Page 64 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

Donahugh tries to talk when I take a step toward him.

His head lolls and a stream of drool dribbles down his lip, speckling his cleanly shaven chin.

I keep walking. I size him up the way Lucifer scrutinized me, deciding within a second which place to strike in order to cause the most damage.

Lucifer chose my heart, driving himself into the fragile organ like a nail.

I choose Donahugh’s meaty left fist when I stoop down and drag the blade of my knife across the tops of his outstretched fingers.

It’s not hard enough to break the skin, merely a little taste to make him flinch.

The next cut does the trick, however: a tiny nick in the flesh that draws forth a ruby smear of fresh blood. At the sight of it, memories flood back, hemorrhaging beneath my skull.

Play, Vinny told me once as he crept into my room at night. He woke me up and made me sit groggily on the edge of my bed, with my cello between my legs and my bow in hand. Then he stripped down to nothing but his boxers and stuck his hand inside them. Play.

He watched me while I performed, stroking himself—but it wasn’t the cadence of the music or the quick, precise movements of my fingers that made his pleasure creep higher.

Oh, no. It was my mistakes. With every one, his eyes would flash an alarming shade of amber that always made me tighten up in anticipation of a blow.

The worst part came once he took the boxers off, freeing his cock.

I made the most mistakes then, and he would count each one out loud as they occurred.

Classical music was always one of his passions, but he studied it to the point of obsession once I moved in.

For me , he claimed. He knew the exact note of every concerto, solo, or suite I played.

He memorized every variation of the tune down to the last detail if only to know when and how I made a mistake.

At the end of my little performance, he would tally up my flaws and recite them like a spoken-word poem to accompany my song. Wrong key. Too short. Very sloppy, Daniela. Sloppy.

After that, he’d finish himself off, grunting into his palm, and stain my floor with the evidence. Once he left, I’d crawl back into bed more worn-down than I felt after his beatings.

It was the one punishment he didn’t feel the need to explain fully, but I eventually figured out its purpose. He relished watching me cling to the only outlet I had from him. The one thing that rivaled my fear and loyalty to my dearest “friend.” The one thing that had almost taken me away from him.

He could make me play, and he could force me to relive everything he’d done to my life over and over...and make sure I suffered for daring to choose anything over him.

If he were here, he’d find a new game to take pleasure in. A new way to watch me struggle to keep my head above the insanity. Play, Daniela , he’d tell me while I scan Donahugh’s arms and legs. Play. Cut. Put on a good show, Mi Bella.

“Where are the girls?” My own voice, bitter and husky, is enough to counter Vinny for now. I can still sense him lingering within the corners of the room, but as long as I focus, he can’t quite reach me. “Where?”

I try to make my tone slow and soft, like honey. In a way, I think I’m trying to imitate the same way Lucifer spoke to me while I was high—dribbling each word into my ear like carefully dosed medication.

Donahugh doesn’t appreciate the tact. “Stupid...bitch... String you up...little cunt.”

He breaks off when my knife connects with the back of his hand and more blood bubbles up.

I don’t remember flicking my wrist—making a sawing motion with the blade—but the wound is deeper this time.

I think it actually hurts and pain overpowers the pleasure delivered by the heroin. Donahugh cries out.

“The girls,” I insist, making my voice a little louder. It’s a stupid mistake considering that I don’t know if he has thugs lurking nearby. Though, if he really did manage to get on the wrong side of Vinny, then there are bound to be at least some bodyguards waiting to help him from the shadows.

I should be more careful. I definitely shouldn’t cut him again , badly enough that he howls. His hand is painted by a steady stream of red now, but he still won’t talk.

And I am a fool. I laugh at the depth of my own insanity while I rock back onto my heels and balance my weight on my knees.

Silly little Lynn. In four days, she’s become a whore, a captive, and now a torturer.

She’s not even sure which hat she likes wearing more.

For so long, Vinny’s designed her wardrobe, deciding with sole authority which woman she was allowed to be that day.

My knife is a cherished new accessory, more beautiful than any designer shawl or priceless ring.

I wield it inexpertly—I’m not used to owning my own things, after all.

Maybe it’s this newfound freedom that makes me feel so strange when I start to cut the man again, earning myself yet another anguished grunt and a stream of disjointed curses.

It’s madness...this heady rush of emotion that floods my head and makes it detach from my body.

Maybe this is why Vinny loves playing with his toys so much, using them to carve and rip pieces out of his victims.

Madness is catching.

I’m not just hurting Donahugh when I form a fist and slam it down against his chest. I’m hurting Vinny. My fist carries the weight of all of those girls trapped under his thumb. “Where are they? Tell me.”

Donahugh tries to shake his head, but he can only manage to roll to one cheek, his eyes mocking. “Dumb...bitch,” he chuckles at me. “Fuck yourself.”

During moments like this, Vinny could show the most restraint as he toyed with his victims. He relished in their insults, drawing out the worst bits of his plan until the moment the poor fool believed they still had control.

He certainly wouldn’t slap Donahugh with the flat side of his knife, leaving a dark bruise across his perfectly groomed face.

“Where?”

He grunts at the pain, his eyes narrowed in hatred, but he brushes me off.

I’m nothing more than a foolish little whore.

He’ll bide his time until the drug wears off and he can call for backup.

Then he’ll string me up, as promised, and fuck me “pretty” for the camera.

If I’m lucky, he’ll send me back to Mack in pieces.

It’s like I can read the bastard’s mind, and I snicker at what I find there. Maybe he’s correct. I don’t have the guts to butcher him the way Vinny would. I don’t have the strength. Lynn needs to discover her own method of attack. She needs... She needs help.

I stumble when I stand upright and head for the door to the suite. It’s only when cool air tickles my bare breasts that I realize I’m only wearing the lacy, black bottoms that match the corset.

Dante’s face, once I get the door open and stick my head through the gap, is uncharacteristically stoic.

Lucifer always displays one emotion, even if it’s rage.

Now, his eyes are blank, his jaw is stone, and there’s no hint of recognition when he sees me.

It’s only when his eyes sweep over my breasts and Vinny’s brand that some hint of life flickers across his expression.

His gaze is on fire again, smoldering for merely a second.

His fingers flex as if aching to cover me—how dare I display myself to anyone but him.

Then again, he might be merely reacting to the fingerprints he left around my neck.

Lucifer may have a different idea of modesty than Vinny with his high collars and delicate satins—this beast displays his ownership in the bold confidence it takes to let her walk around with nothing but the knowledge that he owns her hidden beneath her skin.

He owns me. That simple fact snaps me back from the brink, and the knife falls from my fingers to clatter across the floor. It’s only now that he seems to finally notice the man in the process of crawling across the floor behind me.

“Shit.” He utters the curse quietly as he forces his way inside and manages to get the door shut with only one hand. He grabs for me with the other, using the contact to steer me forward.

“He won’t talk,” I croak by way of explanation. I sound so disappointed. My messy little experiment failed. Donahugh isn’t quite so willing to divulge the information on my terms. “I need him to talk.”

Lucifer looks at me, and if someone were to give me every single shade of blue in existence, I still wouldn’t be able to recreate the color of his eyes.

They flicker with a million nuanced shades as his gaze travels slowly from me to poor Donahugh, whose pants have bunched up around his ankles, and he spends more time than I would expect eyeing the man’s partially bared ass.

His grip tightens. Electricity prickles from him, and with one gruffly uttered statement, my devil sets the entire room on fire.

“Did...did you fuck him?”

I blink, confused. He asks a million questions at once with those four words. Did you fuck him? How? Did you like it? Would you do it again? Did you fuck? Fuck, did you FUCK?

Once again, I’m struck by the differences his web of possession holds from Vinny’s.

When the former accused me, even with his eyes, of being a whore, I accepted the assessment without question.

If a man could find pleasure in my form even when I was wearing a turtleneck, then it was my fault.

Vinny’s shackles were a constant restraint I always needed to adjust. Sometimes, inside my head, I might forget him.

I might play the cello for a minute too long, and while the tune still lingered, I could pretend.

Vinny never truly owned me; therefore, his paranoia was expected. Endured, even.

Lucifer is different. His possession is something I don’t have to think about in order to feel . He fought for me. He owns me—whether he wants to or not.