His heart wasn’t beating.
“That’s why they stay,” he murmured, cupping her face with those cold, tattooed hands. “The hunger doesn’t care if the heart beats. It only cares if the blood burns.”
“It wasn’t a line.” He finally looked at her. His eyes were the color of a storm sea—gray-green and bottomless. “It was an epitaph.” lust ‘n dead
She slid onto the stool beside him, close enough that her bare knee touched his denim-clad thigh. He didn’t flinch. Just turned his whiskey glass in slow circles.
Not slow. Not fast. Not at all.
“I told you,” he said softly. “An epitaph.”
She ordered.
But the hunger?