Page 46 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

“I gave you a head start,” Jose says, shrugging when my gaze finds him by the wall. “But we don’t have all day to play around, boy. Show me what you’ve learned.”

The words work like a trigger on my memories. Oh, I learned from the master. How to break someone. How to push them just far enough for them to beg for the end. Only to slowly reel them back…and then push them again. Harder. Further.

They’re past praying for death at that point. They’d endure anything to make the merry-go-round of agony stop. Say anything. Do anything.

I learned from the master—and he wasn’t Jose.

“Espi.” Arno comes up behind me, his footsteps heavy. “Fuck this shit. You’re not doing this.” He jabs a finger in Jose’s direction. “ He’s not doing this—”

“Arno—” I cut myself off, unsure of what the fuck I’m even trying to say. Shut the hell up? Let me think .

The bastard knows something. I can smell it. I can see it in his eyes, which glow with a mixture of pain and just plain smug fucking arrogance. Mack, the Mad Dog, was more cunning than the average dumbass punk. He covered hisbasesand did nothing without insurance.

“I thought this piece of shit was already dead,” Arno adds, spitting at Mack’s feet. “Where the fuck did you find him?”

Jose shrugs, his expression revealing nothing. “I have my ways. The Russians dealt with him…uniquely, but as you know, I’m not particularly fond of the Russians.” He leaves it at that, and Arno doesn’t ask him anything else.

Frankly,I don’t think he wants to know. And Mack… The bastard just laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

The sound ricochets off the inside of my skull. Loud. Insistent. I doubt even another knife in his flesh would shut him up.

“Darcy…” Her name trickles out of me before I register the guilt.

It draws a reaction from Mack though; he shuts the fuck up.

“Youseenher lately?” When he doesn’t take the bait, I aim low.

“I guess not. She’s been fucking half of the Gardai since you ‘left.’ I guess it is true what they say about you. You like getting screwed in the—”

“You watch your fucking mouth,” Mack bites back. “You tell him the truth, eh, Arno boy? About how you and that fucking cunt-eating brother of his turned on one of your own? Or maybe how you couldn’t even bother to make sure your own fucking sister was still alive—”

“Enough of this shit.” Squaring his shoulders, Arno turns on his heel and starts for the door. “Espi, come on—”

“Yeah, run, run, little Arnold,” Mack taunts. “You always were a pussy little shit.”

One second, Arno’s still walking. The next, he’s halfway to Mack, and only Jose is fast enough to get in between them.

“Not so fast, ese ,” he says, shoving Arno back. “Don’t damage the merchandise. Let’s see what our little friend can get out of him.”

“No…no.” Arno shakes his head as his hand flies out and lands on my shoulder, dragging me closer. “Hell no. He’s not doing shit.”

“Why don’t we ask him ?” Jose turns to me, still smiling even though his eyes have lost the playful gleam.

He’s all serious again, bathed in the shadows of the warehouse.

“What will it be, littleEspisido? Run away and let your friend’s little establishment get blown sky high? Or…show us what you’ve learned.”

Anger and disgust flutter down my spine. My toes flex in my boots. Run. Stay. I don’t fucking know which course of action seems more appealing. A part of me wants to tell Jose to fuck off. Listen to Arno. I’ve always just listened to Arno. But another part…

My gaze drifts over to the knives, and my fingers flex, remembering the feel of the ones in my kit—specifically designed for…special work. Flaying. Slicing. They were the tools of my trade, after all, helping to create a new form of artwork Dante wouldn’t approve of.

It’s funny. I don’t even remember the first time clearly. Maybe it was when some asshole on the streets pushed me too far. Or maybe it was that night when I picked up a hammer and didn’t give a fuck as to what I had to do with it. Just that I wanted to.

I don’t know how long I stand here, staring atthe wall.

How long before I feel her fingertips ghost the back of my neck.

Her —I know it without even having to turn around and see her there for myself.

I can smell her. Feel her. This woman is in my blood, feeding off the parts of me I don’t have the stomach to acknowledge. She can fucking take them. All of them.

“Tell me.” Her voice nudges my eardrum, soft and hoarse. “What…what do you want to do?”

My shoulders slump. That’s a question I don’t get asked too often these days. What do you want,Espisido? Not What do you need? What do you feel?

What do you want ?

My fingers flex, my knuckles still raw from the other night. The sound of my voice doesn’t even seem familiar. “A knife.”

She’s already moving across the room, her hair flying out behind her. Whether intentionally or not, she lets her fingers flutter frombladeto blade to blade, taking her time before finally settling on one. When she returns to my side, she presents it blade-edge first.

I only see her. I don’t hear Arno. I don’t hear Mack. Jose’s a fucking speck.

Only her. Yellow. She hands me the knife when I reach for it. That’s it. No words of encouragement. No look laced with pity or doubt. Just the ice-cold scrape of metal against the flesh of my palm and the knowledge that this is all me. My choice.

My goddamn burden.

Mack’s still running his fucking mouth when I face him again.

He spits out a taunt I don’t bother to decipher, his bruised jaw standing out in stark contrast against the rest of his skin.

Jose did quite the number on him, but even he went easy.

This was a part of his game all along. Why? I don’t fucking care.

I just feel in this moment.

I don’t hold back when I swipe the knife against Mack’s bare side, catching the design of a tattoo.

I go deep, letting the blade hiss the words I don’t have the energy to say.

Blood tells all. In rivulets. In drips and drops.

I’m painting the floor with my own pain, and it feels…

so goddamn good not to have to fucking think.

So I don’t. I tune the world out—everything but the cold fingers resting on my forearm. It’s a new kind of torture session—How far can I go before she flinches back? Withdraws? Pulls away from me?

How much blood does it take to dilute yellow?

I make another cut. Another. Another. I see the picture I’m making in my head rather than on the flesh itself. Letters. Seven of them.

T R A…

Two fingertips flutter against the crook of my elbow, and I slow the motion of my hand. But they only press deeper. The nails graze my flesh, silent and commanding. I’m here. Keep going.

Do it.

One more strike.

I

Two more cuts.

T

Another.

O

I have to shake my head to snap out of this hell.

Hell—because nothing in heaven could ever feel this good.

This fucking right. There’s nothing holyinthe complete lack of guilt I feel as I take in the bleeding, gaping marks I’ve made right across another man’s rib cage.

I went deeper than I had to. He’s going to fucking scar.

Good.

Her hand is still there when I raise my arm again, controlling the blade with the perfect fluidity needed to finish off my creation.

R

Mack’s howling when I finally shake that black-hole concentration off. Threatening. Cursing. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

I don’t bother to trade his barbs this time. I just hold the knife up, staining the air with a new form of paint. Good old Mack will never forget what the fuck he is. Neither will I.

I wait until he falls silent to feel. Arno’s disgusted. Jose’s amused. Yellow… She’s just waiting and watching. Nothing I do seems to surprise her. Nothing shocks her.

She’s in my fucking soul, crawling through the filth and garbage. She doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the smell. She breathes me in deeper and runs her fingers along the mess. She calls it art.

“Tell us what you know,” I say to Mack. I sound so tired. So goddamn old. So much like Dante that my ears sting.

“You think you’re some kind of badass now, you little—”

“Tell us what you know, or I’ll kill you.”

Arno scoffs. Jose laughs. But I’m not joking.

Maybe Mack can see it, because he’s not so quick to counter me this time.

Could I do it? I look at the knife, my bloody fingers gripping the handle.

The answer is obvious, but it doesn’t make me feel proud or even ashamed to admit it.

Yes. I could. I will. The sickpartis that I wouldn’t even like doing it. Not like Jose. Not even like Arno.

I just would , and that’s all there fucking is to know. She makes me admit that to myself, right here and now. She makes me hammer that truth into my skull. I am what I am— murderer.

“You’re really fucking serious, huh?” Mack chokes out a long, dark chuckle.

“You want to know what the funny part is? I don’t owe that bitch a damn thing.

Yeah.” He chuckles again when Arno steps forward, his eyes glowing with renewed interest. “Who else would play the game just like fucking Stacatto? She’s using all of his damn tricks.

Fuck, I know you dropped out of high school and all, but you really are fucking stupid, Arno. ”

Gritting his teeth, Arno lets the insult fly by. “Start talking.”

He does. I don’t understand a word of what he says. I don’t try to. Adrenaline creates a fuel-soaked prison more sustaining than nicotine. Much more addictive, but with way harsher side effects. I’m shaking. The remnants of rage war with what little bit of control I have left.

I’m angry. It feels strange to admit that. To feel it all without trying to write it off in some way. I’m tired. I’m pissed. Arno. Dante. Jose. All they do is spill their own shit out onto the world and expect someone else to clean it up.

“Espi! ”

I don’t register turning until Arno’s hand is on my shoulder, dragging me back.

“Wait. We need to—”

“Let me go.” I shrug him off, but not before Mack can getinthe last word.

I’m not sure exactly what he says. Something about Dante. Something about how proud he’d be of his little candy-ass brother.

It’s funny. The only time I ever hear her gasp is when I lunge for him and draw the knife. I hit him high. I hit him hard. Too hard. Blood goes flying. His eye… It’s a mess in the socket. His neck chords—he screams so loudly.

And I don’t even hear him. I don’t fuckingregister the way my fingersloosen, dropping the knife. I turn, and I leave without a fuck given for the chaos I’vesowedbehind me. I’m selfish. I’m needy.

Just like Dante.