I’ve had a clear image of heaven in my head since childhood, thanks to my parents. A devout Catholic, my father entertained this cliché fantasy of a soul being greeted by angels playing the harp in a pool of white light—and until now, I never had any reason to doubt that hope.
Reality paints a different picture, however. My heaven is black, and the only serenade I hear consists of angry, masculine voices.
“You think it’s that fucking easy?” Someone snarls. “You just hand me the reins, and I’m what? King for a day until Daddy decides to come back home?”
“No,” another man growls. “You fucking keep it. I never wanted it—”
“That’s not how it goddamn works, Dante! I know you’ve been on ‘vacation’ for a while, but there’s only one way the alpha stops being alpha. Just ask Dino...”
“Do you really want to try that method?” The moment that dangerous tone resonates down my spine I know where I really am. The pearly gates of heaven must have slammed in my face; this is the devil’s domain.
From what I can gather, Lucifer himself and one of his trusted demons are arguing about who really owns the fiery pit.
“I should challenge you for it,” the first man starts—Arno?—but his voice doesn’t hold any real aggression. Just...pain? Hurt? Regret?
“You could,” the devil concedes. “I won’t fucking stop you.”
It’s more of a dare than a taunt. Tension builds, licking at the silence like flames. Higher...higher...until something has to give.
“Damn it, Dante...fine,” Arno spits out finally. “Have it your fucking way. But, if you think for one second that you can just waltz back in and I’ll roll over like a good little boy, then you’ve got another thing coming. I’ve been doing just fine on my own. I’m nobody’s fucking benchwarmer.”
“I don’t expect you to be,” the devil snaps, but his voice is softer and easily drowned by the thud of heavy footsteps. What I assume is a door slams shut seconds later and my perception shifts once again. I’m in a room.
When I finally manage to peel my eyes open, I’m blinded by daylight streaming in through a nearby window—not hellfire. My searching fingers deduce that I’m on a bed and even with my vision blurry I have no trouble recognizing the dark silhouette lurking beside it.
Awake, there is nothing about him similar to the fallen angel I’d watched sleep. His bulk is glaringly out of place here, and his scars shape everything about him—how he sits, waits, breathes. Scanning his worn expression, I don’t see any new scorch marks, however, so I doubt he walked through fire to find me.
But where are we now?
Without saying a word, he waits for me to notice the tubes snaking from my wrist and the bags of fluid hanging from a nearby IV—answering the question I’m too tired to ask; a hospital room. He’s not alone either. Someone sleeps on a small couch beside him, using their bandaged hand like a pillow. Darcy? No, this figure is way too tall, with an unruly mop of black hair...
A flurry of beeping pierces the air—an alarm sounding from the machine monitoring my vitals. It doesn’t like how quickly I sit up, struggling to regain control of my heavy limbs.
“Espi?” The specter on the couch groans, turning his face into the crook of his elbow. He sounds real enough... My brain warns me that it’s impossible, but when I blink, he doesn’t disappear. “Is...is he all right—”
“He’s fine,” Dante grunts, gritting his teeth—but “fine” seems to be the operative word in this equation.
Guilt gnaws at my chest when my eyes take in Espi’s bruised face and the mess made of his right hand. He might not be dead, but he’s survived his trip into hell with plenty of souvenirs.
The thought makes me glance down at my own hand, covered in gauze. My fingers seem to be intact, but when I flex them, a dull ache travels up the length of my arm, triggering a wave of memories: white-hot flames licking at my skin. Smoke. Burning. Death. Dying...
“How?” I look up while my tongue runs along my sore, cracked lips, tasting blood. “How did I...”
“Gino,” Lucifer grits out. “Turns out he wasn’t so loyal to your precious Vinny after all.” Anger rides every single word, searing hot—though the devil doesn’t even seem to understand why he’s furious as he stares down at his open hands. They’re bruised and swollen even worse than before.
Like an arrow to the chest, something warns me that I’m the reason. While maybe not through the actual fire, my devil did go through hell, if only to drag his new toy from a rival’s grip. Not that it did one damn bit of good.
Despite everything...I’m Lynn again, squashed beneath Vinny’s thumb. His death didn’t erase my memories. My lungs struggle beneath the weight of them. My limbs burn with the need to escape, but my body...every cell is too heavy to move.
Did you think it would be so easy, Mi Bella? My old friend taunts from the darkest reaches of my soul. Think again. I own you...
Trapped, I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my throbbing lip until it bleeds—anything to be distracted from that hollow, pulsing feeling in my chest. Is it fear? Agony? Or is it merely the knowledge that alive or not, Vinny will never let me go.
“Look at me.”
My eyes fly open at Lucifer’s command, and Vinny doesn’t exist for the second his gaze hones in on mine—not that the devil’s rage is any easier to stomach. I have my own evil to answer for, and Lucifer frowns, both my judge and jury.
I broke our promise.
I made a liar out of the devil.
I further corrupted his broken soul.
He tallies up my crimes in silence, and Espi’s snoring fills the space between us, mingling with the steady drip of IV fluid and the distant commotion of the hallway.
When what feels like an eternity passes, I can’t bear the tension anymore. “Arno...is he okay?” I don’t know if I’m really concerned or if I’m just that desperate to say something. Either way, I chose the wrong topic.
“Mack wanted him to pay for your kill with his life, if that’s what you mean,” the devil says. His voice is as sharp as the blade we toyed with between us, drawing yet more of my blood.
“What—”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “I handled it.”
He handled it, but I don’t think it was in a way Arno approved of. I know you’ve been on ‘vacation’ for a while, but there’s only one way the alpha stops being alpha. What did that mean? I start to ask, but a different voice cuts me off before the words even leave my throat.
“You’re alive.” With one shift of his lanky frame, Espi sits upright, running his unbandaged hand through his hair.
“So are you,” I croak once I find my voice again. I can’t help the way my eyes dart from him to Dante. Side by side it’s like watching a yin and yang symbol come to life. Espi’s smile lights up the room, contrasting with the devil’s permanent scowl—but I’m not sure which expression I find more comforting.
They both eye me carefully, and I must make for quite the sight because when a nurse peeks her head through the doorway, she makes a show of calling for the doctor.
In a blur of medical jargon, they throw around a few terms like poison darts. Broken ribs. Fractured arm. Months of physical therapy. Healing. Quiet. Peace.
When they leave, the only tangible piece of information I manage to decipher is that after a few days of observation I’ll be “free to go home, sweetie.”
Home. It’s been so long since I’ve applied that term to an actual place. Ironically, the only image that comes to mind is of a narrow room with a single bed dominated by a sleeping, imposing figure.
“You got banged up pretty good, Pyro,” Espi states with a whistle, drawing my attention back to him. His smile is as bright as ever, though the cut on his forehead ruins the carefree illusion he tries to cast. “The docs think you’ll be stuck in here for at least a week. After that...”
He lets the statement hang as if expecting me to dream up a plan of action on the spot. With Vinny’s domain in flames, I was “free,” after all. When I don’t answer, Espi glances warily at his brother.
“If you don’t have a place...you could stay with me,” Espi says. “Arno got me some digs outside of the city, and I have the extra room.”
He fiddles with his right hand while he speaks, rolling the fingers of his good hand over the bandages. I’m so fixated on the unconscious action that I don’t realize until he clears his throat that nearly a minute has gone by.
“I, uh...thank you,” I croak out, “but I can’t.” I’ve tainted the devil and his angelic cohort long enough—though neither one seems to appreciate my guilt.
“Really, Pyro,” Espi starts. “It’s no trouble—”
“You have nowhere left to go,” the devil says, rising to his feet. There’s blood on his shirt. And his jeans. His hands... Noticing my expression, he doesn’t try to hide it. He’s the beast from the cage again, bearing his battle wounds like medals of honor. “Stacatto’s dead,” he adds. “Arno sure as hell won’t take you in. So, unless you have a better option, I suggest you drop the stoic martyr act and take the fucking offer.”
Without another word, he storms out, slamming the sliding door of the room behind him.
“Ignore him,” Espi says quietly, but for the first time, there isn’t any hostility in his tone when he refers to his brother. “I offered him a spot to crash, too,” he admits, watching the space Lucifer left with an unreadable expression. “He turned me down. Something tells me that he’ll change his mind, though...”
Deep down, I know that if he did, it would only be to keep an eye on Espi. His absence made one thing clear: the devil himself wanted nothing to do with me.
“It’s one of the premier musical conservatories in the country,” Espi explains, gesturing to the brochure in front of me. “Basically...this place is heaven on earth. You can look, Pyro Girl, but I bet you won’t find a better school.”
I shift beside him on the couch and peer closer at the glossy cover. The bold font spanning the front of it supports his claim. The faculty contains some of the greatest minds in the classical arts, with a division even devoted solely to the cello.
“The auditions should be a piece of cake,” Espi claims as he turns the page to a breathtaking photo spread of a lush green campus. “I’ll help you through it. As for tuition, they offer financial aid, and if you need more help I can help cover the rest of it...”
I don’t interrupt him to ask just how he’ll get the money or why he cares. I nod. I smile. I watch him enthusiastically flip through the rest of the brochure, and I try my best to seem as excited as he is. Hopeful. Content.
It’s an act that I’ve performed expertly for the past three months. Poor Espi still hasn’t seen through it—but the cold, nearly identical gaze watching me from across the room isn’t as oblivious.
“I’m so excited,” I say, forcing a grin. “I guess this means I’ll have to practice more now. I can’t wait...” When my voice finally trails off, I doubt that I’ve convinced anyone else in this room of that but Espi. It’s a bitter victory. Grinning widely, he’s the epitome of optimism, and I feel even worse for letting him down.
“Well, I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, rising to his feet, though he makes sure to slip the pamphlet onto my lap with a wink. “We’ll go over the application stuff tomorrow, all right?”
“All right.” I watch him head for the stairs. Without seeming to realize it, he starts to fiddle with his right hand, and my worn smile slips. The black glove he wears contains prosthetic replacements for his thumb, index finger, and pinky, but after only a month he hasn’t regained much use of the limb yet. I know he’s frustrated by the lack of progress, though he does his best to pretend otherwise. The disability hasn’t hampered his art, at least. “I can still wield a spray can with my left hand. Score one for being ambidextrous, eh Pyro?”
“You know, Pyro,” he calls back, “we might even be able to score a tour this week if we...” Following my gaze, Espi frowns and tucks his hand behind his back. I’ve been staring for too long. Seconds later, he’s already mounted the staircase before I can even choke out an apology. “Night,” he calls from the top of them.
“Night,” I say in return, but my voice alone isn’t enough to drown out his weary sigh. The house is so small the faintest sound carries. Sandwiched between two others, it sits on a small street in a suburb about an hour outside of the city. The location is near where Espi plans to start school next semester, so I assume that’s why he chose it—though I’m not sure how he manages to pay for it. Money from Arno?
Maybe. But I don’t dare ask.
Dante’s old friend isn’t mentioned much anymore—becoming one of the many topics that are tread over eggshells lately. Vinny is another. He may live inside my head, but I still can’t voice his name out loud.
It’s much easier to pretend—like I do now. Bad things only dwell in the city. The shadows don’t exist if you don’t acknowledge them. Some nights, I almost succeed in fooling myself...
If only the devil was as easy to ignore.
His eyes follow me when I stand and cross the small living room, skirting the simple furniture that came with the listing: a couch, an armchair, and a coffee table. The moment I mount the stairs I know he’s right on my heels. Like always, he waits until I crest the top of the staircase where he watches me enter the room at the end that I’ve claimed as my own. When I wrestle the door shut behind me, I don’t hear any more footsteps—he’ll remain in that spot all night, keeping watch.
I’ll have no choice but to wait him out. Feeling my way through the darkness, I find the small bed tucked underneath the one window and perch myself on the edge of the mattress. My only other belongings are a secondhand cello propped against the corner, beside a duffle bag of clothing Espi found for me, and a pink mirror he hung on the wall to make this room “more girly.” From my position, I can just make out my reflection in the moonlight, though I barely recognize the person staring back. Her hair is shorter than it has ever been, barely ghosting her shoulders. There’s a scar on her chin and a healing patch of flesh over her right ear. At first glance, she could almost pass for human if it wasn’t for her eyes. They’re too dark. Lifeless.
Her soul has fallen way too far to be of use to anyone now. All she can do now is wait. It feels like an eternity before the house finally quiets. Espi’s snoring trickles down the hallway, and I use the sound as cover when I creep over to the duffle and tug on the zipper. There isn’t much inside. Just a few sweaters and a couple pairs of jeans, but I take the time to fold each garment before carefully packing them back away. It’s not long after midnight when I hear someone lumber into the bathroom, and I crack my bedroom door to find the devil has finally left his post.
I don’t stop to feel sorry for myself as I throw my bag over one shoulder and cross the threshold. I’ve overstayed my welcome in hell. Even the devil himself seems tired of watching me burn. All I have to do is make it to the damn door. One foot in front of the other...
“Going somewhere?” A heavy hand falls over my shoulder, throwing me off balance. My foot slips and I have to catch myself against the wall but the resounding thud echoes like a gunshot. Holding my breath, I look over at Espi’s room. Seconds tick by, but his door doesn’t budge...
Thank God.
With my heart still racing, I recall the question. Going somewhere? “Yes.” I take two more steps forward, shrugging off the imposing figure who crept up behind me. I can see the top of the stairs now...
But one shove from behind and I go flying toward them. The scream building in my throat doesn’t even have the chance to leave it before I find myself hauled down the steps after an imposing figure. Dragging me near the cusp of the kitchen, Lucifer comes to a stop, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. The shadows bathe him. In the light coming in through the sliding glass door overlooking the backyard, I swear I see them flicker...like wings. I blink, and they disappear, but the fire in his gaze doesn’t diminish one damn bit.
“Going somewhere?” he repeats, now that we’re out of earshot of Espi.
“I didn’t want to wake him up,” I whisper, explaining away some of the stealth.
But not all of it.
“So, you just sneak out,” he says, almost matter-of-factly. Birds fly. Daniela Manzano runs away when his back is turned.
After three months of apathy, the venom in his tone is a slap. It’s reassurance; he really does hate me.
“I...I didn’t want to hurt him. Espi,” I admit while shrugging the arm that sports the duffle to keep it from sliding off. “He’s looking at schools for me, and he’s so excited and...”
“You’ve been stringing him along this whole time,” the devil surmises.
“I...” I’ve uttered so many lies to myself these past few months, they should just roll off my tongue, but it seems impossible to lie to him. “It doesn’t matter,” I stammer, glancing over at the front door. “You guys are better off if I leave—”
“Just cut the shit,” Lucifer commands, yanking on my arm. “This is about one fucking thing. You still think about him.”
I turn away again but not quickly enough to hide the guilt I know crosses my face. The nightmares don’t come every night, but when they do, I wake up screaming. Of course, he heard me through the paper-thin walls.
“Yes,” I choke out. “I still think about him...” Something about Lucifer’s frown makes me add, “I did kill him, after all.”
That woman...she didn’t sound like me, but Lucifer doesn’t seem puzzled by the boast. “You did,” he says carefully. “Having second thoughts?”
“No, he deserved to die,” I say so fiercely my teeth chatter and we both turn to eye the stairs in case Espi appears at the top of them. Seconds pass in silence, and his door never opens. “I don’t regret it,” I say softly, returning my gaze to the man beside me. “I don’t.”
“Oh really?” A smile tugs on his mouth. One of those dangerous, semi-snarls that he wore while facing off against Mack. It’s the mark of a wolf who already has his prey cornered before they even know it. “Then tell me something—” he jerks his chin to the door. “Why sneak out in the middle of the goddamn night?”
“I...just. I. You... It’s not like you even want me here,” I toss back.
The devil’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck do I have to do with anything?”
“What?” I could laugh if the noise wouldn’t wake Espi. What did he have to do with anything? A better question was why this traitorous part of me seemed to believe he affected everything. “Because I can’t stand living here another second—” I bite off the rest of the words before they ever have the chance to leave my throat. I need to leave. I tell myself that and flex my feet against the floor. Leave. But when I shift to the right, I run into his shoulder.
“Why?” he demands while I stumble to catch my balance.
“Because...”
“Just fucking say it.” He takes a step closer—and that one motion has never seemed more dangerous. I stagger back, grasping behind me for the wall with one hand. “Because what?”
Good old obedient Lynn would say nothing. She’d bite her lip and hope her silence would appease him enough to avoid a beating. She might add another lie on top of it all for good measure. It doesn’t matter.
Broken Daniela is too tired for games. “Because of you.”
The devil doesn’t know how to process that. His eyes narrow further, and crackle with blue fire—hotter than any flames hell could contain. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? All my fault that you, what? Miss that fucking bastard?”
“I don’t know.” Numb, I stare beyond his head, watching the shadows dance across the backsplash above the sink. This house, with all its charms, has become a newer, smaller cage worse than any Vinny could ever devise.
That fucking bastard at least bathed his precious, captive bird in attention, however cruel it was. Apart from restraining me when the need arises, Dante won’t even touch me. When he does speak, it’s to bark out a few simple commands—eat, sleep, stay, go. Hell, this...this is the longest conversation we’ve had since the morning I woke up in the hospital.
It shouldn’t matter...burn, sting, throb, ache, tear me apart, roll my ruined soul in jagged glass.
The loss of one man’s heat shouldn’t fucking hurt so much. At the end of the day, the moral of this story is that the devil is harder to withdraw from than heroin. The poor princess can’t shake the craving. She can’t spend another fucking minute suffocating under the pretense that vanquishing one scary monster was enough to make her whole again.
Because it isn’t.
The sad truth was that nothing might ever be. Admitting it to myself is a knife through my soul. After five years of torment, freedom doesn’t taste as sweet as poor Lynn thought it would.
The devil doesn’t seem to realize why I blink back tears. Do I even know the reason? Without Vinny here to cherry-pick what emotions I should feel, I only have a few left to fall back on. Hatred. Loathing. Fear. All three lash out at him like a whip, and my tongue is ready to deliver the sting. “Maybe...I should have just let him kill me.”
I watch in satisfaction as the blow hits its mark. But the devil...he thrives on the violence. One step closer and he has me trapped. “Maybe I should have killed you myself,” he counters.
His heat leaches through my skin, sparking an inferno and my body doesn’t know how to interpret it. I...I can’t keep my back from arching. Or my knees from trembling. My core from throbbing...
Loathing. Lust. He splits me apart and watches on as the twisted halves of me go to war.
I’ve been forced to do things to myself at night other than smother my screams. Shameful, pathetic, twisted things. Did he hear those sounds as well, from down the hall?
Looking into his eyes, I can’t tell. Either way, he seems fixated on another dilemma.
“You think he’s alive?” There is no shred of humanity in his gaze as he shifts his stance, leaving his hands open at his sides.
“He’s dead,” I croak, watching his flexing fingers, but even I don’t believe it. His body may be ashes. Those ashes may be in a morgue—but Vinny Stacatto is very much alive. His soul still lingers...feeding off what’s left of mine.
“So, they say,” the devil agrees, “but...there are rumors.” I suspect the words are a test. A taunt. He watches my reaction but doesn’t seem satisfied when I flinch. My chest contracts, brushing his, though I don’t know if he’s closer or if I simply stopped trying to shift away. His scent fills my lungs regardless, chasing out every ounce of oxygen.
I look down at the bag dangling from my shoulder. Underneath the clothing are old newspapers, scavenged from any store that carries The City Harold. While Espi tracked down schools for me, I’d hunted down every mention of rising crime rates in the city and the names of the bastards who’d taken Vinny’s place. They were only mentioned in tiny, anonymously quoted fragments but the mantra became my bedtime prayer. Piotr Petrov. Wilhem Donahugh. Arno Mackenzie.
They, and quite a few more had eagerly picked up where Vinny had left off... But none of them came close to the darker specter who seemed to be pulling the strings from the shadows these days. Apparently, even ghosts can rule with an iron fist.
“Yeah. I’ve heard the rumors,” I admit out loud. Do I believe them? I’m not sure.
“And?”
“And...” I lick my lips and consider the question. He seems to want more than a simple answer. “As long as any of those other men exist, Vinny still wins. Even in hell.” I can’t tell if acknowledging that sad fact hurts or not. Maybe, deep down, I’ve made peace with it. I’ve absorbed it. “Look,” I tell him, hiking the duffle higher on my shoulder. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I...” My voice trails off, and I seize my moment of freedom by staggering out of his reach. I make it, inches from the exit before the duffle seems to fly off my arm of its own accord and hits the floor. “No. On second thought, you know what, Dante. Why do you even care if I leave?” I turn to face him, but his expression is unforgiving. Stone. “Is it because you’re worried? Do you really... trust? It all comes down to trust...and the fact that you don’t trust me.”
The devil says nothing, and I can’t seem to shut up. “You guard Espi’s door at night like I’m...I’m some kind of threat. You lurk in the shadows avoiding me and yet you don’t take your eyes off me.” And then it hits me. In the devil’s world, betrayal apparently had no distinction—he treated me the same way he treated the other monster he used to protect Espi from. “So, what are you afraid of, exactly?” I croak. “Are you afraid I’ll tell someone where you are, someone like Mack, is that it—”
“I don’t give a damn what you do,” he tells me, jerking his chin to the door. “So, get the fuck out.”
I move, but my steps take me in the wrong direction. I’m closer to him. Inches away. On top of him. As battle-worn as he is, he doesn’t expect the hand that flies out, catching him across the cheek. The resounding slap echoes throughout the room but the shock doesn’t stop me from hitting him again. And again.
Again.
I punch, kick, slap, scratch, anything. The violence is more addictive than the heroin. Maybe this is what Vinny felt—this rage that made him rail against the world. Hitting the devil makes me feel better. For about a second.
It’s not as fun when he doesn’t fight back, though. Not even when I lash at him with both hands. I kick him, and he’s stone. I’m hurting myself more than I hurt him. Even when I dig my nails in. Even when I goad him on with the words that would have sent Vinny into a blind rage. “I hate you, you goddamn bastard. I fucking hate you—”
He slams his hand over my mouth, muffling the awful things I shout at him—for Espi, he muzzles me. But when my teeth cut his palm, he turns my own body weight against me, and I hit the tiled floor on my hands and knees, tasting blood. I try to crawl away, but one of his hands seizes the back of my neck while the other pins me down by my waist.
“Let me go,” I croak. I’m pleading. More tears blur my vision, and when I reach back, I’m not sure what part of him I clutch. His chest? No, his arm. He growls when I dig my nails in and try to push him away.
After three tries, he doesn’t move—but my body does. Disobedient, it has me lurching closer like a moth to a flame even as the words I spit at him echo with painful clarity. Still broken. Still bitter. “I hate you. I hate you. Fuck you...”
“Fuck me?” a cold voice demands as he hunches over me from behind, slamming one of his hands against the tile in front of me. “I could kill you.”
To prove it, he tightens his grip on my throat, caressing my windpipe. Crushing it. I see stars. My lungs heave for air, but death doesn’t even have the chance to touch me before he lets go.
“Coward,” I tell him.
“Bitch,” he snarls back. I gasp as something pinches my shoulder to drive in the insult. Hard. Unforgiving. Teeth? I can’t decide before his fingers find their way down the back of my pants and graze that space between my legs. When I don’t react, he slides one inside—harshly—gritting out a curse at the way I feel—already wet for him, greedily grasping at the digit. Shame and regret don’t matter at this moment. My hips jerk, driving him deeper while my nails scrape at the cold linoleum.
This is the only language we know how to speak. Fingers. Skin. Nails. He thrusts his hand, and I lunge forward to bite the arm he has braced against the floor. He deepens his touch...I bite harder. Grunting with pain, he doesn’t let up. He’s searching me the same way he did the night with Donahugh, seeking out any trace of another monster. I know before he gives up that he won’t find any—if only he could do the same thing to my head—rip out Vinny and leave me hollow. My old tormentor rages from the grave, bellowing in my ear...
“You think,” the devil starts, drowning him out and everything else, “you think I was watching over Espi?”
I don’t like the note of confusion in his voice. If he wasn’t guarding Espi’s door, then why...
“I don’t care.” I shake my head, consumed by the hand he still has between my legs. I look up to find three tiny puncture wounds pierce the flesh of his forearm bared beneath the sleeve of his dark tee shirt. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, but my throat rushes to swallow it down rather than spit it out.
Whore, Vinny would cackle. You deserve to be used like one.
But the cadence of Lucifer’s breathing makes it harder to hear him. Harder to care. Harder to focus on anything but the searing burn of hellfire. Without warning, he touches me again...and, like a true addict, I can’t resist the promise of one last high. My hand finds his, the nails digging in until he retaliates, clutching my thigh so tightly he breaks the skin. More blood spills, coating his nails and catching on the air like the opening notes of our own fucked-up melody.
I assume he takes my gasp for permission because the next second he manipulates me like a rag doll, stripping off the pretty, comfortable clothing Espi picked out for me. My pink sweater hits the counter. My black stretch pants bunch up around my ankles. I hear his jeans come undone. I feel the slick heat of him against my inner thigh, but the bastard waits until I reach back myself and slide my hand along his length before he mounts me, shoving himself deep.
The searing friction ricochets through every nerve ending, but I need him deeper. Harder. Faster. More, more—God I need more. I writhe until he gives in, riding me like an animal right there before the sliding glass door. Any nosy neighbor with good vision could see us. Hear us.
And I don’t give a damn.
“More,” I rasp. “More, more.” He pivots, swiveling his hips to spark a carnal friction that makes me bite my tongue, it’s too much. Not enough, even as my knees are rubbed raw while he lunges to find his own primal rhythm.
We’re animals.
But I don’t even start to ride that dizzying trip to the edge of insanity until he flips me over, pulling out. Only to wrench my legs apart and slide back in. Slower, this time. Deeper. Harder. His eyes find mine, glowing in the shadows, reinforcing with every thrust just who really owns my soul. I can almost see the letters of his name, flashing across my vision like stars. D A N T E...
The brand on my chest is on fire. The blood in my veins simmers. When the fire finally spills over I can only gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders so fiercely they break the skin.
Spent and slick with sweat, he gives me five seconds to catch my breath before rolling from on top of me. With my eyes on the ceiling, I expect him to walk away. Instead, he merely waits until my vision clears before rising onto his hands and knees, dragging me closer by my ankle.
It’s a familiar scene as he hunches between my splayed legs like a wolf, lowering his head. One brush of his tongue and I croak out the language that he made me fluent in. “Fuck, Fuck—” my voice dies off when he lashes at my throbbing skin, taking his time, heedless of the mess. Lapping. Sucking. Devouring.
Any disgust I might feel is too weak to truly register. I’m riding the high again. By the time my voice returns, I’m already over the edge, and his name spills out like a curse and a prayer.
His lips are still wet when he breaks away, and his mouth finds mine. I should cringe away from the pungent taste his tongue carries when he slams it past my lips—but I don’t care. I kiss him back. Bite him back. I dig my nails down his arms, leaving my mark until he takes me again.
Harder. Faster. Meaner. Rougher. Deeper.
We may never be fully adept at the art of verbal conversation...but our bodies have mastered it.
I’m sore when he pulls out the final time, painting my stomach with his release. He doesn’t bother to rub it in this time. He doesn’t have to. When he collapses down beside me, we both know who really owns whom.
But even this moment can’t erase three months of suspicion.
“You went back to him,” the devil spits out at the ceiling, broaching the topic I suppose festered between us since the morning I left him at Mack’s. “That fucking bastard. You went back to him.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I hear myself say, though do I truly believe that? I damn well had a choice—I just made the one that worked in his favor. The act didn’t make me a saint—in fact, it made me more corrupt than any fallen angel.
I’d willingly traded my soul for the devil.
“The fuck you didn’t,” he snarls. “I would have gotten Espi back on my own—”
“He would have killed you.” I let the words hang, but when I hear his mouth open, I reach for his hand and dig my nails into the scarred, calloused surface. The remains of our promise leave an ugly mark across his palm, identical to the one on mine. “He would have killed you,” I croak, surprised that he doesn’t try to pull away—not that I could let him go. “He would have made me watch. And I couldn’t...I couldn’t.”
I’ve stabbed a man to death. Had sex with a stranger on camera. My soul was stained black with so many crimes, but I couldn’t bear to watch him die. Maybe that made me a coward, worse than Vinny. He had been sadistic. I was selfish.
Dante wrenches his hand from my grip, only to turn the tables by seizing my wrist so tightly the bones compact. “So, you figured it was easier to let me watch you die,” he says in that dangerous, unsteady octave.
“It wasn’t how I thought,” I croak out when he doesn’t say anything else. “Killing him. I thought...I thought it would be easier to...” Move on? Look at my future with Espi at the helm and magically heal like every other damsel in distress did at the end of her fairy tale? Some days, I even longed for that simple, easy bliss. Lynn used to pray for it.
But now...
“Killing him wasn’t enough, Dante. Not when there are a million other bastards waiting to take his place. I want...” My eyes scan the ceiling once again while the weight of those two words settles over my tongue. I want. A fancy music school or peace wasn’t enough to satisfy this new creature born in the ashes of Vinny’s destruction. “I want to ruin everything he’s ever built so that no one can claim it. I need to.”
The devil stirs beside me, dragging himself upright, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. “So what? You think you can just go back and take on fuckers like Mack on your own?”
“I heard what Arno told you,” I admit. They may have been brothers, but even the closest of family didn’t enjoy sharing power. “And you have Espi to look after. This isn’t your problem—”
“Damn it. Get up.” I blink as Dante rises to his feet, drawing his jeans back up. He took his shirt off, however, and I catch a glimpse of the silvery scars left on his torso. “Now,” he snaps when I don’t move. “Get up.”
Wincing, I obey and follow him up the stairs, into the small bathroom. When he flicks the switch, the artificial light washes over our bodies, casting the blood on his arm in stark relief—not that he bothers to even wince as he cuts on the shower. We take turns bathing, and when I’m done, he leaves for a minute only to return with clothes fished from my duffle. The lilac sweater and dark jeans make for a strange armor against the uncertainty.
In silence, we return downstairs, and the devil opens the front door, marshaling me out onto the front stoop—though we leave my bag behind.
Darkness paints the quiet neighborhood gray, almost swallowing the black truck idling alongside the curb. When Lucifer pulls open the passenger-side door, I recognize the driver and my heels promptly dig into the pavement.
“It’s all right,” the devil claims while Gino stares dead ahead, his hands on the steering wheel.
“Evening Ms. Manzano,” he greets me, but I can’t seem to move until the devil climbs in first, jerking his chin for me to follow.
“It’s all right,” Dante repeats, and I climb onto the backseat. The moment I close the door behind me, Gino starts driving.
“You make sure he’s secure?” Dante asks him, his voice gruff.
“Of course.” Gino shrugs without taking his eyes off the road. There’s an ease to his posture that wasn’t there around Vinny. Hell, he almost seems relaxed as he blends into the trickle of late-night traffic. “Your ’friend’ hid him well, but not well enough.”
“Good,” Dante grunts, flexing his hands in and out of fists. “I hope the fucker’s comfortable.”
“Who?”
Gino ignores me, but Dante glances back and the dangerous gleam in his eye...
It’s terrifying.
It’s beautiful.
“Stacatto didn’t get lucky,” he says, “someone sold out, Espi. I know who.”
I don’t have the chance to question him before the truck comes to a stop in a narrow alley and both men climb out. Drawing a gun from his pocket, Gino waits near the truck while Dante drags me forward, toward a battered metal door that opens into a small building. It’s dark inside, and the air smells dank, like rust. Only a flickering light bulb illuminates the cavernous storeroom of what appears to be a warehouse.
The stench of rust tickles my nose, and I have to feel along the wall with one hand until the moment Dante comes to a stop. He inclines his head toward a single flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling. There, on his knees is a man stuffed inside an ill-fitting suit, his hands bound behind his back. In a second I can place a name to the kneeling figure. Donahugh.
“You want to get rid of the bastards who run the city?” Dante questions, watching the man before us with those hellfire eyes. “Then make a choice, right now. Either you wait around for monsters like Stacatto to die off or...you beat the fucking peace in, blow by blow.”
I swallow hard as his words resonate through my skin, settling deep into the remains of my soul. Donahugh spots us and a bead of sweat trickles down his forehead while his eyes widen. “What...what do you mean?” I rasp.
“Someone gave this fucker a new kind of leverage to barter with Stacatto,” Dante says.
“Who?”
He shakes his head. “That bastard is mine. But him...”
He reaches into his pocket and shoves something into my hand. I know what it is, even before my fingers seek out the familiar shape. My trusty little knife. The weapon is more symbolic, however, compared to what he gives me next. I stiffen. He hasn’t taught me how to wield this item yet.
“Like this,” he prompts, nudging my fingers into what I assume are the proper positions. Regardless, the weapon still feels heavy and awkward in my grip, not that I let it go.
Instead, I start toward Donahugh. At this moment, I’m not Lynn anymore—but I’m not Daniela either. I’m not quite sure who this new creature is eyeing the figure before her, muttering curses behind a strip of duct tape sealing his mouth shut.
The bastard doesn’t even seem human...
Just a liability. Another potential Vinny. Another danger to some other helpless girl too stupid to know a man from a monster.
Does he deserve to die?
Maybe not. After all, the devil taught me that you can’t hate an animal. You can only fear it...or “put it out of its fucking misery.”
Knowing that, it’s easy to raise my arm and position my fingers over the trigger. A warm hand grazes the small of my back, reinforcing the devil’s latest advice. Make a choice.
With him beside me, it’s easier to aim the barrel of the gun straight at the man’s head.
Wrapped beneath the shadow of Lucifer’s fallen wings, it’s even easy to squeeze the trigger, snuffing out one more monster’s life.
But there are plenty more awaiting their turn, and with hell at my back...
They only need to be patient.