The Devil's Broken Doll
His mouth was sinful in that lazy, careless way—full lower lip, sharper upper, currently pressed into a line that said nothing and everything all at once.
And his eyes. They were not fully human. Too bright. Too intense. A colour that might have been amber in daylight, but here, in the half-dark, seemed to hold embers. No glow, not like the Beast.
But the memory of that molten fire echoed in them. Something in their depths moved when he blinked, like banked coals shifting under ash.
Her heart stuttered.
No.
Her gaze snagged on the ink.
A swirling tattoo painted his right arm from shoulder to wrist—black sigils twisting over his bicep, winding down his forearm. It didn’t stop there. The marks
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