Page 14 of The Beautiful Dead

“Certain types.”

A cryptic answer. A warning? An invitation?

His attention dropped back to my sketch. I watched as his fingers traced the lines—not touching, just hovering—a breath away from the penciled ribs and twisting vines. The way he studied it was almost reverent, like he understood the darkness woven between the lines.

Like he recognized it.

Now that he was distracted, I took my chance to observe him in return. Jet-black hair, a close fade shaved at the sides, the outline of a tattoo barely visible beneath. The longer strands on top were wild, like he’d spent hours running his fingers through them in frustration. Stubble framed a sharp jaw, lips that looked too soft for someone so unnerving. A silver ring pierced his nose, a delicate chain hanging from one ear with an inverted cross.

The contrast of sharp, masculine lines and something almost… sinisterly beautiful.

Tattoos crawled up his hands and disappeared beneath the sleeve of his black leather jacket, the fabric pulled back just enough to hint at more ink covering his arms. His left wrist was adorned with a silver chain, and the fingers of his right hand had thick rings on them. Adornment or armor?

“The force required to carve bone like that… mmm.”

I stiffened. Had I heard him right? He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, had he? It was more of a thought, slipping past his lips unbidden. His fingers flexed against the table, but he didn’t correct himself.

Instead, he asked, “Do you only draw?”

I hesitated. “What do you mean?”

He made a slow, deliberate gesture with his hand, the thick silver chain around his wrist catching the light. “Do you work with other… mediums? That’s the word, isn’t it?”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver through me. “I take photographs, too.”

“Nothing… real?”

I shook my head, uneasy now. Instinct told me to take my sketchbook back, but when I reached for it, he held it in place with just a finger.

“I’m no sculptor.”

“That’s a shame,” he murmured, leaning back in his seat. “Nothing like the real thing.”

The real thing? He couldn’t mean actual bone, could he?

The thought burrowed under my skin, sinking its teeth into the deepest, darkest part of me—the part that had always wondered. How much pressure would it take to carve into bone without shattering it? How would it feel beneath my fingers? Would the blade vibrate up my arm as it sliced?

“Art takes many forms.”

His voice was velvet, but the edge beneath it was steel. He finally released my sketchbook, and I wasted no time closing it, tucking it safely into my bag. He didn’t stop me. Just watched.

“You’re new.”

“So I’m told.”

“You staying with family?”

I exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down my face. What was this—an interrogation? “No. My plans have changed.”

“So where then?”

“That’s a work in progress.”

A slow nod. He flexed his fingers again, drawing my attention to his rings. Thick. Heavy. Not just for decoration.

Doll appeared beside us, placing a to-go cup in front of him with a wary glance in my direction. She didn’t say a word. Just turned on her heel and left without looking back.

His chuckle was quiet. Hollow.

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