Page 83 of Crescendo

“I need you. Please. I need you.”

How fucking cute; sheneededto be fucked in the ass. The little princess loved having a dirty, naughty criminal violate her in ways even her crime lord of a fiancé wouldn’t—because, of course, that fucker had to be the reason why she wanted it.

I could have stomached being used if she’d sobbed like a little bitch the way I had—but not with how she looked at me...hungry, full, desperate, needy.Fuck her.I could have, too. I could have draped the little bitch in my cum and sent her to Stacatto just like that...

But the bastard wasn’t on her mind when I sank into her to the hilt. I saw her eyes. Saw into her. His name didn’t come from her lips...and I will make her pay for that.

“Fuck her...” My voice isn’t hard enough. Angry enough. Ineedto feel the anger. I need to erase her taste from my mouth, and I spit her out, grinding the evidence into the earth with my bare fucking foot.

It’s still not enough. My cock still drips with her—throbs for her—and it’s a good thing I left the knife behind, because nothing would stop me from sawing the fucker off. Now, more than ever, I crave the violence of the cage. I should find Mack and demand a rematch. I need to crush, tear, and bite. I need to...

Fuck her.

Yes,a sick fucking part of me agrees.Fuck her. Taste her. Claim her. Mount her. Take her again. Make her scream...

“Dante?”

The voice sinks through the scarlet haze like a hook.Shit.I blink until the forest regains its natural hues of brown and green, but one splotch of color doesn’t belong. Darcy is standing only a few yards away from me, pale and slender between two trees.

In the distance, I can make out the garage. I haven’t gone far.

“Dante?”

Irritated, I drag my gaze back to Darcy. Her eyes widen as they trail over my chest, taking in the bruises and blood.

“Stay away from me,” I tell her before she can even take a step closer.

“Dante, your hands—”

They’re shredded, but I curl them into fists, ignoring the pain. “What do you want?”

Darcy flinches at my tone, and I finally notice the gray duffel she’s carrying, slung over one shoulder.

“I...I brought her some clothes. You too.”

Clothes. With a harsh sigh, I run a hand through my hair, feeling the raw skin protest. “Give them to me.” I stalk forward and snatch for the straps. The bag feels light when I swing it against my back and head for the garage.

Darcy follows, but I don’t send her away—her silent questions pelt my skin though.

I don’t offer any explanation as I wrench the door to the garage open. I need to be numb. I need to besmart. Mack’s original plan is sounding more plausible by the second; the sooner the bitch goes back to Stacatto in pieces, the better. I picture it as I mount the stairs and barrel straight for the bathroom. The little bitch beat me to the punch, however. While I was gone, she managed to wrestle the sliding door in place. When I pull on the handle, it rattles but won’t budge. She locked it.

The simple act drains me of rage, and I wind up laughing while Darcy watches. I hear the shower running, and I can almost taste the steam as Stacatto’s whore washes all traces of me away. Knowing that I’m standing here must make her scrub a little harder, curled up in the corner of the stall.

I laugh again, and then I toss the duffel against the wall so hard that something inside it cracks.

“There was... I packed some d-deodorant,” Darcy says, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t move to pick it up. She keeps her distance, and there’s less shock in her gaze than I originally thought. Living with Mack must have made her immune to abastard’s temper by now. “I...I’m going to make you some breakfast.”

Before I can protest, she wiggles her way past me and rummages through the cupboards in the kitchen. She must spend enough time in the place to keep it stocked with food. There are eggs and a carton of milk in the fridge. In the cupboards, she finds a box of pancake mix and sets to work with an ease that betrays a mothering instinct she had even five years ago.

She may have changed the man in her bed, but underneath, she was still the same Darcy. I don’t like how much comfort a twisted part of me takes from that. In the end, I approach the couch and sit down, eyeing my torn, bleeding hands. I’ve even tracked blood across the tan carpet with scarlet-tinged footprints.

“I can bandage you up when I finish,” Darcy offers without glancing up from her work at the stove. “Mack keeps first aid kits under the sink.”

I don’t answer. It doesn’t seem to matter whether I bleed now or later. Arno wants a war, and well, he is about to get one, courtesy of the bitch scurrying from the bathroom and wearing the jeans I bought her and a ripped sweater held together by two pale hands.

Darcy swallows hard when she sees her; a shower only erased some of the blood. Her lip is still bleeding, painting her chin in fresh droplets of it, but her princess mask is firmly in place again. She doesn’t look at me once, not even when she has to face in my direction to see the duffel Darcy’s pointing out to her.

“I...I brought you some clothes.”