Page 117 of The Beautiful Dead

The visceral need to touch him, to consume him, to own him burned through me, feverish and all-consuming. Every breath he took, every tremor of his skin beneath my hands, was proof that he was real. That he was here. That no one had taken him from me.

I needed more. I needed to feel his pulse stutter beneath my fingers, feel his breath hitch under my lips, feel his body press against mine so tightly it was impossible to tell where he ended and I began.

The world could burn. Everything could fucking crumble. But as long as I had him beneath my hands, nothing else mattered.

“Linen closet. Four doors down,” he said. “Pretty sure it’s an escape route. That means they know we can get out, so we have to move fast.”

We turned in unison, eyes locking onto the camera in the corner, a silent specter bearing witness to our carnage, our hunger, our ruin.

They’d already seen what we were. A twisted spectacle of blood and filth, pleasure and pain, devotion and destruction. A sickness so profound it had no cure—only indulgence.

Now, it was time to show them what we were truly capable of. They thought they could break us.

They didn’t understand.

We weren’t fragile. We weren’t prey. We weren’t even human anymore.

We were a fucking cataclysm.

Deadly alone. Stronger together. When we moved in tandem, when our bloodied hands reached for each other, when our sick, obsessive love burned through everything in our path—we weren’t just destruction. We were the end.

And we were about to bring hell itself crashing down.

“We do.” My lips grazed his, a fleeting touch, but I needed more. Needed to taste him. Consume him. My fingers curled into his jaw, bruising, possessive. “They took my phone and my weapons.”

A slow, sharp grin tugged at my lips. My hands ached for blood. For death. Destruction. His breath hitched, and ice-blue eyes locked onto me like he could see every wicked thought forming in my mind.

“Do you believe what Salvatore told you?”

His words slithered through my mind, a poisonous whisper. That he was my father? It made sense. Too much fucking sense. I had nothing in common with Federico besides our thirst for blood and our mutual hatred of the Gallos.

My jaw clenched. “It makes sense,” I admitted. “But now is not the time.” I exhaled sharply, fisting the back of his hair, yanking his head back just enough to meet my eyes. “I need to get you home. Safe.”

Remi scoffed, his lips curling in something between amusement and disgust. “Safe? I haven’t been safe since the day I stepped into your world.” His breath came sharp, controlled—but his eyes burned.

He reached for me, fingers digging into my jaw, nails biting deep enough to break skin. To mark. To claim.

“I don’t want safe, Domino,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “I want the darkness that runs through your veins. I want this—whatever the fuck this is—this approximation of love. I want blood and death and destruction.” His thumb pressed against my bottom lip, smearing my blood across my mouth. His pupils swallowed the light blue of his irises. “But most of all, I want you. And nothing—not even you—will take that from me.”

Fuck. He was perfect. Vicious and wicked, just like me. But still—something in me snarled at the thought of anything touching him, hurting him, taking him from me. The need to keep him, cage him, and own him burned through my veins like wildfire. I didn’t have time to unravel it. Footsteps heavy and rushed echoed in the hallway drawing closer. We had company.

I turned toward the door just as it burst open. The guard barely had time to register what was happening before I hit him like a bullet. My fists collided with flesh, and cartilage cracked beneath the force.. He staggered, gasped—but I didn’t let him breathe. I wanted him to choke on it.

My knuckles cracked against his ribs and shattered on impact. His knees wobbled, and blood coated his face as he flailed. I caught him by the throat and slammed him into the wall. The impact knocked the pictures to the ground.

His eyes bulged, his hands clawing at my grip, feet kicking uselessly against the floor. I leaned in, breathing in the scent of his fear, feeling his pulse stammer beneath my palm. “Take a good look,” I murmured. “I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

His lips turned blue. His heartbeat faltered. Behind me, Remi inhaled sharply. I felt his eyes on me. In me. Consuming. Feeding.

I grinned over my shoulder. “That’s it,” I whispered, voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Watch me.”

The guard’s body convulsed once, twice—then went limp in my grasp. I let him drop, discarded at my feet. I crouched, stripping him of his gun and knife, holding it out for Remi.

Blood dripped from my split knuckles, warm and slick, splattered across my jaw, my clothes, my fucking skin. I licked it off my lips, slow and deliberate.

Copper and death.Perfection.

I turned to Remi, high off the violence, the power thrumming through my veins like electricity. “Ready?”

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