Page 65 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

“Did you want me to?”

He doesn’t seem to understand the question.

His jaw clenches. His nails dig into the flesh of my arm, though he doesn’t even seem to realize it.

Slowly, he maneuvers me to stand in front of him, forcing direct eye contact.

I can feel the heat of his breath all the way to my toes when he leans in, our noses brushing, every word carefully clipped and uttered with control.

“Did. You. Fuck. Him?”

“Did...did you want me to?”

I’m unprepared for the brutality with which he shoves me backward. I wind up sprawled on the couch, slouching down, my toes braced against the polished wood floor.

Lucifer advances on me like a wolf, primal and cold.

There’s a predatory grace in how he leans over me, his eyes on my throat, his hands braced against the back of the couch on either side of me, caging me in.

But he’s an odd predator, I’m starting to realize.

He always asks for permission from his prey before sinking his teeth into their flesh.

It’s been that way throughout, I think, as one of his hands shifts away from the leather upholstery and then drifts down to my throat.

He hovers there, the fingers twitching..

.but it’s only when I tilt my head back that he finally curls them around my neck.

I don’t even think he notices that brief moment of hesitation.

Maybe it’s something that only matters to me.

Vinny never asked for permission to enter the cage he built around me.

“Did you?” The question comes softer this time, directed solely at the lacy, black panties that shield me from his gaze.

His hand lowers, the stained gauze wrapped around his wounds clashing against the ebony fabric.

Once again, he waits until my legs part for him before seizing the waistband and sliding his fingers underneath.

My reply rides a jagged gasp as he trails his touch over aching flesh. “Did...d-did you want me to?”

He frowns, sliding a finger inside me, but if he finds me wet and gaping...it’s from him. I’m still suffering from this morning. I didn’t wash. I didn’t erase his scent from my skin. I can feel his teeth if I walk too fast. I still feel the broadness of his tongue.

Lucifer tests me carefully anyway, easing his thumb through those inner parts of me only he knows how to navigate. He takes his time, seeking out any sign of another predator in his den. Any bite marks he didn’t make. Any scent apart from his own.

When he doesn’t find it, he slowly withdraws, though he can’t seem to stop himself from bringing his hand to his mouth, snatching my taste from his fingers with his tongue, just to be sure.

A pitiful whine breaks loose from between my lips.

He thinks it’s out of pain and he recoils, dragging his hand from his lips, his eyes dark.

My own mouth twitches, aching to throw out more questions than I have the energy to ask.

Did he want me to go along with Mack’s plans and “fuck” someone like Donahugh?

Did he expect me to? While Lucifer differs from Vinny in some ways, I would have thought that all monsters were united in the terms of their possession.

They didn’t like to share their toys. Is Lucifer a different breed?

Looking at him, I can’t be sure. He’s tasted my answer, but he’s not benevolent enough to reveal whether it satisfies him or not. And, suddenly, I need to know. Curiosity burns a trail through my body and makes me bold in a way I never could have been around Vinny.

“Did you want me to fuck him?”

Lucifer flinches. His gaze drifts down to his hand, the fingers glistening.

He makes me wait for forty-four seconds before finally giving me an answer.

“No.” His frown deepens as he removes his free hand from my neck and catches the bottom of my chin with the pads of his fingers.

He tilts my head back, forcing my gaze to meet his again.

I can’t read the emotion I find lurking there. A part of me really doesn’t want to. Mystery and Lucifer go hand in hand anyway.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

I should leave it at that. He didn’t want me to be used by Donahugh, not even to further his own plan. A good captive might take some kind of comfort in that. I think, deep down...I’m insulted.

Lucifer doesn’t react when I reach for his hand with one of my own—but it’s a trained sort of stillness. He’s the cautious wolf who learned not to pounce at the slightest movement, but he watches me warily, his fangs at the ready. One wrong move and he won’t hesitate to kill me.

I’m careful as I grip his wrist and raise his hand to my lips.

I smell hell on his fingers. Blood and violence and sex and need and.

.. me . He watches me with a question in his eyes as I use my other hand to ease his thumb away from the rest. I aim it toward my mouth like a bull’s-eye and let my tongue shoot out to lick the damp tip.

He stiffens, but if I’m not mistaken, his thumb jerks, and suddenly, more of it is between my lips, seeking my tongue out.

We’re a sordid, acquired taste—his blood and my essence mingled together.

Maintaining eye contact, I swipe my tongue along his thumb again, a little bit more greedily than the first time. A man owned by no one makes his promises in blood. A woman devoid of any possessions makes hers with this : sweat and liquid lust. It’s all I have left to offer him...

But my loyalty is a gift not even Vinny could possess—at least not since the morning he made me wake up an orphan.

Lucifer accepts it without any hint of acknowledgment.

He merely pulls his hand away. The moment is broken when he turns, spotting Donahugh, who’s cackling on the floor.

He watched our entire little exchange. Grinning, he winks at me.

“I tried to make him talk,” I say, my voice rough. “He wouldn’t.”

Only now does Lucifer seem to comprehend what I mean. His gaze slowly roves over to the empty syringe resting a few feet away, and I can almost hear him putting the pieces together in his mind. Once they click, the grin he flashes is wicked. All teeth and curled lips.

“You volunteered to get the information,” he says as if he only now understands the literal interpretation of those words: I never told Mack I’d sleep with the man.

Lucifer’s amusement is gradually replaced by something else that makes his eyes gleam.

He holds his hand out, flexing the fingers expectantly. “Get the knife.”

I hasten to obey, crossing the room and bending down to fish my weapon from the floor. Donahugh finally has the nerve to look afraid when I approach Dante and place the blade on his empty palm.

“Make sure the doors are locked,” Dante tells me, his voice cold.

Once again, I do so without question. I test the latch on the door to the suite and tug once just to make sure.

“It’s locked,” I call back.

“Good.” He jerks his head and waits until I appear dutifully at his shoulder.

He stands tall, holding the knife loosely within the fingers of his left hand—the same one that sports my cut.

He makes sure Donahugh sees him clearly—the darkness in his eyes—but he doesn’t react when I take a step forward and sink down into a crouch, allowing the poor man to make eye contact with me instead.

This is my game, and like any good participant, the devil is willing to let me go first.

“Where are the girls?” I ask while my hands reach for the buttons of his shirt.

I undo them swiftly, freeing a chest covered in greasy, graying black hair.

Biting back disgust, I run my finger along his sternum as if imagining the perfect place to cut and I dig my nail in hard enough to make him flinch.

Then I glance back at Dante and attempt to mimic the devil’s low, steady tone.

“Tell us where they are. Every last one.”