Page 31 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Daniela

They leave me here. In this room. On this bed. Drowning beneath his scent and mine. The sheets are a prison. The ones hanging from the walls drape me in shadow. I’m a twisted, shallow shell of a creature who doesn’t truly know what she even is anymore.

My head swims with him. The things he made me feel. What I wanted to feel...

I’m sore and throbbing between my legs. When I slide a hand down my stomach, there’s only wet skin, still burning from the heat of his mouth.

My eyes slam shut while my fingers do things I don’t tell them to.

Rub. Twist. Touch . They mimic him, but the feeling isn’t the same.

It’s a slow, painful burning that only intensifies when my mind pairs my own ministrations with dangerous, twisted thoughts.

Images, really. His face. Those eyes. The sounds he made when sheathed inside me to the hilt.

My head goes back as my fingers quicken.

My stomach bunches and tightens into knots.

My eyes roll within their sockets. I cry out once and then drive my teeth into my lower lip to silence the sound.

Breathless and shaking, I rock against my own hand, forced to picture him.

Taunted by him. Haunted by him. Then everything in me loosens again, all at once, and I unravel.

My eyes are wet when my body finally goes limp, and the only thing I can do is pant. I draw my hand away and let it fall to my side, aching and pathetic. My lungs heave for air, struggling to push out the unwanted stench of musk and rage that taints a man like Lucifer.

I almost succeed. Almost. Then I move and my body flares to life with the aftermath of being filled by him all over again.

I hate him. I hate him more than Vinny. More than the red-haired man. More than Gino and Nicolai. More. More. More. No matter the evil comparison, it still isn’t hateful enough.

The only course of action I have left to take is to crawl from the mattress and stagger into the bathroom.

The lights are already on, and they illuminate everything about me in harsh clarity.

My bloodshot eyes watch me accusingly from the mirror’s surface.

I’m dressed like a whore. Part of the duct tape on my ear is starting to peel off, revealing the gaping wound underneath.

My hair is a mess. My lips are bloody. Angry little crescent-moon-shaped marks dot my skin, left by.

..nails. Fingernails. Greedy, grasping fingernails. ..

My head swims when I turn my back on the mirror and yank the lacy bra off.

Then I stagger into the shower stall and turn the water on as hot as possible—the highest setting.

Steam drifts up, distorting everything beneath its presence.

My skin is on fire, but bit by bit, the pieces of himself that Lucifer left behind circle the drain along with everything else.

I strip myself of every inch of him. Then I recollect my thoughts, centering them around the only thing that matters: I was free. Vinny would see the video and...well, whatever happens after, I most likely wouldn’t be around to see.

The sobering thought drives me to shut the water off.

With no towel in sight, I settle for drying myself off using the bedsheets.

Then I re-don my video “costume” and sit, bracing my back against the wall.

Then I stand. I tap my foot against the floor.

I pace. Despite the restlessness, I’m fine until I misstep and my toes cringe away from something rubbery.

..wet. I glance down and the world sways.

The next second, I’m backing out of the room and then the apartment altogether.

The hallway’s deserted. It’s late, I assume.

A flickering light bulb casts unsteady illumination and even harsher shadows.

The door to Lucifer’s lair is across the hall.

I wonder if he’s there. Can he sleep? Does he remember his promise?

My finger drifts up to graze a burning trail across my throat. It’s not that hard to imagine it. With his strength alone, he could make it quick. With his icy temper, he could make it slow.

I’m not sure now which one I prefer.

My finger still trembles when I reach back and find the doorknob to the showroom.

I should go back inside. Who knows what the red-haired man plans to do with me next.

Until Vinny sees that tape, I’m still at his mercy.

The fact that he went along with my little plan means nothing.

Revenge taints things, even deals between enemies.

My foot twitches against the floor. I need to go back inside.

I shouldn’t stagger forward, trailing my hand along the wall for balance while the other tugs the apartment door shut behind me.

It is a long, slow journey to Lucifer’s red door.

My heart falters the entire way. When my fingers finally brush the wooden door, I can only sense silence on the other side of it.

Curling my fingers into a shaking fist, I knock once to no answer.

My knees curl instinctively, and I slide down to the floor, leaning against the wall. My hair shields the rest of the hall from me. Staring at a sliver of red paint, I can almost imagine that I’m truly in hell, at the mercy of my very own custom devil.

I’m shaken awake when the world shifts under me. Something slams into my elbow, and I blink my eyes open in confusion. The red door is gone, revealing a portal of darkness in its place. A demon stands over me as if prepared to shove me through it, and I glance up into an icy-blue gaze.

He has his arm extended above me, clenching the doorknob in one hand while the other dangles by his side, curled into a loose fist. There is blood on his fingertips.

Even more speckles his shirt. Fear mingles with dread, and I shift back against the doorjamb.

Only now do I realize he already has the door open.

He tears his gaze away from me and steps over my curled legs. I wait for him to slam the door in my face. Maybe a part of me even wants him to—but the bastard leaves it open, and I can’t resist the part of me that scuttles over the threshold and kicks it shut with my foot.

We stay like this for what feels like an eternity.

A million questions well in my throat to fill the silence.

Where was he? Was the tape sent? What will happen next?

My teeth lock them away, however, so I settle for watching him instead.

His back is turned to me. He doesn’t move an inch, and the shadows drape us both as if struggling to conceal the naughty little secret we share.

Tension swallows me down whole. I wonder if he’s affected, but almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind, he’s already headed down the hall and into the bedroom. The door slams shut behind him, hard enough to jar the entire damn building, it seems like.

Sighing, I slump against the wall. My borrowed lingerie itches. The shower did little to ease the all-consuming ache that encases me from head to toe. It doesn’t diminish any when I curl my knees up against my chin and rest the good side of my face on top of them.

It just lingers, seeping into my bones like the tendrils of fear sown by Vinny that will never ever fully leave. The devil’s made his mark on my skin for all of eternity .

Whether we both like it or not.

Dante

I wake up hungover and painfully hard. My soul is hard. My resolve to find Espi, whether he wants me to or not, is even harder. My cock is steel...

It’s a defect I struggle to ignore, gritting my teeth until I taste the damn enamel being ground away.

When I lift my head and shrug the blankets off, I don’t find Stacatto’s whore lurking within one of the corners.

I vaguely remember leaving her by the door, but for all I know, she could have run.

Or maybe Arno’s men had gotten bored and decided to “borrow” her for the night?

It’s not the thought that drives me to my feet, and I wince as blood rushes to my throbbing head—both of them. I have to piss—maybe brush the fucking taste of that woman, blood, and booze from my mouth while I’m at it. Those are the concerns that drive me into the hallway.

I don’t notice that the bathroom light is already on until I’m over the threshold, nearly running into the slim figure leaning against the sink.

Her ass juts out, her pale hand clutching the sink’s basin like it’s the only thing capable of holding her up.

She has my toothbrush clenched between her teeth.

Apparently, she’s as eager to scrub away the taste of my cock as I am to erase her.

Her eyes meet mine as she woodenly manipulates the toothbrush before removing it from her mouth and spitting.

Wordlessly, she turns the faucet on, washing her mess away.

Then she holds her hand out, presenting the toothbrush to me.

I take it, easily muscling her body away from the sink and against the tub.

My eyes narrow as I make a show of sticking the bristles beneath the running water and grinding them beneath my thumb, chasing her essence out.

But it’s as futile as picking up a dropped piece of food from the floor and pretending that unseen bacteria haven’t already tainted it.

I take a leap of faith when I slather the brush in toothpaste and shove it against my tongue.

One hard scrub and I know I failed; she clings to the surface, and I’m grinding her taste between my teeth.