Beautiful Death
Beautiful Death
To people who didn’t take their time to look, his skin was the purest black. Frost knew better. For years, centuries, he had watched that skin, watched and wanted, desperate and jealous and angry and needy. When Merry came into their lives things began to change, to switch and shift and when he met those dark eyes he began to see something that felt like spring thaw.
Under his pale fingers, Doyle was black opal, fire and beauty, his skin a shadowy canvas of all colors. He was warmth and heat and vibrant. He was cold and decisive and still. He was death.
He was beautiful death.