Long black fingernails would trace over your skin... he thought you'd make a beautiful corpse. He always told you about it when you visited his funeral parlor.

You were a pure angel, Undertaker thought, and you were led to a place of death. He'd listen for your carriage while inside his parlor.

Still, those hands that could create death itself would touch you as if your skin was made of flower petals.

His grim words, his chartreuse eyes, his undeniable power—but his kiss was so soft.