Page 65 of The Beautiful Dead

No one would question who he belonged to. I pulled him into my lap, nosing along his throat, tasting sweat and blood and something uniquely him. His pulse pounded wildly beneath my lips.

I hummed, satisfied. “Now you can go,” I murmured. “You smell like me. You wear my marks so well, baby.”

Remi didn’t move. Not at first. His breathing was ragged, uneven. But then, slowly, he peeled himself away from me.

I let him.

I watched as he stood on shaking legs, reaching for his jeans. He didn’t even try to wipe me off. A slow smile tugged at my lips.

He wanted everyone to see what I’d done to him.

He wanted to carry me with him—inside, outside.

I owned it all.

He was mine.

“You’re a psycho,” he bit out through blood-red, kiss-swollen lips.

I laughed, low and cold. “No,piccolo agnello. I’m just thorough.”

Remi scoffed and disappeared into the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the silence as I slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Leaning against the bathroom door frame, I watched him furiously scrub his face and teeth.

His eyes met mine in the mirror and never left. Shadows swirled in their icy depths.

A challenge. A useless threat.

Because I knew the truth. Remi couldn’t breathe without me. It was fine—for now—he could go. But he’d be back.

He always would be.

He grabbed his phone, gaze locked on the screen. He hesitated. Something dark flickered in his gaze as he tapped his phone against his lips and shook his head.

He knew.

Not the specifics. But he knew I was watching. That I always was.

The cameras in our apartment saw everything. Every flicker of emotion across his face. Every restless shift of his body when he thought he was alone.

The tracker in his phone ensured I never lost him. The extra surveillance Ghost installed let me hear every conversation and access his camera at will.

Just in case.

In case fuckwits like Kyran Stirling came sniffing around again. That bastard was still breathing. Lucky him. But next time—and there would be a next time—he wouldn’t be so fortunate. His breaths were already numbered.

Remi stormed across the room, snatched one of the hoodies off the chair, and yanked it over his head. My hoodie.Mine. He could have picked any of his own, but he didn’t.

He never did.

Bag slung over his shoulder, sketchbook tucked under his arm, he headed for the elevator.

My head tilted as his steps slowed. “Come back to me soon.”

He hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the call button, his back tense. Then, finally, he glanced at me. Eyes Dark. Unreadable.

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