Page 170 of The Beautiful Dead

“Morning, boss.” He tilted the box up. Mocking. Teasing. “I can’t believe you wanted it.” His eyes flicked between me and the box, his curiosity burning. “What are you gonna do with it?”

He went to open it, but I snatched it away before he could. “That’s not your concern,” I ground out. My fingers smoothed over the ribbon, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed. Low. Knowing. “Ohhhh. Mmmm. I see.”

My head snapped up, my gaze colliding with his. He smirked, cheeks tinged pink. He mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key.

I glared at his idiocy. “If only you would fucking do that.”

He snorted, “Nah, you’d miss the sound of my voice too much.”

I shook my head, jaw tensing. I was about to tell him to shut the fuck up, but his attention suddenly shifted. His gaze flicked down the hallway, toward the art room. His lips curved.

“What the fuck is he singing?” His eyes slid back to mine, amusement flickering on his face. “Well, that shit certainly suits you two.”

I barked out a sharp, “Enough.”

He chuckled but straightened at the tone. Back to business.

“Did you get everything sorted?”

He nodded. “Yes. Everything is in place… the club will be?—”

I held up a hand. “Good. That’s all I want.” A pause as I gathered my thoughts. “I assume you’ll be able to manage?”

Ghost snorted, rolling his eyes. “Pffft, obviously.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out. I have things to do.”

He lingered like a bad smell until my attention was back on him. “You don’t really call him a ‘thing,’ do you?”

I didn’t even dignify that with an answer. “Fuck off, Ghost.”

He grinned, saluted, and headed for the elevator. Just as his finger pressed down on the button, he turned to look at me. “Don’t forget to call Salvatore when you know.”

I exhaled, aggravation crawling under my skin. “I won’t. Like any of them would let me.”

The doors eventually slid shut. Ghost was gone. Thank fuck. Being in his presence gave me a headache, but for some reason, Remi liked him.

Now it was just me and the weight of the gift in my hand. I turned it over, fingertips grazing the edges. How should I do this?

Should I leave it for him to find?

Should I sit him down?

Should I bring it to him?

Fuck. Anyone would think I was about to propose with how indecisive I was being. Ridiculous.

But the moment had to be right.

Remi had a way of twisting my insides, dragging me into a place where rational thought and obsession blurred together until they were the same thing.

Luckily for me, the soft hum of the coffee machine and the clatter of cups on the counter pulled him from his reverie.

He strode in, barefoot, wearing my sweats like they belonged to him—which they did. Hung low on his hips, exposing the sharp cut of his abdomen, the bruises and marks from last night shadowing his skin like kisses made of violence.

He didn’t say a word. Just snatched the cup from my hand with a snicker, grabbed the creamer from the fridge, and started making his coffee. I let him. Let him steal from me like he always did.

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