Page 143 of The Beautiful Dead

We followed the scent of her fear, tracking her through the rot and filth of Marlow Heights, through cheap motels and back-alley hideaways.

And finally, we found her an hour away from the city.

The neon vacancy sign flickered in the darkness, humming against the still air. The motel reeked of sweat, despair, and the kind of desperation that clung to people who had nowhere left to go and rented rooms by the hour, turning cheap tricks.

I dragged the tip of my switchblade across my palm, letting the sharp sting center me. Remi stood beside me, still and silent, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the room number Ghost had given us.

His fingers twitched. His breathing slowed. He was vibrating. Starving. I reached out and brushed my thumb across his lower lip. It was split. He’d been biting it raw.

“Easy,piccolo agnello,” I murmured, voice rough. “You’ll have your turn.”

His tongue flicked against my skin, gaze hooded, but there was nothing submissive about it. His patience had run out.

We moved as one.

The door wasn’t even locked.

Pathetic.

I pushed it open, stepping inside the dimly lit room. The stench of mildew, stale cigarettes, and something pungent clung to the air. The sheets on the bed were tangled, the lamp beside it shattered on the floor, flickering weakly.

A sound came from the bathroom—shallow, rapid breathing.

My top lip curled, exposing my teeth. Remi tilted his head, listening. His lips parted, his pupils swallowing the blue of his irises.

He could hear it, too.

The panic. The futility.

The breaking.

I let him go first.

He stalked forward, movements predatory, controlled. His fingers flexed once before curling into fists. He was savoring it.

I leaned against the desk, rolling my shoulders as I watched him push the bathroom door open. And there she was. Shaking. Shivering.

Brielle was curled in the corner tub, her arms wrapped around her knees, her face blotchy with tears and panic.

She had lost the polished, put-together exterior she’d worn like armor before Remi played god with her psyche. There was no power left in her. No control.

Just fear.

She looked up, eyes darting between us, her breath hitching on a silent sob. “P-please…” she whispered. “Please?—”

Remi knelt in front of her, tilted his head, and tutted. She flinched. Like a beaten dog. I snorted at her. Pathetic.

His fingers ghosted over her cheek, tracing the path of a tear. “You look awful, Brielle,” he murmured. His voice was soft. Almost affectionate.

I ached for him.

For this. For us.

I crouched beside him, letting my blade catch the flickering light. “You know,” I mused, my gaze boring into her. “I expected more from you.”

Her lip trembled as I dragged the tip of my knife down her cheek, tracing the tracks of her tears, slow and deliberate. She didn’t even move.

She knew. She fucking knew.

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