Page 21 of The Beautiful Dead

Didn’t fucking blink.

Instead, he tilted his chin up in invitation.

Something primal inside me snapped. I pressed closer, inhaling the scent of blood and desire as I dragged my nose along the sharp edge of his jaw, up to his cheek, across his lips, until my breath ghosted hot over his ear.

“Are you afraid?” I murmured, letting my lips brush the sensitive lobe.

His breath hitched.

His fingers twitched against my wrist. But he didn’t push me away. Didn’t struggle.

Didn’t lie. “No.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked.

He remained still. Allowed it. Encouraged it.

“No?”

I smiled against his skin, slow and sharp, then flicked my tongue along the curve of his ear, circling the cartilage, savoring the way he sucked in a sharp breath.

My free hand slid over his shoulder, dragging down his arm in a slow, lazy path, like I had all the time in the world.

I felt the shift beneath his skin.

The tension.

The heat.

The ache.

It mirrored my own. My palm flattened over his chest, pressing firm over his heart. His pulse jumped.

Finally.Not so steady now, are you?

I smirked, tightening my grip on his throat just enough to watch his pupils blow wide.

He wasn’t afraid. No, this was something else entirely. And fuck, it was intoxicating.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

He tilted his head, an almost mocking smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Should I be?”

I chuckled darkly, amused by his defiance. Curious. I took a slow step forward, closing the distance between us, so close now our breaths mingled, his exhale becoming my inhale. My lips brushed against his, barely there, teasing the edges of his sanity.

“Most run. But not you. You stand there… like you’re waiting for me to show you something more.”

I saw the flicker in his eyes—something dark, something that wanted to know. To understand.

My hand slid down his chest, fingers grazing across the ridges of his abs. His breath hitched at the subtle touch, his body stiffened before his chest rose with a ragged inhale. I leaned closer, my lips dangerously near his throat. His pulse hammered beneath my blade, each beat echoing louder in my ears.

“I think death is beautiful,” he breathed, his voice low, rough with desire, maybe even with madness.

His words stirred something deep within me, something wild and primal, I couldn’t help myself. My hand moved lower, feeling his length pressing against the zipper of his pants. Thick. Solid. Pulsing.

I felt his breath catch in his throat, his entire body responding to my touch. I wanted to hold him there, to make him ache for more. But I couldn’t get lost in the moment. Not yet.

My hand pulled away slowly, and I watched how he shuddered at the loss of contact. His gaze followed the movement of the steel, the gleam of danger reflecting in his eyes before it was gone.

“Let’s see how long you survive the wolves,piccolo agnello.”

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