Page 32 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

I don’t let on though. I spit, rinse the bristles, and then return it to the cabinet.

I use my hands to splash water onto my face, scrubbing at the crust that’s formed around my eyes.

I shut off every sensation but the mechanical motions.

I almost succeed in blocking her out completely, but when I turn for the shower, she’s still there.

Her eyes home in on the moisture sliding down my chin.

I don’t think she notices my hand shoot past her to wrench the shower faucet on until the water switches on amid the squeal of rusty plumbing.

Then she scuttles out of reach while I strip my bloodied shirt and jeans.

Her eyes trace my calves as I shed my boxers though, and I know she’s making note of the scars on my hips.

Fuck her.

The rag I gave her is near the drain, and I stoop to make use of it myself.

Her blood is on it, but I pretend not to notice the pinkish stains and drag it over any part of me I can reach.

I pay her no attention as I douse myself beneath the shower spray, taking my damn time.

Only when the water goes cold do I step out of the tub.

Naked, I pad across the floor and enter the hallway, pretending that she isn’t watching my every step.

I slam the door behind me, cutting her view off.

Then I take my time fishing for a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

I don’t bother to towel off, and the moisture causes the clothing to cling to my damp skin, but anything is better than the inevitable question of what will happen if I use any sort of friction on a certain part of my anatomy.

It’s a pain in the ass to get the zipper up.

It’s more uncomfortable to move. It’s harder to walk.

My cock is a stubborn, ignorant, greedy fuck, and I almost entertain the idea of attempting to get myself off alone.

I run a hand down my thigh, but my dick doesn’t react.

I think of a pair of pink, broken lips parting for me and it fucking jumps.

My fingers curl, strangling the air. Fuck her. Fuck her.

Arno can take her from here.

I have myself convinced of that when I enter the hall and barrel straight toward the kitchen.

I snatch the milk from the fridge and drink right from the jug.

Then I fish out a carton of eggs, crack two, pour them into a glass, and knock them back raw.

I wash the gruesome mixture down with chunks of bread ripped right off the loaf.

It isn’t until I start to clean up the mess that I realize she’s watching me from the couch.

I stiffen, but I don’t understand what makes me shove the bread across the counter, though I never voice an invitation to her out loud.

She rises anyway. She stole the shirt I left in the bathroom and is wearing it over the shit Arno gave her.

I don’t react as she comes closer. I swallow the rest of the milk and tear off another slice of bread just as she cautiously prods the loaf with slim fingers.

She observes the substance carefully, turning it over in her hands.

I imagine that she’s used to better breakfast options: omelets and shit shoved right down her fucking throat, served on a silver spoon. Just when I think she’ll refuse, she takes a delicate bite and swallows. Her expression is guarded, but she doesn’t hesitate to chew off another small piece.

“If you want eggs, you can make them yourself,” I tell her, pushing past her to stand on the opposite side of the room.

“I don’t know how.”

I cock my head, eyeing her over my shoulder.

A part of me wants to sneer at her admission; of course a pampered bitch wouldn’t know how to cook.

But then I remember my own limitations—what it felt like as a kid to be too terrified to use the stove, so I’d force myself to eat the eggs raw instead and be fucking grateful for a full stomach.

I don’t like relating to her, even on such a small, superficial scale .

“Then don’t eat them,” I snarl.

She nods, unconcerned by the venom in my tone. Then she skirts around the counter to gather up the carton and return it to the fridge. Her back is to me, but I can almost count her heartbeats by the trembling ripples that shake her back. “D-did you send it?”

“Arno has it.” I face the wall, eyeing the nicks and dents left by only God knows how many previous owners. “I don’t know if he has yet.”

“He’ll kill you, you know,” she says, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. “You didn’t cover your face. He’ll—”

“He can get in fucking line.” Someone like Stacatto is the least of my worries. The only bastard I fear these days lived within my own skin.

“You’re not afraid.”

Well, give the woman a medal. I turn to face her, expecting to find her gaping at me wide-eyed. She stares me down instead. There’s no clue as to whether or not she’s impressed by how easily I blow off a man she seems to fear. In fact, I’d stake my life on the guess that she isn’t one damn bit.

“No,” I say, searching her gaze for any hint as to what she thinks of that. They’re guarded up tight. She’s not so brazen when she’s not in front of a camera, it seems.

“He’s killed for less,” she says simply.

“In front of you?” I don’t know what made me ask. The princess hides bloodied hands beneath her kidskin gloves. Maybe some sick part of me gets off on making her relive it. The horror. The pain. If so, the jagged emotion that runs through my chest when she flinches doesn’t travel down to my cock.

“Yes...”

I don’t expect her to elaborate, but she leans back against the fridge, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s killed in front of me before. Sometimes, he makes me play for him while he does it. ”

“Play?” I clip the word, so it comes out less of a question, but she answers me anyway. It’s almost like she can’t resist the urge to talk—or at least do something besides sit and wait for the inevitable.

“Cello.” There’s a hoarse, aching note in her voice I can’t miss.

Cello. I picture two instruments resembling the basic shape of a violin, but I’m not exactly sure which is which.

“I taught myself,” she adds, and an unmistakable hint of pride colors her tone.

“Where I grew up...we used to live near a community theater, and some days, they offered free lessons. My father was a janitor there, and when I went with him to work, I’d sneak into the music storage rooms and play when—” She breaks off, her lips sealing shut.

Her gaze drifts to the corners of the room. She said too much.

“So, this man,” I hear myself say once she’s been quiet for over a minute. “You’d rather die than go back to him.”

She nods, though we both know that it wasn’t a question.

I feel my eyebrow lurch. “So, why marry him in the first place?”

When her cheeks redden, I expect the usual superficial reasons women like her use to excuse their own greed. He took care of me. He wasn’t always like this. I love him.

Instead, she swells up, almost seeming to rise up onto the tips of her toes, and both of her hands clench the rim of the counter behind her.

“I had no choice.” The words tear out of her and echo off the walls.

It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard her speak.

The little lamb’s braying almost holds the edge of a growl now.

“If I didn’t, he would—” She stops herself again.

Then she cradles her forehead in the palm of her hand, and her body deflates, leaving her about two feet tall.

“I used to run away. Before. Sometimes I’d break away in public, where everyone could see.

I’d try to leave. I wanted to run.” She shakes.

Her voice quickly deepens to a moan, but she can’t seem to stop the flow of words that overtake her.

“Then he brought me ‘gifts.’ Maids. Girls who could barely speak a word of English and were only meant to wait on me hand and foot. If I disobeyed him...he would use them to punish me.”

“How?” I know even before I see the expression that crosses her face that the bastard didn’t employ very orthodox methods.

“He’d...hurt them,” she says as if struggling to get the words out.

“The first girl, her name was Sabina. He slit her throat when I told him that I didn’t want to go out for lunch.

” She chokes on a strangled sob and then swallows it back down.

Her eyes gleam. The memories may torment her, but she won’t let him control her here.

“I tried to avoid learning their names after that. It was easier... And I tried. I tried to obey him. I tried to keep them alive. God, I tried. I tried .”

“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” I tell her.

A mad dog can only control its impulses for so long before the leash begins to chafe—a fact I know better than most. The sky could be too blue one day or the wind too chilly.

If he feels the urge, a true monster can come up with any reason at all to take his rage out on someone else.

“H-he didn’t like my hair,” she stammers, proving my point.

“My clothes. My face. My posture. Nothing I did kept him happy for long. And, when he gave me his ring...” She bites her lip as if to trap the painful revelations inside.

She lasts for about a second before they spill out regardless.

“I thought he might finally do it. Rape me.” She lifts her shoulder in a casual shrug as if the thought of violence no longer even fazes her.

“God...a part of me almost wanted him to. Maybe then he’d finally grow bored once I had nothing left. ”

She stares back at me, a ghost of a woman with soulless, empty eyes.

It’s such a stark contrast from the vixen who starred in her own sex tape less than twenty-four hours ago.

There is nothing remotely comforting I can say, so I don’t say anything.

We merely stare, two dark, twisted animals who refuse to shy away from the brutality revealed in the other’s gaze.