Page 30 of The Beautiful Dead

Wearing his clothes in his home.

Like I was his.

His eyes told me everything. He wanted to corrupt me. There wasn’t a single part of me that would stop him. It felt like I had stepped willingly into hell—and now, I was dancing with the devil. But I didn’t care.

Because the man staring back at me was every dark thought I had ever had. Every violent fantasy. Every forbidden curiosity. Every inch of me that had ever craved somethingmore.

He tapped the white marble countertop, drawing me back. “The menu is here. Let me know what you want.”

I didn’t even need to look. I just started listing off everything I’d ever tried and loved, the words spilling from my mouth faster than I could process. His thumbs moved over his screen so fast my eyes couldn’t keep up.

“It’ll be here soon.”

He slid off the stool in a single smooth movement, leading me from the kitchen into the lounge area. Like the rest of the penthouse, it was sleek, refined, and dark—shades of black and gray, everything intentional, everything in its place. The furniture was low and modern; the walls were adorned with abstract art that looked expensive and strangely unwelcoming. The glass windows stretched wide, framing the glittering skyline.

He poured me a drink without a word. I took the glass instinctively, feeling the weight of the crystal in my hand, the liquid dark and rich inside. I hesitated when it reached my lips, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”

His shoulders rose and fell in a slow shrug. Then his hands clenched at his sides. That was interesting.

He shook his head once. “No. I prefer to use my hands.” A pause, his lips curving slightly. “Or my blade.”

A normal person would have been horrified. But I wasn’t a normal person, in my own way I understood. I snorted softly, taking a sip as my gaze held his.

Poison was impersonal—a coward’s method. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled. But with his hands? With a blade? I had seen what he could do. Had watched him kill.

It was raw, primal—a monster unleashed. He had fed on the fear, thrived on it even. The moment that man had stopped breathing, he had grown taller, stronger, more alive. I had seen the hunger in his eyes—the power he felt in taking a life.

He was dangerous. Darkness incarnate. There was beauty in his savagery. A stunning, lethal kind of beauty that I wanted to capture and make immortal. I’d never been interested in drawing the living before, but him? I wanted to draw.

Here I was, sitting in his home, wearing his clothes, drinking his whiskey—falling deeper into the abyss. And I wasn’t afraid

“What’s your name?”

I rolled the liquid in my glass, watching how the amber swirled against the cut crystal before sliding my gaze to his. He already knew mine, but I…

“Domino.”

I blinked. “Domino?” I let the name settle on my tongue, savoring the way it tasted—exotic, sharp, filled with mystery, just like him. It felt right. It fit.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. “Huh. That makes sense.”

His gaze flicked to mine, sharp and assessing. “What do you mean?”

He settled at the opposite end of the couch, angling his body in my direction while still keeping an eye on the massivefloor-to-ceiling windows. Strategic. He was always aware of his surroundings, always in control.

I leaned back, the damp material of my borrowed shirt cool against my skin. “It means lord. Master.”

He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip. My eyes tracked the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple rolled with each swallow, the controlled way he breathed. Every movement was deliberate. Calculated.

His phone buzzed, breaking the charged silence. He glanced at the screen. “Food’s here.”

I frowned.

I hadn’t heard anyone knock.

As if reading my mind, he added, “No one can enter without my authorization.” He stood, moving toward the private elevator. “I control the elevator.”

Of course, he did. Nothing about this man suggested he’d allow anyone into his world—his space—without permission.

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