Page 17 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

“You’ve stuck around for a reason,” he suspects. “At first, I thought it was because you wanted something. Maybe you really cared about Domi. But, now, I know there’s more to it— ”

“Like what?” I look up, eyeing him through loose strands of my hair.

“You don’t have anywhere else to go. Do you?”

The truth hurts, they say.

Rather than respond, I reach for the box of unused dye, scanning the name printed beneath a smiling model—buxom brown. “Can I use your bathroom?” I hear his sharp intake of air and rush to cut him off. “I’ll play your game. I just need… I just need…”

I need to scrub. Erase. Drown my screams in the shower spray and try to fucking think. I need to think . I need to remember.

Piotr’s coming for me, but that familiar mantra of escape is surprisingly absent. A foreboding whisper has replaced it, running through my mind on a morbid, incessant loop— moya lyubov .

Espisido stands as if the act alone gives me permission. He stoops for one of the grocery bags and unpacks the items. Some of the things I don’t even remember buying. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Deodorant. Body wash.

He forms them all into a shapeless stack and holds them out to me. “Take this stuff while you’re at it.”

I obey, carrying the pile into the bathroom. It’s small, decorated in simple, dark shades—a black shower curtain, a navy rug, and a gray curtain shielding the only window. I strip my borrowed clothing, shivering once I’m naked in the center of the cramped space.

It’s like the smoke-laced cotton kept it all at bay—the pain, the fear, the guilt…

Not for Vlad. Oh, no. It’s him . I can’t get his fucking voice out of my head— “You don’t have anywhere else to go. Do you?” Something tells me he wasn’t talking about a home, either. He knew , peering deep beneath my skin without permission.

The most alarming part? He didn’t need my permission .

Snap out of it. I shake my head in an effort to.

When that doesn’t work, I run the shower and assemble the dye kit.

With every glob of black over gold, I breathe a little easier.

It’s like every fucking strand belongs to Piotr.

I can still feel his fingers running through it. I can still hear his voice in my ear.

“My little Ksei…”

It won’t take him long to find me. No matter where I go. Where I hide. I should be tracking another gun down. I should make a new plan. I need to be ready for him.

I have to find Anna.

But I’m so damn tired… It takes all I have to scrub my hair clean and rinse my body beneath the scalding shower spray.

I wind up lingering in the stall until the water’s gone ice cold and my teeth are chattering loudly enough to drown out the voices in my head.

Far too soon, a louder sound cuts over the drone. Knocking.

“Hey. You all right in there?”

I jump and look at the window, gauging the passage of time. The sky looks a darker hue of indigo.

“You okay?”

The doorknob jiggles. I guess he left me alone for as long as he dared. Either I’d climbed out the window despite his advice, or I’d drowned myself—I can tell from his cautious tone that those are the two suspicions he’s torn between. I’m tempted to let him barge in and see the truth for himself.

“I’m…I’m still here,” I call out once it does really seem like he will open the door. “I’m still here.”

“Okay.” He retreats down the hall but returns a few minutes later. “I’ve got some clothes,” he tells me. “I’ll leave them right here.”

I don’t bother thanking him. I just give my hair one last rinse and then climb out onto a ratty, threadbare towel, ignoring the reflection in the mirror. A neatly folded stack of clothing waits for me just outside the door—a sweatshirt and oversized sweatpants. They smell like him. Smoke and mint.

I dress quickly, and when I leave the bathroom, I find him on the couch, taking in my damp, dripping frame.

He indicates his approval with a tilt of his chin. “I guess I can’t call ya Yellow anymore.”

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t elaborate. Rather than pursue the issue, I cross the kitchen and grab one of the empty shopping bags from the counter, shoving my soiled clothing inside it. “If you have a washing machine, I don’t mind—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He points toward the corner. “You can set them there.”

Once I do, there’s nothing else to do with my hands. I’m forced to wring them together, wincing as my thumb jars the row of stitches on the injured one. He doesn’t attempt to forge a conversation. It’s like he knows I’m distracted by the thick, accented drawl crawling through my thoughts.

Moya lyubov ...

“I should probably get out of your hair,” I blurt out, suddenly desperate for him to say something. Even goodbye.

“Or not,” he says, fulfilling my wish. “I take it that you’ll be needing a job, too.”

I flinch, shaking my head, but a fitting excuse won’t come. “Think your friend would mind?”

“He will,” Espisido admits. He’s got another cigarette in his hand, inhaling more of it than the oxygen around us. Between puffs, he adds, “But I’ll take care of him. I’ll admit that it doesn’t hurt that you have a pretty face.”

I must make a sound, because he looks up sharply, his gaze homing in on how my fingers curl into fists.

“Fuck, I don’t mean it like that. Arno’s just a pig. That’s all.”

“It’s all right.” It’s not his fault that life in the club ruined that word for me, stripping all sense of compliment or affection from each syllable. Pretty. “D-don’t apologize.”

“Remember, you need to keep those dry,” he scolds, eyeing my arm. He’s by my side in an instant, frowning at what he sees up close.

I had to take the gauze off to shower, and residual soap bubbles dot the visible stitches.

“Clean and dry,” he insists. “Say it for me at least one time so that I have a solid defense when you sue me for infection.”

“You should worry about yourself.”

He’s still bleeding, just a faint reddish streak along his hairline. I don’t realize I’ve touched him there until my fingertips register the clammy flesh of his forehead.

“I’ll live,” he says, shrugging me off—and not for the first time.

Whenever I touch him, he reacts the same way—defensively.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.” He approaches the couch and plumps the pillows, arranging them in a more ideal position to sleep. Then he surprises me by stepping back. “You can crash here tonight. I’ll take the floor.”

“You don’t have to,” I protest, but he’s already backing up against the wall.

His back hits the surface, and he uses it for support to slide down to his knees. “I’m good here. Go ahead.” He closes his eyes before I can argue. In an instant, his expression relaxes, but the stern set to his shoulders gives him away. He’s awake and alert, sensing my every move.

Maybe it’s the noose of my own lies that finally draws me over to the couch. I smell him in the cushions, muddling my brain and combining with the dark, violent thoughts that threaten to descend. I don’t know if he serves as an antidote or merely a more potent poison, but my mind clears a little.

Just as long as I breathe him in.

It feels like I’ve only had my eyes closed for a second before I’m peeling them open again. A melody of hushed voices is all that gives context to the darkness looming around me. My chest constricts. For a sharp, blistering moment, I’m not sure where I am…

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Just like that, I’m rescued from the grip of the nightmare, even as my heartbeat quickens at the lie. Safe? When I finally turn my head and spot a pair of familiar blue eyes, they seem more serious than mocking. He might believe those words.

Standing in the center of the kitchen, he’s wearing a pair of dark pants and another hoodie. Domi is beside him, wearing jeans and a shirt similar to his. A jacket is draped over her arm, and she found a pair of tennis shoes, too.

“You want that job I mentioned?” Espisido wonders, drawing my attention back to him. He has the hood of a sweatshirt pulled low over his face, and a lit cigarette held to his mouth—what I’m beginning to suspect is his signature look.

When I don’t answer, he seems to take my silence as a yes.

“Come on, then,” he says. “You ladies are late for your interviews.”

The playful humor doesn’t disguise what lurks underneath. Tension laces his posture as he drags on the cigarette for a second too long. For our destination being a supposedly “safe” place, he seems pretty reluctant to head there.

Rather than ask why, I stand and do my best to shake off any lingering exhaustion.

“Here.” He already has a hoodie and a pair of sneakers that look slightly too big waiting for me.

I pull them on, and together, the three of us leave the house.

I can’t tell from the pitch-black sky above, or the silence encasing the streets, whether it’s late at night or early in the morning.

The time seems to be irrelevant anyway, as this part of the city lives well after the sun goes down.

Poverty and grime form a beautiful monochromatic blend of shadow, perfumed by the stench wafting from overflowing dumpsters.

Judging from the abundance of empty warehouses, I suspect we’re on the farthest outskirts of the industrial district, well beyond Grey’s and my beat.

It’s an infamous area, known to be controlled by one gang in particular.

My gaze flickers to the man walking steadily in front of me, this angel with cotton wings. First, he mingles with Russians. Who else?

The question has more weight to it when we turn the corner and approach a bar at the end of this block.

I recognize the name instantly, if only from the rumors of who owns it.

Mulligan’s. On the battered sign above the door, someone crudely scribbled II in permanent marker beside the name.

Taken in all of its ratty glory, the strip of wood shines like a beacon, christening the castle of this self-proclaimed king.