Page 39 of The Beautiful Dead

I leaned in, voice lethal, intimate. “I don’t give a fuck what you think you are to him.” I let the words sink into his pain, sharp and precise as a blade. “If you so much as look at him again, I’ll make sure you never see anything at all.”

His breath hitched, wet and gurgling. He nodded weakly. I let him drop to the damp ground. He curled onto his side, whimpering, a pathetic, shaking heap at my feet.

It should have been enough. It wasn’t. I brought my boot down into his ribs. Once. Twice. Again. He coughed blood, arms braced over his head, trying to protect himself. Useless.

The distant purr of my car joined the melody of his pain-filled cries, mournful whimpers, and the brittle crunch of shattered bone. I spit on him, then melted into the shadows.

I leaned against the damp wall, lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly as the thick smoke filled my lungs, and waited. Waited for my little lamb to step into the wolf’s den.

Would he run?

Would he scream?

Or would he surprise me?

Would he prove what I already knew? That he was fascinated by death. By power. By the beauty of life as it hung in the balance. That he was, at his core, just like me.

I was certain I’d seen it in his eyes, an ember of dark fire that lusted to know what it felt like to take a life. If he showed that curiosity tonight, I’d lead him down the darkest path known to man. I’d grant all his illicit fantasies. I’d set him free of the oppressive chains that were wrapped around him. Allow him to free his dark heart and embrace all he could become.

Footsteps echoed through the alley. I braced against the wall; sweet euphoria coursed through my veins, heightening my senses as I counted down in my head.

Three.

Two.

One.

Remi stopped just inside the entrance, head tilted, scenting the air like an animal. His breathing was uneven. Lips parted. Eyes dark but not with fear—with fascination. He took a step closer. Gaze flicking between the shadows—me—and the barely conscious body across from me. Could he sense my presence like I could his?

I waited for the horror. The recoil. A scream. The inevitable,“Why would you do this?”But none of it came. The longer he stood there, the more confident I grew. Smoke curled around my lips as I exhaled, excitement heating the blood in my veins for an entirely different reason.

He stepped closer to where Kyran lay in a whimpering heap, his bloodied face turned toward Remi, filthy hand reaching for him. I bit back a snarl. He didn’t get to touch what was mine. To my surprise, Remi recoiled from his touch.

Instead, he shivered. His fingers twitched at his sides. His breath came in short, sharp pants. Excited.

I stepped toward him, slow, deliberate. Testing. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” My voice was almost gentle.

He should be. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. He shook his head. “Never.”

“Good.”

I closed the remaining space between us, chest pressing flush against his back. My hands slid down his chest, fingers gripping his hips, holding him there, against me. Letting him feel just how much this—he—affected me, as I nestled my hardness against his crease.

Remi’s breath hitched. He looked down at my blood stained knuckles, lifted my hand, turned it over in the light, and studied the torn skin with something close to reverence.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, a delicate finger tracing my tattoos.

A sharp heat coiled in my stomach. He turned slowly, gaze smoldering over his shoulder as he looked up at me. Lips inches from mine. “Why?” The word was barely a breath.

I didn’t need to ask what he meant. I already knew. My pulse pounded against my ribs. I knew—right then and there—that I would never let him go. That if he tried to run, I would chain him to my bed and break him. Make him love it, crave it. He was mine in this life and each one that followed. Because I owned his soul, he just didn’t know it yet.

Mine. Forever.

“Because he touched you.”

Remi snorted, turning his gaze to Kyran’s crumpled form, but I wasn’t done.

I leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dropping into something dark, intimate. Claiming. “He wanted what’s mine.”

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