Page 39 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dante

“I didn’t kill him.” I utter that declaration as I slam a wad of cash onto the bar while Arno watches me from across the room, a pool cue in hand.

Admittedly, some of the blood that drips from my fingers onto the bills might counter that statement, though no one in this room seems to give a damn either way.

“Is that what I’m supposed to tell the police when they come looking for you?

” Arno’s almost smiling as he twists a block of chalk onto the end of his cue.

Closing one eye, he lines his shot up—a yellow ball toward the corner pocket.

He shouts when he makes it and brandishes his fist toward the man who steps up next.

“Top that, you son of a bitch! Your secret’s safe with me, Kitty,” he grunts in my direction, his grin giving way to a colder expression.

“Dead or alive. I don’t really give a shit—just as long as you got my point across. ”

“His...memory’s been jogged,” I say while I hunt the bar counter for something to drink.

Rock music pulses and the bartender taps her foot in tune to the beat. Her dark eyes glance me over, lingering over the spot where my hips disappear beneath the edge of the counter.

“Can I get ya something?” she asks, her voice low and throaty.

“No.” I grit my teeth. My fingers flex, their sore knuckles throbbing, but the buzz at the back of my skull continues to grate on my nerves.

Beating up some punk for petty cash barely made a dent in the itch that demands to be scratched.

I consider asking Arno for another job or finding another asshole to pummel on the streets—anything to silence it.

“I told you to make that fucker into your man,” Arno says, sounding closer.

I turn and find him stepping beside me, up to the bar. He snaps his fingers at the bartender, and she smiles before turning to fish a bottle from the shelf, swaying her hips with every step.

Arno licks his lips at the display, but his mind is still on business when he slaps his hand over the bloody wad of bills and shoves it firmly toward me. “Take it. This is your spoil.”

I shove the money back toward him. “Don’t want it.”

When the bartender returns, I jerk my chin at the bottle she’s holding, and she silently pours two shots. Arno knocks his back with a grunt, but I sip mine slowly, savoring each burning rush of liquid down my throat.

Neither sip is enough. She’s in my veins—in my head—challenging every drop of liquor. My body hums, demanding something that won’t be satisfied no matter how many times I pound my fist into the face of whatever fucker Arno wants intimidated or whichever bastard is unlucky enough to cross my path.

“Another,” I choke out, and the woman’s barely topped me off before I down the next shot.

Then another. My body burns with the aftereffects when I finally stand and snatch for the money, leaving Arno there to flirt his way into the brunette’s pants.

I barely hear a word he says to me when I push my way through the men crowding the bar.

I take the stairs two at a time, gritting my teeth in lethal anticipation .

The blood already on my hands isn’t enough.

My skin craves more—specifically hers. I could tear her from limb to limb, and I bet her eyes wouldn’t even widen in shock.

That lamb’s already been nibbled at—she’s used to the snarls of the monsters who prowl the edges of her pen.

Even when I finally reach the door to the apartment and throw it open, she doesn’t flinch from her position on the couch.

She merely draws her knees up to her chin. Cautiously, she watches me slam the door and approach, but there is no fear in her gaze. Even when my hand lashes out, the tips of my nails grazing her wrist, she doesn’t make a sound.

I don’t expect her to stand when I miss though, placing herself directly into the line of fire from my fists should I decide to hit her.

I don’t know why the hell I don’t . My eyes flicker over her body instead, and my nostrils flare to register her scent.

She’s showered. Her hair is wet. She’s stolen another one of my shirts, and underneath it, I can make out the edges of what I think are my boxers.

I have to clench my teeth together and flex my fingers to send my blood surging again.

It flows through my heart and then straight down to where I need it the least. Her eyes watch me the entire fucking time.

It’s like she can sense the way I harden, thicken, and strain. She’s as smug as she is empty.

Something flashes through her gaze before I can name it.

Disgust? Her nose juts a little higher into the air.

The princess doesn’t enjoy being commanded, but her knees bend regardless and she lowers herself onto the floor—but it’s entirely of her own volition.

Through the shadows that paint the room gray, she stares me down, unafraid.

“Get up.” I turn on my heel and tear down the hall before she can obey.

The room is nearly dark when I enter it, and I don’t bother turning the light on as I strip my shirt off and toss it in a random direction.

My right shoulder twinges—a result of being overworked while beating a man half to death on Arno’s say-so .

Though, if I want to be honest, the bastard was merely a distraction. A toy. Fun. I want to take my rage out on something...real. Something that might scream when I go too far. Beg. Plead.

I want her to bleed.

As if following some cruel cue, she appears in the doorway uninvited. Apparently, the bitch just couldn’t save herself, and I certainly won’t do it for her.

“Come here.” I leave no room for hesitation this time when I beckon her with a finger as if toying with the invisible trigger to my own sanity. I shoot, and the bullet goes flying, delivering a dose of hatred right into the center of her chest.

Her eyes are wary now. She’s uncertain of just what I want. To strangle her? Get off by shoving my dick down her throat? She seems to mull over each possibility, her lips pursed. I want her to struggle, but I can almost sense her uncaring shrug. Either one works for me.

Damn her.

I step back when she starts forward until I hit the wall.

She’s paces away when my arm shoots out, sending her sprawling flat onto her ass, half onto the mattress and half off.

Her eyes widen, but her teeth seize her lip as if to hold a cry back.

Her gaze goes glassy, and like a true caged bird, she flies off.

.. But she’s not fast enough. Her soul smacks off the ceiling when I crouch over her, and she blinks, landing back down on the filthy cage lining.

She’s trapped inside her skin again, forced to watch as I bring my mouth close.

..grazing the tip of her nose before homing in on her ruined ear.

She smells like a mixture of old blood and cheap soap.

These past few days of filth have seeped into her pristine skin, dulling its luster.

Regardless, she still glows, still seemingly untouchable.

I can’t seem to even make a stain when my fingers encircle her throat and begin to press into the supple flesh.

She gurgles something unintelligible, turning her gaze up to the ceiling.

I can almost sense the fight rise and then die within her.

She wastes more energy on forcing her limbs to give up their instinctive urge to resist than she does trying to breathe.

She’s like a child, holding her breath and counting to ten in anticipation that the “scary time” will soon be over.

It’s such a fucking stupid comparison, but for some reason, I don’t squash it down as I finally let her go to sputter and wheeze beneath me.

Espi compared me to him. “Like father, like son.” Maybe I fucking am some sick fuck who can only feel in control at the expense of someone else’s pain.

My thoughts swim, threatening to crack the shell of my skull and escape.

Red drenches my vision. My hands sear with the need to punch, hit, attack, and the only way to ease it is to reach out and grasp the first thing I touch.

I’m not like him.

Old memories hitchhike on the air, sneaking into my lungs and clawing through my thoughts like roaches. He used to tiptoe into my room, trying his damn hardest to be silent—as if I hadn’t already been lying awake. I think he thought the stealth was doing me a fucking favor...

A lone moan scratches the air, too soft to be one of mine. I grabbed her , my nails biting into the skin of her arm. Scowling, I let go, swiping my hand against my hip as to wipe her off. It was like some part of me instinctively needed an anchor—something to tether me to reality.

“Turn over,” I growl.

Before she can, I flip her over myself and position her on her hands and knees, presenting her ass to me. Her head dips low, her forehead pressing into the twisted sheets. From between her legs, I can see her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip once again skewered by her teeth.

I pull back, exhaling sharply. Air hisses in and out of my lungs, weighed down like smoke.

The stench of her blood, sweat, and tears in the sheets is a bitter smell.

It chafes my nostrils when I try to ignore it and sink back down within the rage.

I want it to consume me. I want to take every violent emotion out on her.

But, when I glance down, her eyes hold me captive. Wide. Clear. Unafraid. We have both seen the devil and lived to tell about it—not that we fucking do. It’s not enough to merely bitch about evil; you emulate it.

“You think your fiancé is so terrible,” I tell her, my words landing with flecks of spit against her back. “You think you’re the only woman in the world to experience the pain of an abusive prick? Think again.” I chuckle darkly while she calmly stares back.