Page 59 of The Beautiful Dead

I knew him better than he knew himself.

He was never meant for normalcy.

I had memorized his movements, his schedule, the rhythm of his days. I knew the time he left, the time he returned. If he was out of my sight, it was only because I allowed it. Cameras. Shadows. A whisper in the wind. I was always there. I was everywhere.

But it didn’t matter. The outside world was inconsequential. He belonged here.

With me.

He didn’t need a degree. He didn’t need a future outside of the one I had designed for him. I would give him everything—every pleasure, every nightmare, every whispered desire he was too afraid to name. I’d bring them to his fingertips. Watch him bathe in blood, creating art from death. I would feed every part of his psyche, set it free, raw and untamed.

All he had to do was stay.

A memory burned hot beneath my skin, igniting the hunger that never truly slept. My fingers tightened against his supple skin. Remi had grown into his darkness and unleashed it with confidence. Let it devour him like I always knew he would. The art he created was more twisted now, more exquisite.

Juno had been his finest masterpiece.

The glint in his eye as he flayed him apart, peeling back his skin like he was unwrapping a gift. How he’d pinned it back so it looked like wings as Juno screamed, suspended above the ground.

Those beautiful hands, slick with crimson, trembling with hunger as he cracked open Juno’s ribcage to display the still-beating heart within, blood pouring down Juno’s olive skin like an offering for the devil.

The way he had turned to me, blood-slick and radiant, eyes blown wide with hunger.

“Like what you see?” he had murmured, coy and teasing.

I had watched him inhale death like it was all he needed—like it was air—drag his tongue over blood-stained lips as he raised Juno’s body. His camera captured every flicker of agony, every shattered breath. And when he set the camera down, my control snapped.

Not that I ever had any around him.

The need to fuck, claim and mark him his was incessant.

My feet devoured the distance between us in a few strides. I had seized him, my mouth claiming his in a brutal, possessive kiss. My teeth had torn into his lip, the taste of him exploding across my tongue. I had wrenched his head back, gripped his jaw between my fingers, and pried his mouth open to see the crimson pool on his tongue.

“Don’t swallow.” My voice had been a growl, a command, a promise.

He had obeyed. He always did.

I had forced him to his knees, the cold edge of my blade whispering against his throat. His hands had trembled as he fumbled with my belt, desperate, wrecked, his ruined lips red and glistening, parted to take me in. Ice-blue eyes never left mine.

We were lost to our desire.

When he wrapped those filthy, stained lips around my cock, I had lost myself.

Lost control.

And claimed him.

My thick cock had tunneled into his throat like a battering ram. Again. And again. And again. My free hand sank back into his hair and held his head so his nose was buried in the thick thatch of hair at the base of my shaft. I hadn’t allowed him to breathe as he’d gagged and gurgled around me. Tears had streamed down his blood stained face.

I had never seen anything more beautiful.

He was my greatest creation.

Art in motion.

All fuckingmine.

Now, he was a part of me. Two halves of a whole, madness entwined. We sank into our depravity together.

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