Page 26 of The Beautiful Dead

I wanted to know what he saw.

I wanted to see the world through his eyes.

That one sketch I’d seen had been mesmerizing—death, stripped bare and reimagined into something raw, beautiful. I’d seen thousands of paintings and attended gallery shows under my family’s name, wearing that public mask, but nothing had ever looked like that.

Nothing had ever captured the beauty of death, a dark macabre piece that called to my soul, just like he did.

A branch snapped beneath my boot, brittle like aged bone. A deliberate move to notify him of my presence just to see how he’d react.

His pencil faltered, pausing for a split-second before moving again. Not a hint of fear. No outward reaction. His calm mask stayed perfectly still.

His control was intoxicating, he was captivating.

“How long have you been following me?”

The corner of my mouth curled at his question. My fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to remind myself how softhis skin had felt beneath them. Instead, I shoved my hands into my pockets and waited.

“Long enough.”

His gaze lifted to me and dragged over my face, slow, lingering like a physical caress, almost as if he was committing me to memory.

He tilted his head, something flashing in his ice-blue eyes before the tip of his tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “Why?”

A simple question.

It should have had a simple answer.

But it didn’t.

This thing inside me—whatever it was—it didn’t have a name.

Need. Hunger. Possession. Every one etched into my bones.

I didn’t just want to know him. I wanted to own him. Every thought. Every breath. Every inch of him.Mine. I wanted to mark him, brand him. Stain his skin black and blue. Leaving it tender to the touch, so when he did, he’d get an echo of the pain and would never forget who he belonged to.

Instead of answering, I settled for a test.

“Where are you staying?”

His breath hitched. A flicker of tension, a flash of hesitation tightened his features before his gaze dropped back to his drawing.

I didn’t like that. It felt like a dismissal. My fists clenched in my pockets, frustration trickled down my spine.

“The shelter.”

My muscles uncoiled and I smirked. “There are many in the city,” I drawled. “Which one?”

The wind shifted, rustling the dead leaves at my feet, like a veil had been lifted as day morphed into night.

“The one on Clayburn.”

A fucking hellhole. It should’ve been condemned years ago—rats, mold, the stink of desperation clinging to its walls. But he didn’t seem to mind—curious.

He just kept drawing, the quiet scratch of pencil against paper filling the silence between us.

I moved closer, my steps measured, unhurried. Remi was so lost in his creation that he didn’t notice—or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted me closer. If he thought he could brush me off, my little lamb had another thing coming, he’d never be rid of me now. I inhaled slowly, filling my lungs with his scent—open air, moss, something earthy and dark.

“Not anymore.”

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