Page 4 of Ma Petite Mort

Blood sprays across Bjorn’s chest in a hot, arterial mist. It streaks down his tattoos, glistening like war paint. The man goes limp in his hands, his body twitching once before going still—a ruined pulp of red and bone at Bjorn’s feet.

The crowd loses their fucking minds.

Someone screams. Someone else howls. A woman moans so loud it sounds like she’s coming just from the kill.

Bjorn lets the body drop, casual as sin, his hand dripping in gore.

He turns, his jaw flexing, nostrils flared. Blood slicks down his stomach, his face, the edge of his beard.

He looks like a goddamn altar come to life.

And he’s looking at me.

I smile sweetly, licking my lips, and ohhh fuck me sideways.

I melt. Right there.

Like a candle made of pure crazy.

Bjorn doesn’t just look at me.

He consumes me.

Like fire licking at gasoline. Like a prayer right before the plunge.

My stomach tightens. My breath catches. My whole body goes hot and tight like a bowstring begging to snap.

Then he grips the silks with one massive paw and yanks.

I fall.

Straight into him.

Chest to chest. Skin to sweat-slicked skin.

My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, and I swear I could purr.

He catches me like I’m sacred. Like I’m sin. Like I’m both at the same time.

“Ma petite mort,” he growls, brushing his lips against my cheek.

Shivers? Fucking everywhere.

And then I see it—his jaw, his chest, his hands—slick and dripping in fresh blood. Still warm, still steaming in the torchlight.

The man he just shattered? Already forgotten.

His blood, though? Still fresh. Still warm and slick across Bjorn’s chest like a fucking masterpiece.

And me?

I’m soaked just looking at him.

The bloodier he gets, the wetter I get. That’s just math, baby.

And then he speaks, his voice low, and dark, dragging over my skin like a blade dressed in silk.

That voice could kill a weaker woman.