He left his building?”

“Affirmative. At seven this morning. Travelled half an hour north to some bakery. Surveillance confirmed he entered through the back entrance. Staff access.” Kit pulled a crisp printout from a manila folder.

Flynn Carter, twenty-five years old, a list of addresses spanning his life: born in England, moved to Braymore Bay, Ireland at fifteen, registered as a resident of London just a few weeks ago.

“This is him,” I murmured, touching the ID image.

He was younger in the photo, and though his dark blond hair was similarly dishevelled, this Flynn had no dark smudges under his eyes.

He gazed fiercely into the camera, a slight tilt of his lips indicating he was trying not to smile.

I’d seen that smile last night—not aimed at me, of course, but at that foul demon, minutes before the attack.

Flynn had smiled at the monster with such warmth and trust, without any inkling he was dancing with death.

It had infuriated me, his lack of basic self-preservation.

“Seb?”

My head shot up. “What?”

“You were staring at the picture funny.”

“I certainly wasn’t,” I snapped back. “Do we still have eyes on his apartment?”

“Priya’s still watching.” Kit shifted, his wolf’s restlessness showing through as he paced. “Permission to speak freely?”

“When have you ever needed permission, Kit?” The man had a habit of speaking his mind with or without my consent, just like his brother, Rory.

“He’s spooked. After what you said happened last night…” Kit’s jaw tightened. “The lad’s barely holding it together. Jumped at his own shadow the whole way to work.”

I studied the picture again, the weight in my chest growing heavier. “Time to go spook him some more.”

“We could send Felix. He’s far less intimidating than you or me.”

I barked a laugh. “Felix would probably just stare at Flynn for several hours until he filed a restraining order.”

When Kit clicked his tongue instead of laughing, guilt pricked at my conscience. Though he treated Felix like the rest of the team, his protective edge towards the shy tech expert—our newest recruit—betrayed his soft spot for the boy. He always did have a habit of picking up strays .

“No. I’ll go,” I said, throwing on my coat. “He can’t run away from me in broad daylight.”

“Though perhaps you should send someone else,” Kit mused, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Given how your last encounter went.” He eyed my sorry genitals, still sore from Flynn’s assault.

Groaning, I straightened my coat lapels, and tried to maintain what dignity I had left. “The boy was frightened. It was a natural reaction.”

“Natural reaction?” Kit’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, you did grab him from behind on a dark street. What did you expect? A friendly handshake?”

“I expected him to listen when I told him to.”

“Ah yes, because that always goes down well with terrified civilians.” Kit’s Scottish accent grew thicker with his amusement. “Face it, boss. You deserved that knee to the balls.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Are you quite finished?”

“Not even close.” Kit grinned, all teeth. “Should I assign you a protective cup for this mission? We’ve got spare gear in the weapons room.”

“I’m leaving now.”

I shut the door hard, yet Kit’s muffled chuckle still carried through.

Five centuries of existence, and this was what my dignity had come to. Being mocked by a wolf over getting kneed in the groin by some human who didn’t even seem to possess the most basic of common sense in his pretty head.

By the time I’d reached Rising Dough, the weather had taken a turn for the worse—the sun had decided to make an appearance, and I hadn’t bothered to bring my umbrella. As luck would have it, there was a large tree on the pavement outside the bakery, offering some protection from the blasted rays .

Through the window, I watched Flynn Carter work the till.

It was remarkable how different he looked in the daylight.

Gone was the cornered animal from the alley, replaced by someone who moved with easy grace, who smiled freely at customers.

Only the bruised shadows under his eyes hinted at last night’s events.

His fingers danced across the register as sunlight caught his hair, spinning it into glittering gold.

The same woman who’d interrupted us yesterday—Emma, her name tag informed me—stood beside him, both of them sharing quiet laughs between customers.

When Emma hung up her apron and headed out back, the queue quickly spilled out onto the pavement.

Fascinating. What made this particular establishment’s bread so compelling?

The scent wafting through the door was pleasant enough, but hardly extraordinary.

As I inched closer to the counter, I instinctively tracked Flynn’s heartbeat—a pleasant, gentle rhythm.

Then his gaze finally landed on me. The steady thrum exploded into a frantic percussion, blood rushing through his veins hummingbird fast. Colour drained from his face, leaving him ghost-pale.

His eyes darted to the back door. I had a mere moment before he bolted.

“One bread, please.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Flynn’s eyebrows shot up. “One… bread?”

“Yes. I mean, one loaf .” I scanned the displays, filled with various loaves that surely would taste identical. “Whatever you’d recommend.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, his fingers tapping against the counter. “The sourdough’s our best seller.”

“Perfect.”

Flynn offered me the card machine, blinking when I placed the exact change on the counter instead.

“And might I trouble you for five minutes of your time?”

Flynn’s shoulders tensed as he glanced at the clock. The tiniest bead of sweat formed on his brow. “What do you want?”

“To talk,” I said, subtly opening my coat to prove I was unarmed .

“Well, I don’t really want to talk to you.”

“It’s important. It’s about last night. I want to help you.”

He looked at me for a very long time. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, worrying it. “When Emma returns from her break, I can take mine,” he said slowly.

I claimed a table by the window, setting down the paper bag.

I’d take the bread back to Killigrew Street, and Kit and Rory could fight over it.

My gaze soon returned to Flynn Carter, unable to stop tracking him as he moved behind the counter.

He had this curious habit of tucking a rogue strand of hair behind his ear, only for it to spring loose again seconds later.

Flynn seemed hellbent on not looking my way, until he turned to glare at me, red-faced, to mouth, “stop staring at me” rather aggressively.

Blinking rapidly to show my surprise, I then pretended to try the sourdough he’d sold me, ripping a tiny chunk off and placing it on my tongue.

I let it dissolve, experiencing a muted sensation of texture without flavour.

My curse had dulled my ability to taste to a mere suggestion of what it once was.

It hardly mattered. While I swallowed food to keep up appearances, my sustenance flowed from a rather different vein entirely.

Still, I found myself missing the taste of fresh bread, a memory so old it felt more like a story I’d once been told.

The bell above the door chimed. Emma breezed back in, unwinding a scarf from her neck. Flynn’s hand shot up, beckoning her over with sharp, urgent movements. I tensed—this plan could quickly unravel, should the small woman decide she didn’t trust me after what she saw last night.

After a quiet, hurried exchange, Emma’s eyes darted to me, then back to Flynn. She gripped his forearm, but Flynn shook his head, already untying his apron.

When he slid into the seat opposite me, his lips were pressed in a grim line, and his hands disappeared beneath the table. The chair scraped against the floor as he positioned himself as far from me as the small table allowed .

“Right.” Flynn’s voice cracked. “What do you want?”

I leaned casually back in the seat, trying my best to appear non-threatening. A pulse fluttered visibly at Flynn’s throat, panic-rapid, yet he held my gaze with stubborn determination, chin raised in defiance.

“You’re very brave.” The words slipped out unbidden, and I stiffened, my fingers curling against the leather armrest.

My companion’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening, and for a moment the carefully maintained rhythm of my false breathing faltered.

Because Flynn’s eyes were the kind of blue that belonged in cathedral windows, sanctified and untouchable.

As blue as the spring sky over Toledo had been, all those centuries ago.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Flynn said, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it.

The accusation struck me like a physical blow. “What makes you say that?”