Page 41 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

But, somewhere between the front door and the couch, the buzzing dies down, and I slump onto the cushions instead.

I don’t sleep.

I breathe. I feel. I count every surging beat of my heart, and I tally up all the ways I’m still—biologically, at least—somewhat human.

Daniela

Lucifer is breaking me.

In three days, he’s cast five years’ worth of Vinny’s hard work down the drain. Lynn wouldn’t ask questions. Lynn wouldn’t defy. Lynn wouldn’t crave the fiery hell only the devil could deliver...

I would give anything in the world to be that cold shell of a woman again, if only for a second—it would certainly make it easier to drive a blade through my chest.

Lucifer has his own demons, it seems. Secrets he just won’t spill.

Vinny loved to spin the tale of the poor immigrant boy who—with “fucking hard work and determination” —grew up to be one of the most feared crime lords at the ripe age of twenty-nine.

He saw himself as an inspiration, I think.

He saw himself as a warning sign. The little, meek, poor boy most men picked on could one day grab a gun of his own.

His heart, hardened by years of neglect and bitter jealousy, could easily pull the trigger.

Monsters are never born—not the evilest and most demented, at least. They are made, forged within the fires of rage and pain .

Vinny and Lucifer have been cut from the same cloth, but they aren’t entirely similar—a bit like steel and silver. Both nearly identical at first glance but made from different materials at their core. One is meant mainly to adorn and be adorned. The other is for cutting. Carving. Slicing. Killing.

Which one was which?

Silver, I thought, picturing Vinny. Lucifer’s ice-blue eyes were pure steel.

He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like that he has to tolerate me.

It is so strange to be around someone so open in their hatred—someone who calls it what it is and doesn’t try to describe it as something else.

In Lynn’s world, violence was always garnished by love.

I love you, Daniela. I’ve done it all for you. I would bleed the world for you.

How ironic is it that Lucifer can’t even seem to hit me? Oh, he’s wanted to. Some moments, he’s even come close to it. I learned to steel myself around men when their shoulders tense or their eyes get mean. Vinny rarely showed restraint, and the warning signs were almost always followed by a blow.

Lucifer displays his anger in nearly the same way. Sometimes I’d swear he is about to lash out. But he still has yet to hit me.

Even when I’ve prodded him to.

You never ask a man—a beast—about his scars. Even Vinny, for all of his bravado and “success,” got touchy if someone remarked on his limp or stared too long at his unsteady gait. Touchy , as in he’d break their jaw—or, even worse, he’d give them a scar of their own to ogle.

Lucifer has thirty-three marks on his hips, each one carefully cut into the skin.

Not too deep. Not too light. Just enough to bleed, but not enough to draw attention.

It’s a careful method I taught myself. Poor Vinny learned within a week of moving me in that it was better if he stripped my room of razors and scissors.

One cut per day—just one—like a morbid trail of breadcrumbs left behind for a woman in danger of going insane .

Daniela was still there somewhere, screaming through pale skin. She wasn’t dead yet.

Vinny chalked the mutilation up to grief at first, but it wasn’t long before he realized that every cut on Lynn’s pure flesh was an insult to him. They were my way of saying that I wasn’t his, not really. Not back then.

I bite the memory back and drag myself upright, pulling on the gray boxers with my knife still inside the pocket.

Gray light streams in through the windows, fighting back the shadows that still linger stubbornly in the corners.

Shadows linger over me as well—dark marks over my hips and thighs and most likely my throat, left by groping fingers and brutal strength.

I wince when I stagger upright and make my way to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth. Wet my hair. I go through the motions of cleaning myself with a filthy washrag.

When I finally creep into the living room, I don’t expect to find Lucifer there, lounging lengthwise on the couch the same way a panther might lurk within a tree.

He’s asleep. His chest rises and falls in a steady but fast rhythm.

Without those eyes to give them harsh definition, the planes of his face softly catch the light.

He’s entirely angelic, the devil right before his tumultuous fall.

His bare chest ripples with tension, however, even in his sleep.

Muscles flex and twitch beneath tanned skin, constantly on edge.

If I go to touch him, he’ll spring away before my fingers even make contact.

I tiptoe around the outer edge of the room instead and make my way into the kitchen.

I find the box of Chunky Bites in a high cupboard, pour myself a bowl of it, and eat it dry with my fingers, watching Lucifer all the while.

Tattoos dot his skin, more deliberately etched than mine.

Letters span his neck, though I haven’t bothered to read the word they spell.

There’s also a six-pointed star over his left breast and a plain cross inked high onto his left hip.

More scars form subtler designs, spanning across his rib cage and his arms, but they aren’t neat like the ones I know he made himself .

It’s a strange sensation to watch him like this. In a matter of days, I’ve learned his body more intimately than I know Vinny’s, and I can’t help this greedy part of myself that feels compelled to memorize him. Every inch. Every strand of black hair. Every indigo hue of his eyes...

I claw each part of him away to horde somewhere inside myself, where no one will find him.

He doesn’t wake by the time I’m nearly finished with my dry cereal. I toy with the idea of taking a shower and sneaking on some of the deodorant the boy gave me—his borrowed clothing carefully hidden underneath the sink. I begin to shift toward it, keeping my gaze on Lucifer the whole while...

Then the door opens, flooding the room with the scent of alcohol and stale body odor more potent than my own.

“You.” Green eyes bore into mine, and I don’t even have the time to react before the red-haired man has crossed over to me and seized a handful of my hair. Using his grip like a leash, he drags my head down to hiss into my ear. “You stupid little bitch.”

He shoves me hard and I go flying. Wham!

I taste pain—wet, coppery, and vibrant—as my head ricochets off something and my shoulder strikes an even harder surface.

“Arno? What the hell?”

The growl taints the edges of my periphery, but before I can pinpoint the direction it’s coming from, someone seizes my shoulder and drags me forward.

The air changes. We’re in the hallway where there is no scent of lust or stale sweat or sugary cereal.

I tense up, instinctively trying to feel for the stairs, but the grip on my arm is insistent, and I’m dragged down every last one, stubbing my toe on the landing.

I stagger to keep my balance, still held by my hair. The red-haired man nearly wrenches part of it out by the root as he hauls me across a room that smells like cigarette smoke. I hear a door open, and I recognize this section of the flooring as it gives way to the rickety basement steps .

He doesn’t bother to drag me this time—he shoves, and I land on my knees two steps down.

A foot being rammed into my side kicks me down another four.

When the world finally stops spinning, I see flashes of light mingle with the otherwise dreary backdrop of the basement interior.

Standing before me, the red-haired man glowers, his eyes bloodshot.

“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me again what your little plan was supposed to achieve?”

I don’t know what he means, but I recognize the murderous tension in his left arm. I brace myself for the blow, and he doesn’t disappoint, slapping me hard across my already bruised cheek.

“Read.” He reaches for me again, pulling me by the arm to the table, where a cell phone lies upturned on the surface, its screen displaying a single text message.

My eyes stream. I have to blink twice to clear my vision enough to make out the words that speckle the screen.

No deal. Tell Lynn that I’ve remembered my purpose.

“I don’t see him rolling over to get you back,” the red-haired man growls. He says something else, the words dying down to nothing more than burning embers crushed beneath the inferno of terror that consumes me whole.

Vinny. Vinny. Vinny.

How could I have been so stupid?

I see nothing but the flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling as my hand slips into the boxers and encloses around the knife. I pull it out, feeling its weight against my palm. The next second, it’s on my neck, pressing, tearing, sawing...

“No.” The voice that stops me doesn’t belong to the red-haired man. His hand isn’t the one that snatches the knife away and leaves me slumped and breathless against the edge of the table.

I’m laughing. The sound trickles out, high-pitched and hysterical, mingling with the tears that fall unchallenged. I’ve remembered my purpose...

His purpose .

My demise.

All of us—these stupid, brutal, reckless men—were nothing more than playthings at the mercy of their puppet master.

“Keep laughing,” someone snarls. “I’ll fucking show you funny when I send him a new video and string you up by your—”

“Are you really that stupid?” I don’t recognize the woman who speaks. Her voice is a whip.

Even the red-haired man flinches beneath the bitter sting. “What the hell did you just—”