Page 101 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s an extremely clear answer.”

“You’re asking for three different men.”

“I’m an ambitious woman.”

Dante removes the mistletoe from his waistband.

“She’s a Christmas miracle.”

Rhys grips my chin.

“Specific words, Sloane.”

His calm command sends heat rushing through me straight down to my throbbing pussy.

The domestic moment shifts. Changing. The laughter remains beneath the hunger. The safety remains beneath the control. They know me. I know them. Nothing is assumed. Everything is chosen.

“I want Dante’s mouth,” I say.

Dante’s grin disappears.

“I want Callum’s hands holding me open spread wide for the broadcast.”

Callum’s breathing changes.

“And you?” Rhys asks.

I look into the face of the man who still becomes the Reaper without wearing a mask.

“I want you telling me when I’m allowed to fucking come.”

His thumb brushes my lower lip.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Lock the doors,” Rhys tells Dante.

The Devil drops the mistletoe. Callum lifts me from the counter. And Christmas decorating is officially postponed.

RHYS

Our bedroom was built for this. Not originally. Originally, it was Callum’s room. Then it became ours. Then Sloane moved in and demanded better lighting, softer sheets, and a lock that could be opened from both sides because she refuses to tolerate any room that becomes a genuine cage.

The bed fills most of the space. Black sheets. A padded headboard. Four nightstands. Sloane’s is buried beneath books, lip balm, and a collection of ribbons she pretends she isn’t saving.

Callum carries her through the doorway. Dante follows, stripping his shirt over his head. I close the door but leave it unlocked. Sloane notices.

“Dress off,” I tell her.

Callum sets her on her feet. She reaches for the zipper.

“No.”

Her hand stops. I look at Dante.