Page 42 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

I reach the bar on foot and slip in through the back, taking stock of everything I touch.

Everything I see. Within a few short hours, I’ve left behind a real dwelling and entered the stage of a play.

Piotr’s aura lurks in the shadows, rearranging scenery and adjusting the spotlight. All eyes on me. His star. His angel.

Moya lyubov.

Does Arno know? The question scuttles through my skull as I wander the back hallway and don’t find him slumped over a bottle. Maybe he does. Maybe he even let Piotr in with open arms. Birds of a feather. After all, it’s what a part of me has suspected all along.

“Hey!” A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, snapping me from the reverie.

I’m on the bottom step of the staircase without even realizing it. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a familiar face, albeit rougher around the edges than I’m used to. Bloodshot eyes. Uncombed hair. This morning, he looks almost as haggard as Arno.

“I need your help today,” Francisco says through a yawn as he swipes at the stubble on his chin. “Those fucking idiots trashed the place last night and Arno’s got something special planned for this one.”

A welcome-back party perhaps? I scan Francisco’s eyes for any hint of the truth. Any sign of Piotr’s hand lurking behind the dark irises. Instead, I find nothing but the dilated evidence of booze and exhaustion.

“Hey! You hear me?” He lifts his hand and lowers it, nearly jarring me off the step altogether. “Go finish what you were doing and meet me back here. Bring the mop.”

He retreats down the hallway while my brain sluggishly processes his words. “Finish doing what you were doing.” And what was that? Oh. Dying…

Poor Chloe Parker feels further away. Did she ever really exist?

I can’t tell. My outstretched hand holds no answers, just pale skin riddled with scars.

Burn marks. Bite marks. He loved to suck my thumb between his lips and bite down hard the moment I mistook the action for one of affection.

He’s painted me in his ownership, leaving a million claims I’ve been forced to explain away in my new life.

Oh, that mark on my hip? I fell. I touched a hot stove. I knocked over an ashtray.

I nearly beat myself to death with one—haha, silly me.

I’m laughing out loud as I haul myself up the remaining few steps.

Did anyone ever buy those excuses? Did I ever really believe them?

The lies get harder to tellfromthe truth.

Harder to remember. I dyed my hair blonde because I hated being a brunette.

I never let men see me naked because I was shy.

I rarely have sex these days because I simply don’t enjoy it.

It isn’t because I am already owned. My mind isn’t already taken, my body sold. My soul still belongs to me.

I shiver as my forehead meets the cool surface of a closed door. I draw back and jerk forward just enough to feel the pain. Thwack! Then I stay here, leaning against it for what feels like hours, trying to reprocess my entire life. Trying to breathe. Trying to forget.

It’s the breathing that saves me in the end.

I’m choking on cigarette smoke. It permeates everything he owns, every bit of him I’ve stolen.

I can still taste him, heady and almost sweet.

I can still see him—the fear, the pain, the wonder when I took him deep.

My body throbs in ways I’ve never ever felt, every part of me aching to take him deep.

Maybe it’s the only way I’ll ever be able to push Piotr out—let someone else shove himself in.

Focus,Ksei! My fingers shake as I finally pry my hand loose from my side and open the door to the apartment.

I’m so damn sore; an old woman waddles her way across the threshold, clinging to the wall for balance, not me.

I manage to wrench the gun from the pocket ofEspisido’ssweatshirt and toss it onto the couch before hobbling into the bathroom without bothering to strip .

I turn the water to scalding hot and climb into the shower fully clothed. Only here, hunched on my knees against the side of the stall, can I hearmyselfagain. Just whispers. Focus,Ksei. Run,Ksei. Breathe,Ksei.

I play those pathetic phrases over and over, clinging to the fragile shards of my soul.

The three women inside me clamor for supremacy.

I’m not sure just which one I’m supposed to be anymore.

Chloe? Ksenia? I think I almost find my true identity when I finally shut the water off and drag myself upright.

But then I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror—empty brown eyes, no soul to speak of.

What a waste.

I leave the bathroom dripping wet and aimless.

My stomach growls, and the thought of finding something to eat is oddly appealing.

Maybe that’s what I need. To stuff myself so full that there’s no room left.

I stagger over to the fridge and pull it open, scowling at the offerings inside.

There’s a dubious carton of milk with a faded expiration date and a carton of eggs.

I reach for them anyway, my fingers brushing the rough surface just as a telltale noise catches my ear. Click! I know it well.

“Never panic when there’s a gun pointed at your skull, Parker,”Grey used to tell me.“That’s how you get your fucking head blown off.” There is no need to turn anyway. I smell her—fear,hate,and rage. She reeks of them all, just like I do.

“You were supposed to kill him,” she says, her voice ragged and unsteady. “You said you would. You said you would do it—”

“Domi?” I almost want fate to prove me wrong this time. It’s not her. Piotr’s web isn’t really this cruel.

I risk glancing over my shoulder and find her anyway.

She’s barely upright on trembling legs, fighting to hold the gun she’s pointing at me steady.

Tears spill down her mascara-stained cheeks, stripping the tough outer exterior away and revealing the little girl she really is underneath.

With her brilliant hair gleaming, even in the dim lighting, and those eyes …

I wonder if Piotr planted her specifically, using her appearance like a blunt reminder of everything I’ve lost. Everything his family took from me.

It stings to blink the memories back. Focus. “Domi. You don’t want to do this—”

“I believed you!” The gun sways, the barrel drifting from left to right. Her finger shakes over the trigger. Unchecked, she’ll pull it, whether on purpose or by accident.

Maybe I should let her. My fingers shake, and I’m unsure of whether to grab for her or beckon her to just do it. Kill me. Save me.

“You’ve known,” I force myself to say instead. “You know he’s back.” I’m not surprised, even as the guilty flush creeps across her cheeks.

“No one leaves Piotr. No one .” Her eyes swell with the terror sparked by those words.

She’s trapped in the same hell I’ve always been in—but she’s braver than I ever was.

She fights it, shaking her head to clear the memories.

“He made me watch you. Stay close. I was going to kill myself before he could… For Espi—”

“Does he know?” The pain I feel at the thought nearly knocks me over.

Would Piotr really be that sadistic to use another man to feed me snippets of hope? A newer drug? The answer rings through my skull, and a part of me almost wishes it were true. It would save me the agony of succumbing to a more potent poison than him. Yes.

“No.” Domi shakes her head again. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t deserve…” She bites her bottom lip, and more tears coat her face, falling unchecked beneath the low neckline of her sheer black top. “I wouldn’t bring him into this. I wouldn’t. But you said… I thought…”

She sways, and I know that look on her face. That grim acceptance of the inevitable .

She turns the gun on herself, pressing the barrel against her temple while her eyes seek mine out, cold and resigned. “I thought you were brave enough.”

“No!” I lunge, throwing my weight against her.

She buckles, dropping the gun. Her nails sink into my arm, ripping through flesh, as I knock the weapon from her reach and pin her to the floor by her shoulders.

“Let me go!” She kicks out, trying to dislodge me. “There’s no point. There’s no use—”

My palm burns as it connects with her cheek, stopping her mid-shout. “Enough.” I’m panting. Judging from how badly my arm’s throbbing, she drew blood. I can feel it seeping through rent flesh as I ignore the way she tenses and wrap my arms around her.

Her arms go rigid. Limp. I hold her even as her shoulders begin to heave with suppressed tears she can barely smother with her hands.

“You’re not alone.” The words aren’t mine, but stolen from a memory. Maybe they’re what Ivan told me that very first night he set me free. “You’re not alone—”

“He’ll find me.” Her body trembles with the knowledge. “He’ll kill me.”

“No.” I slowly draw back from her, already forming a plan in my head. “You’re already dead. I know someone who can make you disappear.”

“Why?” she demands, tears in her eyes. “After what I did…”

I stand, flicking loose hair away from my face with trembling fingers. “Because it’s not too late for you.” I grit my teeth to reinforce that statement. It has to be true. “Otherwise, there’s no hope for any of us.”

The hotel appears different in the light of day. Piotr wears darkness like a cloak, but the glow of broad daylight always seemed more painful to witness him in. Blinding.

The moment I enter the lobby, I spot at least three figures lurkingwithinthe shadows. Their posture alone betrays them as one of Piotr’s trained soldaty , his personal bodyguards. Either I missed them last night in my moment of nostalgia, or he purposefully hid them from me.

He’s grown paranoid in his old age, Piotr. He must have pissed off someone big this time. Someone powerful enough to drive him into the arms of a low-level Irish gangster with a lone bar to his name.