Page 95 of The Beautiful Dead

Because I was his.

In every way possible.

The silk sheets tangled around my legs as I swung them off the bed, stumbling on weak, shaking limbs toward the bathroom. Every muscle ached. Lactic acid burned in my veins, and my body was starved of oxygen. He had turned my world into an endless night. It was only when I was on the brink of death…That was when I let go.

That was when I surrendered.

I had told him he’d already freed me. But that was the moment I relinquished everything. I gave myself over. Completely. Now, I knew I couldn’t survive without him. There wasn’t a molecule inside me that wanted to. I was his in this life, the next, and any that might follow if reincarnation was real.

And if it wasn’t?

Then I would die knowing I loved him until our bodies became part of the universe once more.

My hollow reflection stared back at me from the mirror. My skin was whiter than bleached bone, a stark contrast to the dark bruises that circled my neck—his mark, his claim. I traced the inkblot stains of his fingers with my own. A full-body shudder rolled through me at the echo of pain that radiated from them. Electricity zapped across my skin, heating the cool blood pooling at the base of my dick.

My eyes shuttered closed, and I wrapped my hand around my shaft, squeezing, trying to mimic Domino’s vice-like grip. His touch set me on fire. My hand? It was nothing but a pale imitation.

It didn’t make my blood sing. It didn’t make my soul dance with the devil.

It left me feeling empty.

Bereft.

Like I had lost a piece of myself to him that I would never reclaim—not until he came back. My heart thudded against my ribs hard enough to shatter the bones.

What if he didn’t come back?

Last night, I had broken the only part of him Federico couldn’t touch. A child’s love for a parent.

Domino’s love for his mother had been a dark treasure hidden from the world. I had only glimpsed it in stolen moments between us in the darkness. When he was trapped in that semi-lucid haze, lost between wakefulness and sleep. When his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, I caught glimpses of the vulnerable child beaten out of him.

Last night, I killed that child who had once looked up to his father, searching for approval that would never come.

Hot water scalded my skin, but I stayed under the spray, revelling in the pain. I stroked myself for nothing but comfort. To feel alive. I anchored myself as my mind circled the memories of the last twenty-four hours. My hardness faded as I washed myself, but the ache carved into me only deepened.

Once washed, I stepped out and dried off before getting dressed in his clothes. Submerging myself in his scent. Keeping our tenuous connection alive while I was haunted by the ghost of him. I could text him or call him. My heart begged me to, but my mind knew he wouldn’t answer.

His love was a test, and I would weather any storm that he threw my way.

The penthouse was silent. Too silent. Too large. I wanted to hide under the covers, sleep the day away, and wait for him to come home, but my skin itched. The need to draw burnedthrough me. Rain fell in thick sheets beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, obscuring the city skyline. The sky’s muted shades of churning gray clouds provided the perfect lighting, mimicking my somber mood.

The only person here was Ghost, moving like a shadow through the space, always watching but never speaking. I knew I couldn’t leave, but there wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to.

After grabbing a coffee, I collapsed on the couch. Indistinct charcoal lines covered the page of my open sketchbook on the table. The longer I stared, the clearer the image became in my mind’s eye.

Intense eyes formed from the darkness. Fathomless green depths that knew me better than I knew myself. Demons danced in the shadows, whispering truths I couldn’t hear. But his eyes knew. They told me what I wasn’t ready to understand—but my subconscious did.

The TV murmured in the background, but I wasn’t listening. My fingers moved with a life of their own, charcoal smudging across the page. Heavy strokes. Jagged lines. Breathing life into the image that wouldn’t leave me. That haunted me. Because no matter where I looked, no matter what I did—it was always him.

Domino.

Domino was covered in blood, his hands stained red and eyes hollow. Domino mid-fight, muscles strained, the moment before he shattered a man’s ribs with a single, brutal kick.

Domino stood over a broken body, chest rising and falling, something feral curling in his gaze.

Domino held down a slight body littered with bruises, their back arched in rapturous pleasure, his hips thrusting. Teeth bared as he fucked into the one he pinned down. Fire burned in his fixated eyes.

It wasn’t enough.

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