Page 52 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“Open.”

I obey. He slides back over my tongue while Callum works his fingers deeper. The mixture overwhelms me—Rhys controlling my mouth, Callum kneeling behind me, and Dante watching from the altar as if he is deciding which part of me he wants next. I glance at the Devil. His arms are folded over his chest. His erection strains against his black pants.

“You look left out,” I say when Rhys allows me to breathe.

Dante’s red mask tilts.

“Are you offering to solve that problem?”

“I only have two hands.”

“You have other options.”

Rhys makes a disapproving sound. Dante ignores him. He approaches, removing his shirt as he walks. Dark tattoos cover his chest and disappear beneath his waistband. His body is leaner than Rhys’s and marked by ink instead of scars. I want to touch every line. Dante stops beside me and unfastens his pants. Callum withdraws his fingers. Before I can protest, he rises and lifts me from the floor. My feet leave the ground.

“Callum!”

He carries me to the altar and sits me on its edge. Rhys follows. Dante doesn’t stop smiling beneath his mask.

“Someone was getting jealous again.”

Callum stands between my knees.

“She has two hands.”

“So?”

“One for each of them.”

I stare at the Scarecrow.

“Did you pick me up because you wanted my mouth to yourself?”

“Yes.”

Dante laughs hard enough to brace himself against the altar. Even Rhys’s shoulders move with suppressed amusement. Callum remains perfectly serious. I curl my fingers into his flannel shirt.

“You didn’t come earlier.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

His gaze burns through me.

“Color?”

“Green.”

Callum removes the shirt. His body is massive. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. Scars cross his torso—the history of a man raised among rusted machinery, sharp tools, and work that didn’t stop when he bled. A tattoo covers the left side of his chest. A black crow perched upon a crooked wooden cross. I press my palm over it. His heart pounds beneath my hand.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m trying not to throw them out.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”