TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN
Zach Romano.
Leaning against the kitchen doorway like it belonged to him. His black hair was a mess, his blue eyes flat, unreadable, and his bare chest on full display, carved with muscle and shadow.
On his ribs, a tattoo stretched over olive skin, an Italian cross with Latin scrawled underneath.
Mors tua, vita mea.
Your death, my life.
I stared at the tattoo. Then, slowly, my eyes dropped to his torso. Abs, tight and low, vanishing into a pair of dark gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.
Bab Populer