Page 24 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

It’s good. I’m shoveling more into my mouth, more quickly than I can get it down.

It’s like I blink and the bowl is empty, and Lucifer is already snatching it away.

Before disappointment can really descend, he returns.

The bowl nearly overflows with more, and I take my time with the second helping—or at least I try to.

I devour every last bit of chunky, sugary “bites,” and then I down the milk so quickly that most of it winds up running down my chin.

I’m greedy. My tongue shoots out, tasting the remains of sugar that coat the rim of the bowl.

I hold it out to Lucifer, licked clean, but he isn’t as gracious with the servings this time. “You’ll get sick if you eat any more,” he says while marching over to throw the bowl and the spoon into the sink.

I think he’s right. Already, my stomach is trying to adjust to painful emptiness, sudden fullness, and the poisonous effects of alcohol. I draw my knees up to my chin and bury my face between them, just in case, but it isn’t long before the nausea dissipates.

“Last night.” Lucifer uses the two words to draw my attention back to him. He stands behind the counter, bracing both of his hands on top of it. “You said that you had an idea to pay back Stacatto.”

He’s prompting me for something, but my memories are a tangled ball that hurts to unravel. I grimace. Last night...

Oh. I remember now. I claimed that I’d willingly sleep with a man, on camera no less, just to make Vinny seethe. God, I wish I’d been lying. Alcohol is a powerful truth serum, it seems.

“He won’t care,” I say haltingly, trying to justify the boast, “if...if I’m r-raped—” My teeth chatter over the words. “He’ll expect it. But if I was willing...”

Vinny’s perfect Lynn would never be so brazen. He’d be furious—more than that. For all of my bravado, I can’t even imagine it. I rest my head on my knees instead and shut my eyes against that violent truth.

“He won’t negotiate otherwise.”

“Negotiate?” Lucifer’s voice is an almost-amused drawl. “What makes you think that Ar... we want anything in return for you?”

I lift my shoulder in an artless shrug. So it is true—these men only aim for revenge. How pathetic. It’s such...such a waste. Vinny will be able to make his Lynn a martyr, justifying more of his madness, and these men will just suffer a grisly end for their defiance.

It’s all enough to make me sigh, which rustles the loose ends of my hair.

“You need a shower,” Lucifer declares, his tone wrought with disgust.

“Why?” My voice is a tired croak. My body prefers to wallow beneath a layer of misery and pain. It smells better on me than Vinny’s false perfume and cologne. I just want it over with. If these men want me, they’ll just have to contend with the blood.

“ Why ?” Lucifer doesn’t like being questioned. He turns each one of mine into a verbal missile that lands with an impact that makes me wince. “Because, when you plead for your life, you might want to look like less of a used-up coke whore.”

A part of me stings beneath the harsh assessment. Then I register the rest of his words with a frown. Plead? I groan with the effort it takes to lift my head and meet his gaze. I intend to contradict him—hell, he could kill me himself, here and now. It wouldn’t matter.

But he’s ready for me. “You want your revenge against Stacatto? Then do what the fuck I say.” He cuts his gaze toward the hallway. “Clean yourself up.”

Gino would never talk to me like this. It’s such a stupid, senseless thought, but there it is, shining on the edge of my periphery.

Obeying anyone other than Vinny is a strange sensation.

It’s almost like sleepwalking. A part of me wants to deny him, shut him out until the merciful end finally comes.

But Lucifer knows his prey well, and he’s paired a carrot with the whacking stick. You want your revenge?

“W-what do you mean?” I ask, fumbling with my sore jaw and my swollen lip.

He doesn’t answer. He crosses over to me instead, and I know I can’t hide my fear when his hand shoots out. Giving me an odd look, he snatches up the shirt and then heads down the hallway. Even in the absence of a verbal command, his orders ring clear. Follow.

I linger for a few precious seconds, wavering on the sweet edge of surrender and curiosity. The latter one wins, and I find that Lucifer is waiting for me at the mouth of the bathroom when I stagger toward it.

The shower roars, already running. It’s only a matter of stripping what remains of my underwear and climbing into the tub.

Lucifer watches me, his gaze shameless. He’s easy to ignore once the water pelts my body, however.

I gasp, the harsh sound catching at the back of my throat.

The heat awakens old nerve endings that flare beneath a mixture of abuse and sharp pain.

Gritting my teeth, I manage to stoop for a rag and a bar of soap that already litter the basin of the tub.

Washing myself is a slow, mechanical dance.

For a moment, I’m far away from this apartment.

From Lucifer. I’m safe inside my head, going through the motions.

I wash my hair. I clean my skin with a rough bit of friction until I realize that most of the spots of “dirt” I’m rubbing at are really bruises.

I still feel marginally better when I wring the last bit of blood out of the rag, though I school my face into a blank mask rather than let Lucifer suspect as much.

He watches me shut the water off. Then he tosses a towel at me and continues to stare as I dry myself off. I don’t know if it’s lust in his gaze or disgust. His expressions are nearly impossible to read. I try anyway, probing them mercilessly.

At some point, he must become bored by the scrutiny, because he approaches the sink. He washes his hands and then fishes his toothbrush from behind the counter. He brushes swiftly, but I’m not prepared for the moment he rinses it off and then offers it to me.

My hand shakes when I take it and stumble out of the tub to stand before the sink. There’s an almost compulsive need to erase the taste of alcohol, blood, and sugar from the inside of my mouth. I brush twice, scrubbing until the water I rinse with comes out tinged red.

I’m a skeletal figure who dominates the mirror when I finally glance up to observe my reflection.

Lucifer is standing behind me, his face a mocking contrast from my bruised, swollen one.

I reach out, tracing my bottom lip with the pad of my thumb.

It stings in protest. Vinny would scowl at the sight of me—he always made sure never to strike me on the face to ensure that his transgressions against my skin could always be covered up for the days he liked to pretend he still loved me.

It’s a bitter thought. My soul aches beneath the smarting sting, and I can’t hide it. My eyes are wide open and empty, spilling out emotion to circle the drain along with the mess I wash off the toothbrush.

“Here,” Lucifer says when I turn away from the mirror. He hands me the shirt again.

My fingers tremble...but I take it and slip it on over my head.

His borrowed clothes work like armor when I gather up the nerve to face my reflection again.

The roll of duct tape rests on the top of the toilet, and I bite off another square and replace the bandage over my ear.

The ruined flesh stings, but already, it’s starting to heal, scabbing over into a jagged, rust-colored edge.

I wet my fingers and use them like a comb to run through my ragged, tangled hair. I manage to claw most of it into submission. Then I wet another washcloth and carefully dab the traces of blood from around my mouth.

I must be decent enough, because Lucifer finally pulls away from the counter with a sigh and heads back into the living room. I follow him, feeling naked beneath his shirt, which fits me much like a shapeless dress.

“Wait here,” he commands before undoing the locks of what I assume to be the front door. Then he’s gone, slamming it behind him so fiercely that a piece of chipped paint breaks off and hits the floor.

Dante

“Ah...there he is. The big man.”

It’s barely eight a.m. and Arno’s already drunk.

His bloodshot eyes glare as I cross the bar.

He has two bottles before him. One looks half empty.

He pours some of the liquid from the other into a fresh shot glass and knocks it back, hissing at the taste.

“You wanted to fuck her first. Is that it?” he demands.

“I would have let you have the first bite. You only need ask—”

“She has a plan.” The words seem ripped from my chest against my will. Frowning, I approach a barstool and sit.

Two of Arno’s thugs linger around the edges of the room, pretending to play pool, but their suspicious gazes irritate the back of my neck.

“The girl,” I grunt when Arno doesn’t react. “She has a plan of her own for getting back at Stacatto.”

Arno laughs and pours himself another shot. “Let me guess.” He props a finger beneath his chin and pretends to mull it over. “We send her back with a pat on the ass and she’ll beg her fiancé to apologize for treating my sister like a fucking whore?”

“No,” I say, my gaze on the counter. Something that might be.

..fuck, admiration? It swells in my chest before I can swallow it down.

“One man. No chains. The camera. She says she’d do it willingly.

” Even I have to admit that it’s sadistic as fuck.

No man would stomach watching his woman being raped by other men—but if she willingly sullied herself just to erase his touch?

Screwed a stranger on camera for no reason other than to prove that, despite wearing his ring, she owed him no loyalty?

That’s the kind of shit that fucks with a man’s head. It sets the fires of rage that can’t be easily smothered. It’s the kind of twisted mind game that starts a war.