Page 19 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

An unexpected tension tightens my spine when I push the door open and enter the narrow entryway.

Excitement? Anticipation? The thrill of the hunt never ceases to amuse a rabid dog, after all—but I don’t find her in the small living room or the tiny kitchen nook that branches off it.

The entire level is silent. The little bitch could have truly pressed her luck and run, if I couldn’t still sense her scent, even from here.

It’s faint, but with a pull like that of a fishing line dragging me forward, down the hall, and to the doorway of the only bedroom.

She’s on the bed. Scratch that—she’s passed out, deep-as-fuck asleep on the bed.

Her hair is a nest around her shoulders.

One of her legs is twisted within the navy comforter and something that could be drool dribbles from her slightly parted lips and onto the pillowcase.

Her chest rises and falls heavily. It’s like she’s sleeping on a fucking cloud.

Hell, it’s almost ironic: She’s Goldilocks, curled up on the bed of a killer.

“Get up.” I cross over the mattress in two strides and kick the edge of it—hard.

She jolts awake, blinking as she struggles to get her bearings. She mumbles something, and her right hand flies out toward me, the fingers outstretched. It’s a silent but universal command. Help me up.

That act more than anything proves that the little bitch is old money, used to having someone wait on her hand and fucking foot.

She seems dazed when I don’t take the hand she’s offering.

I see her eyelids flutter as she slowly registers the unfamiliar scenery of the room.

Then she sees me, and her hand flies to her side, the fingers clenching tight.

It takes her three tries to stand upright on her own, but she’s already steadier than she was less than an hour ago.

I know she’ll follow when I jerk my head toward the doorway and turn on my heel, leaving her to catch up.

She staggers after me, clinging to the wall for balance.

The steps are tricky. She takes her time, and I have to wait at the foot of them for nearly five minutes before she finally descends the bottom step.

The little princess’s modesty is showing now that we’re on the lower level.

Her nostrils flare like a wounded doe sensing the inevitable stench of nearby predators; she can hear Arno pacing just a few feet away.

Her fingers flutter to the edge of my shirt, which hangs down past her knees.

She flattens her hands out as if to glue the fabric in place as I lead her to the basement door.

I don’t wait for her to descend the stairs this time.

She flinches when I take her wrist and haul her forward; I ignore how she pants as she’s forced to keep up.

The basement’s already fully lit. Either someone was here before us or no one bothered to lock up after last night.

The table and the chair are still there. So is that fucking laptop.

“Sit,” I tell her, cutting my gaze toward the center of the room .

She takes her time, moving with such regal little steps.

It’s as if no one’s told her yet that she’s no longer in her high palace.

A part of me wants to ruin the fantasy for her.

My hands twitch at my sides, aching to shove her forward just to see how she’ll react if she’s pushed onto her knees.

Arno’s invitation makes for a sick temptation.

I never got off on violence against women, but something in me just can’t fucking resist the curiosity of what she’ll do when those men surround her.

How she’ll react. What kind of pleas will that haughty mouth form in order to save her own life?

“It won’t work.”

For a moment, I think I’ve conjured her voice—but it’s too hoarse, even for my twisted imagination. Her accent is a rare weakness she fights to rein in.

“It won’t work.”

I shouldn’t respond at all, but the question is instinctive. Fucking curiosity. “What?”

“This.” She directs the word to the wall as she sits, tucking her bare feet neatly beneath her chair, her hands settling on her lap.

“Whatever you plan to do to me...for Vinny. It won’t work.

” The words seem pleading enough, but she doesn’t sound like she’s begging.

Her voice is too coldly detached. Factual.

“Violence doesn’t faze men like him.” Her eyes seek mine out from over her shoulder, unexpectedly steady.

“He’ll see it as my honor to die for him. ”

“He’ll get his wish,” I say.

She nods, accepting her death with the same grace with which most people accept the weather report. She doesn’t resist her fate. The doe accepts that it’s merely a doe caught in the middle of a rift between wolves.

In silence, she faces the wall again, her back toward me, and for the first time, I realize just how small she truly is. Just a sliver of a woman who seems liable to melt through the gaps in the structure of the metal folding chair she sits on.

Whatever her purpose, I hope Arno finishes with her quickly. I don’t want to see her when I return, and I don’t look back when one of his men descends the stairs not even a minute later to silently take my place keeping “an eye.”

In five minutes, I’m out on the street. The scent of the city calls to me, beckoning with countless toys to amuse an old dog. I’m eager to seek out every last one and discover what I’ve missed out on for five damn years. After all, Arno’s not the only one capable of learning new tricks.

I’m back in Mulligans by noon. There’s no sign of Espi among the few patrons who crowding around the bar—but the kid’s only partly the reason I’ve returned.

Irritation sings through my blood. The kind of itch you can’t scratch.

That buzzing impulse you can’t shake—you can only surrender to it.

It’s the same urge that drives a junkie to get high or a dog to bury its bones.

That fucking burn that makes a mosquito bite sting.

There’s an unbearable need to just dig at the infected wound until it bleeds; only then can you satisfy that craving.

Stacatto’s bitch is a drug—and not even the good shit like dope or coke. She is nothing more than nicotine, addicting only when it’s set on fire and left to burn.

Arno’s men pay me no mind when I barrel through the main room of the pub. It’s only when I head for the door to the basement that someone puts a hand on my shoulder, his voice a warning octave.

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, friend .”

I don’t waste time on words when I shrug him off. Then I reach for the door and wrench it open. I’m down the rickety staircase before anyone can try to hold me back, but when I enter the room, I merely take a spot against the wall and watch.

Arno’s finally descended into hell to meet his captive.

Green eyes clash with hazel ones—they’re an odd match.

He towers over her, his standing body positioned above her seated one.

He leans down so that his mouth rests beside her ruined ear, but she doesn’t seem to flinch.

Not even when he curls his hand beneath her chin and forces her to make eye contact.

It’s not long before I realize why. Her gaze is distant again. She’s anywhere but here in this room.

“Smile pretty,” Arno says, his voice a chilling murmur. “Let’s give that fiancé of yours something to keep him up at night.”

He draws his hand back and then slaps her. A choked sound rips from her throat at the impact. I assume that it’s a moan. Then it comes again and there’s no mistaking the faint haunting sound for what it truly is: a giggle.

Arno’s “boys” don’t seem to know whether to laugh or growl. Their master is stoic; he merely watches, analyzing every inch of his prey.

“It’s not enough. It won’t bruise,” the woman explains, her eyes glassy. “You’ll have to hit me harder than that—”

Arno fulfills her request. He forms a fist and smashes it against her cheek—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock her off the chair, onto her hands and knees.

She’ll bruise, all right. One of her slim hands flies up to her mouth, catching the blood that trickles from a torn corner of her lip.

She’s quick and efficient about it, and the scarlet gleams against her pale skin when she braces her fingers against the floor.

“Wait for it to show,” Arno commands, slamming a digital camera down on the table. “Then take a picture. Make it pretty. ”

He’s gone before he notices me standing here, so consumed by his plans for revenge. While he stomps up the stairs, one of his men approaches the girl. He chuckles and reaches out to finger a strand of her black hair.

“Don’t bruise up too badly,” he tells her. “I want to put that mouth to good use.”

She flinches, and for the first time, something that could be fear flashes through her dark eyes. The next second, it’s smothered, whatever it is, and her gaze is blank again.

“Get up.” I take a step toward her.

Almost as if she’s moving in slow motion, she turns her head in my direction. She cranes her neck, sending that curtain of hair over one shoulder. It takes her eyes a few seconds to focus on me, regaining clarity like a camera’s lens is forced to adjust and dilate.

Say cheese.

She gets up slowly, wincing with every movement.

One of her hands flutters as if she’s fighting down that ingrained habit of sticking it out to demand assistance.

Stacatto kept her well maintained, it seems. His influence is obvious in the way she reacts even to Arno’s men.

She’s a deer desensitized to the horrors of the wolf den.

“Sit,” I tell her when she finally stands, facing me.