Page 47 of The Beautiful Dead

Are you ready?

I wasn’t sure if I had ever been more ready for anything in my life. I stepped forward. The knife in my hand caught the dim light, the steel glinting, hungry. My heart hammered, a wild rhythm that wasn’t fear but anticipation.

I had watched him kill before. Had dreamed of the way blood stained his skin, how his strength carved through flesh with precision and ease. But this was different. This was real.

This was mine.

I pressed the flat of the blade against Calloway’s cheek, just beneath his swollen eye. His skin twitched. He was shaking. “Tell me,” I murmured, tilting my head, watching him closely, “when you paid them off, did you think it would end here?”

Calloway swallowed thickly.

“You thought their money would protect you?” Domino added, amusement lacing his tone.

I turned the blade, the tip biting into flesh in a long, slow drag. The skin split open in a thin red line, beading with blood.

Calloway hissed through his teeth, his body jerking, but he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

Domino’s hand settled over mine, warm and solid. Not guiding me. Not controlling me. Just there. A tether. A silentpromise. “Deeper,” he murmured against my ear, his voice barely above a whisper.

Instinctively, I obeyed. The knife sank further, gliding through layers of skin, parting flesh like silk. The copper scent of blood bloomed in the air, hot and thick.

Calloway screamed.

I gasped, shuddering, the sound slithering down my spine like a caress.

Domino exhaled slowly, his grip tightening ever so slightly over my hand. “See?” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Unable to speak, I nodded, and a bloodthirsty grin lifted my lips. I watched as blood spilled from the wound, sliding in slow rivulets down Calloway’s cheek.

Something inside me disintegrated, and all the air in the room seemed to rush into my lungs at once. I wanted more.

Domino pulled back, moving around to stand behind Calloway, hands settling on the back of the chair. “You’ve got a choice, Calloway,” he said, voice light, almost casual. “We can do this quickly. Or we can take our time.”

Calloway gasped, his breaths coming in rapid, uneven bursts.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” he choked out. “Just—just stop?—”

Domino sighed and shook his head. “That’s not how this works.”

I dragged the blade lower, tracing his jawline, down the column of his throat, close to his artery. The intoxicating way he trembled beneath the sharp blade. The way the flap of flesh folded over itself the further I cut. His blood was warm on my fingers, slick and staining, anointing me in crimson.

Domino leaned down, his mouth close to Calloway’s ear. “This isn’t about information. It’s too late for that.”

Calloway’s entire body sagged. He finally understood he wasn’t leaving this room.

Domino straightened and reached into his pocket, pulling out his own knife. Longer, heavier. A weapon he had wielded a hundred times before. He flipped it easily in his palm, watching me.

“Your turn,” I whispered.

He smirked. Without hesitation, he drove the blade into Calloway’s thigh. A raw, guttural scream tore through the room, reverberating off the walls, vibrating through my bones. I swayed on my feet, pulse thrumming.

Domino twisted the knife, slow, methodical, and Calloway thrashed, the chair rattling against the concrete floor.

The sight of it was intoxicating. The way Domino moved, lethal and precise, he wielded pain like an artist wielded a brush.

My breath was shallow, my fingers twitching, itching for more.

He pulled the blade free, blood spilling over Calloway’s leg in thick rivulets, pooling beneath him, flooding out across the floor.

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