Page 173 of The Beautiful Dead

“Then show me how much you appreciate what I’ve done for you.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one.

The moment I grabbed a fistful of his hair, Remi gasped, his body going lax, pliant, willing in a way that made my head spin and my pulse thunder. I hauled him off the stool in one smooth motion, his legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, locking at the ankles.

Like he was meant to be there. Because he was. Because there was no world, no version of reality, where he wasn’t in my arms.

Where he wasn’t mine.

His fingers dug into my shoulders, his breath hot against my throat as I carried him through the penthouse. Everything about him sang to me. The way his body curled into mine.

The soft, shaky exhale when I tightened my grip on his thighs. The way he shuddered when I turned my head and ran my nose along the pulse in his neck.

And when he whispered my name—a prayer. A plea. A promise. I almost lost it.Almost.Not until he had placed his gift down with the care it deserved.

The door to our bedroom slammed shut behind us, the sound sending a sharp thrill down my spine.

The skull—his trophy, my offering—rested on the nightstand. But my attention wasn’t on it anymore. It was on him. On the blood still drying under his fingernails. On the bruises I had put there.

On the scars I had carved into his skin, his soul, his very being.

A smirk curled at my lips, a slow, creeping thing as my gaze flicked to the skull. To the hollow sockets where eyes had once been. My father. Watching. Helpless. Forced to witness every single thing I was about to do to the boy in my arms.

I turned back to Remi, tilting his chin up, my grip bruising. His lips parted, his pupils blown wide, his breath catching in his throat as I murmured

“Show me, Remi. Show me who you belong to.”

And he did.

He always did.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a request. It never was. Remi’s fingers slid into mine without hesitation, his trust blind, unwavering, devotional. He would follow me anywhere.

Into the shadows. Into the flames. Into death itself.

And he would go smiling.

That knowledge burned in my gut, feeding the gnawing hunger only he could satisfy. It was a gift, this power he gave me, this absolute control. A heady, intoxicating thing.

And yet, somehow, he owned me more.

The doors to the elevator slid shut, sealing us inside a silver cage lined with reflections—infinite versions of us drowning in each other. Remi turned, looking at me through thick lashes, lips curling in a coy smirk. Wicked. Knowing.

“Where are we going?” he asked breathlessly.

I grabbed his throat and pinned him against the mirrored wall. His breath hitched, and his pupils blew wide. “We have an appointment.”

My lips hovered over his, barely brushing, teasing—because he would always want me more in the moments before he got me.

“It took a while to get everything organized,” I murmured against his mouth.

Remi didn’t care about appointments. Didn’t care about plans, schedules, obligations. Didn’t care about anything that wasn’t me.

His fingers dug into my jacket, his body arching, pressing closer. His lips crashed against mine—savage, desperate. Each brush of his tongue against mine deepened the madness.

Remi never got enough.

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