It was supposed to be impossible. To the point that it had never crossed his mind as a concern during his 200 years of “fetching pretty things” for Cazador.

He’d never mentally prepared for the possibility because it wasn’t a possibility.

But he couldn’t ignore it.

Every time you were nearby, he could hear it. A tiny, distant second heartbeat thrumming under your own. He was scared to ask you about it. He was scared of being wrong—more so of being right.

Even after being removed, had the tadpole given him back yet one more thing his undeath had stolen?