Page 21 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

This suffocating sense of emotion weighs me down as I lock the door behind me and carry the bag of clothes into the bedroom.

I toss it onto one of the beds and perch myself on the end of the mattress.

Only now do I remember Grey, though maybe I’ve been unconsciously ignoring his request all along. Get me something on Mackenzie.

Well, he has a fondness for triple malt whiskey.

A million new secrets swirl inside my skull as I lie back against the wall, leaving my body slung horizontally across the mattress.

I’ll let my eyes close only for a second, or so I tell myself.

I’m not stupid enough to stay here. I’m not stupid enough to pretend that Piotr isn’t on the prowl or forget that Anna may still be out there.

I’m not stupid enough to trust.

I’m not sure what noise snaps me fully awake, but I open my eyes to aghost. Bright-red hair is all that gives her contrast against the wall.

“An…Anna?” Hope wells up in my throat as I greedily seek out each childish feature.

It dies in vain, of course, swallowed down like vomit. This girl is too old, her nose too big, and I would pray to never see such darkness in the eyes of a child.

“No. It’s me—Domi. Did I wake you?” She’s already fully dressed, sitting on the opposite bed.

Apparently, she helped herself to the spare clothing but somehow managed to pick the most risqué items to wear. Her outfit of choice is a black lace bra she’s paired with one ofEspisido’shoodies, the only saving grace.

“No,” I lie. “I was already awake.”

“Good.” She kicks her feet into the air while her wide eyes scan my face. “So, it really is you. Number ten. Piotr’s angel .”

She gives the word a nasty twist. How strange is it that such a name can have so many variants depending on how it’s uttered? Reverently by some and reviled by others.

“I would have thought…” My throat is too dry, and I have to swallow hard to clear it. “I would have thought that he wouldn’t talkofme much.”

“He didn’t,” Domi admits. “But we still listened. We all knew of the girl he used to have. His prized little pet. The things he made her do…” She shudders and wraps her arms around her slender front.

“She was our bedtime story. A reminder of all the ways that, no matter how fucking awful it was, it could always get worse.”

I turn my face toward a threadbare pillow. It’s hard to stomach this mythical version of myself—the girl who strayed too close to a monster and got eaten alive. If only that were where the story ended.

“And what impression do I make?”

Her gaze sweeps over me once she’s given permission to truly stare. “You’re pretty,” she says carefully. “I thought you’d be prettier.”

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

“So… Did you really do it? You really killed Vlad?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She’s already heard the story from somewhere, and I can see the curiosity burning within her eyes. There’s hunger too.Espisido’snot the only one familiar with violence.

“What was it like?”

“Messy,” I tell her. “Very, very messy.”

“Oh.” Her teeth click together noisily, as if they’re trapping more questions behind them. Exuding nervous energy, she jumps to her feet. Her outfit seems even more garish when I take her in—an underage demon in a hooker’sclothing,drapedbeneaththe cloak of a fallen angel.

“How did you…” I trail off, unsure of how to phrase the question. How did you wander into hell?

“Family debt,” she says simply, as though we’re merely discussing the weather. “I was sold to pay it off. It was okay though.” She glances back at me over her shoulder and shrugs. “I had three other sisters.”

That awful ache in my gut—is that pity? I’ve spent so long suppressing it. Guilt, empathy, pain—they aren’t emotions prized in either Piotr’s slave or a cop.

“Can I ask you something?” She’s looking at the floor, her expression unreadable.

“Yes?”

“Piotr. If you saw him again. If he came after you. Would you kill him?”

It’s a dangerous question. The most alarming aspect is how quickly I come up with an answer. “Yes.”

“Good.” She meets my gaze again, her eyes blazing.

For a split second, she seems eons older than she should.

Someone who’s experienced more suffering than most people do in a lifetime.

“Anyway, Frank said we could come downstairs early,” she says, effortlessly changing the subject.

“He said he’ll give us some food and show us the ropes before the bar opens. ”

“Frank?”

“Francisco.” She takes her time, pronouncing every syllable. “He got pissed with how I was butchering his name and told me to just call him that. He let me in last night too. You fell asleep with the door locked.” She flashes a mischievous grin I don’t have the energy to return.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she says, shrugging. “But let’s go now. Frank tends to yell.”

Taking the hint, I pull myself upright, groaning as every ache and paindecideto make themselves known. My left arm is on fire. My hand feels no better. I need to eat something, preferably something other than bread and alcohol.

Domi stares as I fish a clean set of clothes from Darcy’s bag, and I have to stagger down the hall and into the small bathroom to find some semblance of privacy.

I barely recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror. She’s old. She’s haggard. Piotr’s mark taints her skin, spreading like cancer. Even with the dark curtain of hair shielding part of her face, she won’t be able to hide from him. Maybe she doesn’t really want to.

Moya lyubov.

I rinse my mouth out with water and spit every ounce of my fear into the sink.

Using my wet fingers as a makeshift comb, I ease the worst of the tangles from my hair.

Out of theclothingDarcy picked, I settle on a white tank top and a pair of denim shorts.

In the end, I don’t know if it’s modesty or something else that drives me back into the bedroom forEspisido’sjacket.

It’s long enough to cover even the shorts, and when I zip it up to my chin, it’s almost like I’m wearing nothing else.

“Let’s go,” I tell Domi, who’s still watching me from a corner.

She leads the way out into the hallway. Down below, the bar is deathly silent. It’s also a fucking wreck. Broken glass and plastic cups clutter the floor while a lone figure attempts to clean it all up.

“Grab a broom,” he snarls the moment we approach. “And I don’t want to hear shit about how it’s ‘not your job.’”

Domi and I obey without argument. An hour later, the floor is clear, at least.

After that, I help Francisco restock the shelves behind the bar with liquor from a storage closet while Domi attempts to make whatever drink he calls out within a specified amount of time.

She’s good—a realization that surprises him more than it does me. Piotr probably kept her at his personal table on the nights she worked inside the club. I recognize the unnaturally steady way she manipulates the bottles and how her dead eyes disguise all emotion.

He trained her well, too.

“The girls don’t go on stage until nine at night,” Francisco tells me when I hand him a whiskey bottle to set onto a high shelf. “You gonna stick around until then and make yourself useful?”

Rather than answer him, I grab a broom and work on the floor. By the time he opens the pub at ten in the morning, Domi’s already poised to manage the bar, and I help to minimize the mess.

Mulligan’s attracts a decent crowd, even before noon. It’s like Arno’s chosen thugs live by the closing and opening of the battered wooden doors. By midafternoon, Francisco has broken up at least four fights, and he’s in the middle of separating another brawling pair when Arno himself walks in.

Just like that, the entire atmosphere changes, feeding off the figure who dominates the doorway. He determinedly scans the crowd with his green eyes. Searching. Hunting. When they find their chosen target, they narrow.

“You,” he growls, his voice easily traveling across the bar. “Come on. We need to talk.”

I don’t meet anyone’s gaze as I set the broom aside and follow him toward that infamous “tea party” room. Once we’re inside, he slams the door shut and gestures to the table with a wave of his hand.

“Have a seat.”

I do, and he takes the one across from me,splayinghis legs on either side of the table while his hands palm the surface between us.

“What’s your name? And don’t fucking try toshitme, either. I want the truth.”

The truth? It’s a dangerous request. “Chloe Parker,” I tell him. “At least, that’s the only one you’ll find in any database.”

“Hmph.” He sits back in the chair. His eyes are bloodshot; he’s been drinking. A lot. What would make for a vulnerable state for anyone else just makes his gaze sharper. Meaner. “That doesn’t sound like the name of the captive-Russian-slave-girl sob story bullshit Espi spun about you.”

“That’s because it’s not.”

He’s already figured that out though; his eyes dart directly to my neck. He saw the mark, most likely during my audition. He’s done a little digging.

Chances are he knows all about Piotr’s infamous number ten.

“You a cop?”

“I was at Moe’s on police business, if that’s what you mean.”

He cracks his knuckles one by one—purely for my benefit. The warning translates better than any verbal threat. Keep talking.

“I was supposed to get intel,” I say. “Ask a few questions. Wear a wire. I wasn’t supposed to go inside. ”

“Is that so?” There is nothing comforting in the way he smiles. “And, now, we get to the good part. Somehow, you managed to kill Vladimir Olshenkov. A lot of people wanted to claim that little honor, missy. From what I hear, you killed him fucking dead .”

“I fucked up,” I correct.