Page 127 of The Beautiful Dead

His breathing steadied.

One.

Crack.

Leo’s nose shattered beneath the weight of Domino’s first punch. Blood sprayed in a perfect arc, splattering the wall, streaking across Domino’s cheek like war paint.

Domino shook out his fist, flexing his split knuckles, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths—a man savoring the burn of violence.

I leaned against the wall, watching, hungry. I could stop this, but why would I?

Watching Domino fall apart was like watching a fire consume everything in its path. Wild. Untamed. Beautiful.

And God, did I want to burn with him.

Leo choked on his blood, coughing, his body sagging in the chair. But Domino wasn’t done.

He fisted Leo’s hair, yanking his head back with a force that made my pulse stutter. His eyes were dark and distant—lost to something primal. Something irreversible.

A slow, thrumming ache spread through my chest, curling low and hot in my stomach. My nails dug into my palms, trying to suppress the itch crawling under my skin.

I wanted to be the one under Domino’s hands.

I wanted to be the thing he destroyed.

His pain was the most addictive touch I’d ever felt.

By the time Leo broke, his vault of secrets cracked open, his last word fading into nothing, he’d stopped moving. A useless, bloodied heap. Domino’s breath came in harsh pants, his shoulders rising and falling in jagged bursts.

Our eyes met across the room.

A challenge.

A promise.

And then he was on me.

Domino crashed into me, wild and untamed, a feverish blur of teeth and pain, fingers bruising, grip desperate, violent. His mouth burned against mine, claiming, consuming, devouring me—like leaving his marks on me was the only way to stay tethered, the only way to staunch the hunger clawing at his ribs.

His breath was hot against my throat, his fingers fisting in my shirt, dragging me closer, deeper. Harder.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, voice raw, wrecked. Unchained.

I arched into him, where he stood between my legs. My nails raked down his back, carving an answer into his skin, demanding more. “Then prove it.”

A broken groan ripped from my throat, raw and wrecked, swallowed by the heavy air between us. The glint of steel flickered in my periphery before the sharp kiss of Domino’s switchblade sliced through denim. The fabric fell away in tattered strips, pooling at my ankles.

Exposed. Open.His.

“Fuck,piccolo agnello,I need to fuck you.”

The need in his voice was tangible, thick and fevered, and God, I wanted to be ruined by it.

I answered without hesitation, bracing my hands behind me on the workbench as he hooked my legs over his arms,his grip branding, unrelenting. His fingers made quick work of his belt, the sharp clink of metal a wicked prelude. The slow, deliberate rasp of his zipper sent a shiver rolling through me—a countdown.

Three.

“Yes,” I breathed, hips canting forward in silent demand. “Fuck me.”

---