Page 41 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHLOE

Fate is a blank slate. So how fitting is it that my angel is an artist, painting beauty out of darkness and destruction? Taking an act I’ve always reviled andmakingit seem…vital. Even worse, forcing me to crave it.

Only he can make hate so appealing. For five minutes, I forgot about Piotr—that’s the longest I’ve ever gone. For five minutes, my used, broken body felt something other than pain or disgust.

It’s like the formless paintings streaking the canvas around us spell out the truth—Fucking him is art —even if it will never happen in the traditional sense. I’m resigned to that. I’ll take him in any way I can, like a dog content with the scraps from a banquet table.

It’s selfish.

I’m putting him in danger.

I can’t help myself.

I succumb to the high, and it feels like hours pass before I manage to stand up and hobble over to the sink. I turn the faucet on and drink directly from the spray. The water doesn’t erase his taste, however. It doesn’t even make a dent in the flavor.

I’ll choke on him all night .

Touching him is like dancing, only without the restriction of the cage. With him, my cage is everywhere. The world seems open. I’m unreachable. Just as long as he holds me. Just as long as his fingers tanglewithinmy hair to keep me steady. Just as long as his eyes peer into mine.

Though, hell, maybe I’m not the only woman addicted to him. There was one in his sketchbook, her features carefully detailed in pencil and ink over crumbled paper. Dark hair. Flashing eyes. I’m not skilled enough to decipher whatever emotions he might have felt while drawing her.

I don’t want to. Is this jealousy? Guilt?

When I finally turn the sink off and face the rest of the narrow room, he’s barricaded himself inside the bathroom again. The water’s running, betraying what he’s doing without my needing to see it for myself—his hand on his shaft, grinding me out.

He’d rather use nicotine as his crutch than me.

Apparently,angels don’t see the power in dominating another.

This one is so afraid of becoming a monster that he denies himself pleasure altogether.

He surrounds himself with pain instead—curing it, inflicting it—going so far as to tattoo a reminder on his chest as to just what he’s capable of.

I don’t need another brand to remind me. Piotr’s stench is in my skin. I will never erase his touch. I can forget for a minute, maybe longer. But he always comes back to me.

Moya lyubov.

I shiver as my mind scuttles away from the thought.

I need to move. Think. Thankfully, the house remains silent as I haul myself upright and pad into the bedroom.

I take a T-shirt and sweatpants from his closet and pull them on without allowing myself to feel any guilt.

When I realize I left my shoes behind at the hotel, I have no choice but to take a pair of his as well, along with another sweatshirt.

That particular item I don’t need, however.

I want it. My nose lowers into the sleeve, inhaling the stench embedded within the cotton.

One hit is enough to soothe whatever nerves the thought of leaving stirs up as I head for the front door.

Fear, my old friend, has returned in full force.

Escape. Run. My plan is sloppy,compiled on the fly—I’ll catch a train and ride it as far as I can.

Piotr can have his seven days—andmanymore after that. I won’t go back to him.

I won’t.

I can’t...

“You think it’s really going to be this easy?”

I glance over my shoulder and find him leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Water drips from his hair into the cotton of the gray T-shirt he paired with jeans. His arms are crossed over his chest, those blue eyes honing in on mine without mercy.

“You think you can just come to me and walk away once you’ve gotten your fix?” He shakes his head and heads into the kitchen. “Uh-uh. I gave you a story. Now, it’s your turn.”

I’m forced to speak to his retreating back. “And if I don’t want to talk?”

He shrugs and lifts something from the kitchen table. I know what it is even before I see it clearly—his gun.

“Just tell me what you were doing with this .” He points the barrel at the ceiling, his back still turned to me. There isn’t an ounce of tension in his posture.

I could make a break for the door and run before he could stop me.

A part of him might want me to.

But I don’t, prolonging our mutual high like the selfish girl I am.

“I was going to kill someone with it.” I wring my fingers together as I pad closer to the circle of light he’s dominating .

The damp fabric of his shirt clings to his shoulder blades. If I squint, the ripples look a lot like wings.

“Kill?” His tone reminds me of his own “story.” The phrasing he used. The rationale for why he has murderer tattooed across his chest and nothing else.

“No,” I hear myself admit while I advance on him three more steps. “I wanted to murder someone with it.”

“Here.” He faces me and holds the gun out.

I take it, pointing the barrel at the floor.

“I assume you’re not planning on sticking around.” He doesn’t sound disappointed, merely resigned to the fact that I might leave. I need to leave…

But, like a good addict, I seek his eyes, holding his gaze. One more prick of the needle. One last snort of my drug of choice.

“What you said about love… You made it sound worse than hate.” It’s an odd topic for conversation, but it almost seems fitting given our current trajectory for the morning—jumping from fucking to violence to murder to love and hate.

“Did I?” His lips slant in a thoughtful frown. “Well, I guess they’re close enough. But, with hate, at least you’re in control. You can fight it. You can resist it. You can forgive, or you can walk away. You can choose not to hate whenever you fucking want.”

Love has the opposite limitations. I know them well, in fact. You can only resist its allure for so long before it sucks you back in. Moya lyubov. Love is poison. There is no choice in how it destroys you.

“Have you ever been in love?” I know even before I see the slight shake of his head that he hasn’t, and I’m sure it’s by choice.

He may care for his brother and his friend Arno, but he’s never been a slave to obsession. He’s never been addicted to the burning sting.

“Don’t want to be,” he says. “Like I said, it’s easier to hate. You can turn your back on it. It doesn’t own you. ”

“And what if…what if you hate yourself?” I ask him, my tongue flicking out to dampen my dry lips. His potential answer intrigues me more than I care to admit. Do I want him to agree? You should hate yourself . “For the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve done?”

He observes me for a long time. When he takes a step forward, I’m not sure how to react.

I just stand here, allowing him to tower over me, his breath on my face, his heat on my skin.

I’m unprepared when his hand flies out, and two of his fingers start an electrifying path down the length of my arm, skirting the stitches holding me together.

“Then I guess you just have to ask yourself—Do you really hate that you’ve done those things, or do you just hate the fact that you can’t let yourself enjoy doing them?”

I draw back, stepping out of his reach. My first instinct is to write him off. Silly little boy. The worst he can probably come up with is stealing or committing petty crimes. He has no fucking clue as to the horrors that paint the edges of my memory.

On the other hand, he saw me kill Vlad, and the neckline of his shirt rides low, revealing a hint of the word emblazoned on his chest. When I look into his eyes again, the darkness lurks in plain view.

“What do you mean?”

“The way I see it, loving yourself is overrated.” Another step andhe’scloser, forced to tilt his head down to maintain eye contact.

“Nature. Do you love everything about it? The sun and stars, yeah. Maybe. But what about when the sun burns? What about the storms? The lightning? What about when that storm comes for you? You just have to admit that sometimes you need the push and pull. The good and bad. Life doesn’t need your approval all the damn time. Why should you?”

Indignation rises, thick in my throat. I want to argue. You’re a boy. You know nothing. But…aftereverythinghe’s been through, it ma y be easy for him to accept his own hell. Live it. Breathe it. But I can’t afford that luxury.

“Sometimes you can do unforgivable things,” I tell him, turning to stare at the wall rather than face him directly. Shadows flicker over it—mine, his, Piotr’s. “Things that don’t deserve acceptance.”

Warm breath fans the back of my neck. “Says who?”

He’s even closer now. Those searching fingers return, drifting up and down my shoulder blade.

A tempting scenario of what could happen next plays out in my mind.

All he’d have to do is curl his fingers and tug to have the jacket off.

The shirt would easily follow. The table alone could support our combined weight.

But we can’t. I can’t.

I take a step back, and I can breathe again. I can fear again. When I turn for the door, I know he won’t stop me this time. Words don’t have any power in this moment. Still, I find myself spitting something out—“Thank you.”

He grunts inacknowledgment. “Don’t mention it. And…”

My footstepsslow,tethered to the sound of his voice. “Yes?”

“If you ever need me, you know where to find me.”

My entire chest constricts at that word. Need. I’ve endured people before. My father’s death. Piotr. The men he made me screw. I’ve never needed .

When I finally reach the door, I don’t look back. I just tuck the guninsidethe pocket of his borrowed sweatshirt. Hate is control, he said?

It’s the only emotion I can bother to spare now—hatred.

Piotr wants my love. This man has already taken something else. I’m not sure which one is harder to give up.