Page 69 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

The devil stops in his tracks. He wasn’t expecting that answer, and he frowns as if tasting it against his mouth. Maybe he feels the same why I do: It’s uncomfortably close to the truth. The devil is helping me escape my “pimp,” but he doesn’t particularly seem to relish his newfound shining armor.

I flinch when he takes another step toward me, his posture hunched and loose like a predator’s right before it’s poised to lunge.

His gaze sweeps along my body, but I don’t cringe backward this time.

I stand still as he mounts the first step, his bulk dominating the narrow stairwell, his heat consuming me in waves.

Tilting my head back, I face my devil head on and allow him to search my expression for any hint of a lie. “I didn’t know he was your brother,” I say. “Not until he told me.”

“So, you talked to him?” The words hiss from him like sparks from a blaze. Wherever they land, my flesh burns.

“Yes. ”

Suddenly, he mounts my step, bracing his feet on either side of mine. His size forces me to lean backward and cling to the railing for balance.

“He told me not to tell you.”

The devil’s mouth quirks into the twisted semblance of a smile. My breasts graze his chest as he reaches for my chin and traps it between his fingers. There’s no real strength in his grip—I could break it if I wanted to. His gaze holds me in place, however.

“Don’t...don’t keep shit from me,” he tells me in a voice that grapples to maintain control over its low, raspy baritone.

In some places, it slips, and the hint of a growl licks through.

“Ever. You tell me everything...or I’ll—” He breaks off and glances down at his hands.

They flex, and when he glances back up to meet my gaze, Lucifer doesn’t bother to hide the murderous impulse he literally has to swallow down.

“I’ll fulfill my end of our bargain on a much quicker timeline. ”

He pushes past me and lopes up the staircase. When he reaches the door to the apartment, he jerks his chin in my direction. “Did you fucking read it yet?”

I feel my hand clench tighter over the page containing the addresses.

Carefully, I pry my fingers open one by one and scan the words scribbled there in the dim lighting of the garage.

There are ten addresses. I don’t recognize the numbers or even the street names, but I read them.

I burn every single letter into my skull.

While Lucifer opens the door and barges his way inside, I read the addresses again.

Again. Again. Only when the letters mingle through my thoughts as if branded there do I finally tear it down the middle and crumple both halves into a ball.

Lucifer is waiting for me when I mount the top of the stairs and swallow the last bit of evidence down whole.

His eyes go automatically to my hip and the bag I’m carrying.

The memory of his brother makes the devil uneasy.

He turns and barges into the bathroom before slamming the sliding door shut so fiercely that it nearly jumps off its track.

After closing the door behind me, I set the duffel onto the couch and pull on the zipper.

Inside, I find more clothes—a few sweatpants and some plain, gray hoodies—yet another package of deodorant, and my very own toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

I run my fingers through the gifts while the shower kicks on down the hall and Lucifer sets about erasing the night from his skin.

While I’m alone, Donahugh’s touch is harder to bear.

After making sure the windows are covered by blinds, I strip the coat and the lingerie off right here next to the small kitchen, and I pull Espi’s clothing on.

His stuff fits me much better than Dante’s; I don’t feel like I’m swimming in cotton, at least. Once dressed, I wrestle the soiled clothing into the duffel and zip it up.

I wait there on the couch for only God knows how long.

Watching. Listening. Dante is taking his sweet time.

I can almost hear him from here, grinding his teeth to erase my taste and scrubbing away the topmost layer of his skin.

I’m not sure if only an hour has passed or even longer when the door to the bathroom finally opens again and he reappears wearing the same jeans and shirt.

His hair is slick, dripping moisture down his back as he enters the kitchen and wrenches the faucet on.

He drinks mouthfuls from his cupped hands and then shuts the tap off with a sigh.

“Stay away from Arno,” he tells me, looking over his shoulder. Strands of black hair obscure his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s threatening me or warning me instead. “From Espi too.”

“Why are you helping me?” I blurt out, crossing my arms over my chest. “When your brother asked me the first time, I didn’t know what to say. I should have a better answer for if he asks me again.”

Lucifer frowns, but there’s no aggression in his posture when he turns to face me. He’s thoughtful. He’s hostile. He’s confused by his own fucking motives .

“Stay away from—”

“Why are you helping me?” I ask again, making my voice just loud enough to overpower his. It doesn’t take much effort; the shower repaired his control, and his baritone is a low, steady hum once again.

“Why the fuck does it matter?” he counters, flexing the hand that I know bears his mark. “You’re getting your ‘revenge.’”

“I am,” I admit.

Prodding him is a reckless game I can’t seem to quit playing.

His taunt haunts me. “I’ll fulfill my end of our bargain on a much quicker timeline.

” He meant it to be a threat, but it’s more like a tempting suggestion.

Maybe it would be better if he did kill me now and end this sick game before the rules changed.

A devil needs to remain a devil. A dangerous man is meant to be feared.

I know that best after having lived with Vinny, but I don’t know what would happen if those lines started to blur. Evil shouldn’t be...craved.

“Are you helping me because of what happened to you?” I ask in a desperate bid to vanquish that fear. “Because of what that...man did? I know that’s why you gave me the alcohol.”

Anger. On him, it has a smell. It permeates the air like smoke, and before the flames can even touch your skin, you’ve already suffocated. Rage paints his eyes an unnatural shade of blue, and for a moment, it’s the only thing I see. I’m sure it will be the very last thing I see...

Then the devil surprises us both.

“I got my own revenge,” he says coldly, though his mouth frowns as if he’s unsure why the words are tumbling out of it. “So you can write off that little theory.”

“How?” I draw my knees up to my chin and stare at him from between them.

“The cage,” he says finally, each word harshly clipped. “You remember it?”

A shiver runs through me, and I force myself to nod. I remember it. I can’t forget it. I will always picture him inside it. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray with every cell I possess that Lucifer will make good on his promise. Kill me now with that image in my head for the last time. Kill me now…

“I was sixteen the first time I fought in one,” he says.

There’s a steady edge to his voice; he doesn’t like to mention the past, but the violence that lurks in those memories comforts him at the same time.

“I told you that...that I tried to climb out. But it was good money, so I kept coming back. Running drugs was easier but riskier—no one could fuck with you while you were in the cage.” His voice lingers over that statement.

The chain-link fencing and gritty sand of the pit were home to him.

He missed it. “Apart from the bastard paid to beat the living shit out of you, that is. But it was better. As a runner...there are only so many places in the human body you can hide a stash.”

I cringe at the imagery. Then I envision a certain place on the human body.

..paired with his own traumatic memories.

My heart aches. I hate this part of me that feels for him—aches for him—more than I do the part of me that cringes at the thought of Vinny.

The devil isn’t mine to hurt for. He isn’t mine for me to wonder just how many awful things he’s been forced to do to survive.

He isn’t mine, and I shouldn’t feel this gross, morbid satisfaction that he claims to have gotten his revenge, at least.

“Dino preferred his fighters anyway, and even as bait, I made enough to keep my spot in the ring and keep my head down—”

“Dino?”

The devil falls silent. I can almost hear his teeth click together in irritation, but he humors my questioning and throws me another bone of his past to taste.

“Dino Mulligan. A man who ran a gang called the Saints. Heroin distribution. Illegal gambling. You name it, he ran it, but his favorite was the pit. Cage fighting. He could make up to ten grand a night with the right fighter and the right crowd.”

“You admired him.” I lift my head and peel my eyelids open just enough to see such an emotion on him for myself. The devil displays his respect in gnashing teeth and eyes that flash like gems.

“I respected him,” he admits. “The man took me in when I was fourteen in a way. People called him ‘Oliver Twist’ because he had a habit of taking in boys off the street to use as runners or bait. He was a cold son of a bitch, but he ran his territory well.”

“Fourteen?” It’s a two-year gap from twelve. I’m not sure if I want to know what dark secrets fill in those missing months. Thankfully, the devil doesn’t seem willing to tell me.

“I lived on the streets for a while,” he says, leaving it at that. “If I wasn’t bouncing in and out of a group home, I was stealing. With Dino, though, I at least had a roof over my head and food in my mouth.”

I don’t dare to judge him. It’s a sad story he weaves: A criminal sheltered him when no one else would.

“So you fought in the cage.”