by Lana Sky
I would hate to be the one to spoil that secret. Before I’m forced to, I register the rest of his words—brother—and I flinch again, seizing my lower lip between both rows of teeth. I bite down once, hard enough for the pain to flood my system and counter any emotion that could cross my expression and give me away. Lucifer has a brother—a man who likes to paint the Devil on the streets.
It’s almost too poetic.
“Okay...” I shake my head to clear it and head for the hallway—or at least I pretend to. I take the exaggerated route, skirting around the counter, and then I pretend to trip so that he doesn’t notice the knife I tuck into my hand.
The rest of Lucifer’s dwelling seems to repel my presence when its master isn’t there. I shiver when I make a detour into that lonely bedroom and approach the pile of things he keeps in the corner. It’s such a meager set of belongings. Plain. Simple. Durable. Vinny wouldn’t survive on such a lifestyle. Lucifer doesn’t require tailored suits, gold watches, and thousands of dollars to cut an intimidating presence, it seems.
All he needs are those eyes. I can almost feel them watching me now as I reach out and bat aside a pair of gray boxers to find three more plain tee shirts lurking underneath. I settle on a navy blue one—as feminine a color as I’m likely to find. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab the boxers too, hoping they might pass for shorts, if I can even get them to fit, that is.
I’m ice cold when I creep into the bathroom and run the shower at full blast. The pelting hot spray doesn’t do much to ease the ache in my limbs or quiet this insistent whisper in my head warning me to just take my chances and run. Damn Vinny. Damn Lucifer. At least I’d spend my last moments of freedom...away from some form of bloodshed.
I let the fantasies goad me into some semblance of peace. It’s only when I finally climb out of the tub and reach for one of the damp, used towels on the floor that I realize I’d never let go of the knife. It adds a mocking shimmer to my reflection when I finally gather the nerve to turn and face it.
Lucifer’s brother has been humoring me. There’s nothing remotely “fine” about the woman staring back at me with dry, soulless eyes. They’ve been sucked clean of all emotion—she’s a robot, merely going through the motions. I’m that pathetic automaton again, the one Vinny molded and corrupted me into being. Lynn. She traces her broken lips with a pink tongue, already anticipating the next beating.
No. I grit my teeth and shake my head. Then I use Lucifer’s toothbrush to chase every ounce of her away. Daniela returns when I blink, her exhausted expression a welcome sight. I scan the wet black hair clinging to her skull and warily drag my fingers through it. I manage to shift most of it over to my right shoulder, shielding as much of my damaged ear as I can. There’s no help for disguising the black bruise around my left eye, however. I try to counter it by making the rest of me seem as whole and as comfortable as possible.
It’s a laughable endeavor as I pull on Lucifer’s clothes. The shirt swallows me up like a child playing dress up in her father’s clothes, but I manage to roll the waistband of the boxers until they fit somewhat snugly. I’m clean at least.
When I finally tiptoe back into the hall—with my stolen knife hidden safely in one of the boxer’s pockets—I do my best to appear at ease. As if I’ve willingly encased myself within these four walls, though in a way I have. Squalor gleams like paradise when compared to Vinny’s luxurious prison. It’s easier than I would have thought to let my shoulders lose some of their tension. I don’t smile though—that would be a step too far, even for a delirious captive.
I try to seem neutral instead as if it’s completely natural for me to leave the shower dripping wet and wearing Lucifer’s clothes.
“You have a strange taste in wardrobe, Pyro,” the artist exclaims on a sharp exhale once he spots me near the mouth of the living room. “What happened to the cashmere sweaters and silk pants?”
I wince at the reminder of just how much control over my life—my identity—that Vinny had. “I don’t have any clothes,” I say, choosing not to waste energy on a lie. “He...” Lucifer has a real name, and I struggle to remember it. Something with a D. “D-Dan...Dante is helping me get back on my feet.”
“Bad breakup?” the man asks. I can’t tell if he’s humoring me or making a logical guess.
“The worst.” For a second, I let the full horror of Vinny’s memory wash over me. That fear seeps into my blood, pooling within every muscle. Nothing about my reaction is faked, and the man takes notice. He sits straighter, bracing both hands flat against his knees.
“How do you know him? Dante.”
I reach up and fiddle with a strand of my hair as a distraction while I try to come up with a plausible lie. There are none. In the end, I spit out the first scenario that comes to mind. “He...he found me crying. He bought me something to eat—” I nod to the corroborating empty cartons of takeout on the counter behind me. “He gave me a place to crash while...while I get back on my feet.” The appendages in question shuffle uneasily against the floor, and I have to dig my toes into the carpet before he notices.
“Hmph.” The man—I struggle to recall the name he gave me—Espi?—nods along with my tale. “So, he found you naked and drunk on the street corner and didn’t call the police or take you to a hospital?”
I frown. I don’t remember telling that part of the story.
“I saw him,” the man adds, “carrying you up the stairs drunk out of your mind. You only had on a pair of—”
“D-Do you want me to just say it?” I demand, injecting a false bit of shame into my voice. My heart races as I run out of options and just wing it. I’m drawing on a movie Vinny made me watch with him once. Pretty something. “My...my profession?”
His eyebrows shoot up into a fringe of black hair. “You mean...you’re a h...”
I say nothing, allowing him to draw the conclusion on his own. Prostitute. Call girl. Whore. How very fitting to describe it—in the end, that’s all I really ever was to Vinny. The explanation even ties in nicely with my bruised face and lack of proper clothing as well. “Dante’s helping me,” I say, and for a second I almost believe my own lie. “So, I’d really prefer if you didn’t call the police...”
The devil’s brother says nothing. He merely watches me, and I can’t decipher any conclusions he comes to when he finally stands.
“Wait here,” he says before turning to the door.
“But—”
“Don’t move,” he says without turning around. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the door open to the apartment, allowing me to see him dart across the hall and open one of the other doors that appears to branch off the hallway. It’s about two doors down from the “showroom,” and I can’t suppress a shudder while my mind conjures what other secrets he might pull from this new Pandora’s box.
A bag apparently. It’s small, made of plastic, and sports the name of a grocery store on the front.
“It’s not much,” the man tells me while letting the handle dangle from his hand. “Just a few things I could bother sparing, for now. I can bring more over later when I—”
“L-Later?” I reach out for the bag as if taking it might be enough to make him leave. “You can’t—”
“I have some...business to take care of now,” he says, with a wary glance over his shoulder. It’s the first sign of unease I’ve seen from him. Spraying graffiti in Vinny’s territory or even waltzing into Lucifer’s lair didn’t affect him as much. “But when I’m done, I’ll come see you again. Seeing as how you’re here of your own volition, Dante shouldn’t have a problem if you have visitors. Right?”
It’s like he’s daring me, to tell the truth, and for the life of me, I don’t know why I don’t. Lucifer’s nefarious intentions should be no concern of mine. The red-haired man doesn’t deserve any protection against a stranger who might not be able to stomach the idea of a tortured woman kept in the wings for his amusement.
I have every reason to come
clean.
In the end, I wrap my fingers around the handles of the bag and carefully pull it toward me. It’s heavy. I hold open both ends to peek at what’s carefully packed inside it—what appear to be two sweatshirts, red and black, and a pair of jeans, which just may be small enough to fit around my waist at least. There’s also a pair of sandals and a canister of men’s deodorant, still partially wrapped in packaging that sports the words Two Pack!
Something foreign pools into my stomach. Gratitude? It’s been so long since I’ve felt it. While the items might not seem like much to anyone else, I suspect that they were what few things in the world he had but was still willing to part with.
His generosity leaves me feeling greedy.
“Thank you.”
He shrugs. “Don’t mention it—seriously. Don’t say anything to Dante.”
For the first time, I notice the hard way he pronounces the name. Crisp...almost the same way in which Vinny utters Daniela. Lucifer’s near-twin doesn’t share any love for him, it seems. He doesn’t want the wolf to know our secret.
But he doesn’t have to tell me twice. I aim to give the clothing back though—I have nowhere to hide it—but before I even move to offer it to him, he’s already heading down the hall, his backpack hiked over one shoulder. “See you around, Pyro Girl,” he calls back to me.
I don’t know how long I stand there, his bag in hand before I finally gather the nerve to creep back inside.
“I didn’t kill him.” I utter that declaration as I slam a wad of cash onto the bar while Arno watches me from across the room, a pool cue in hand. Admittedly, some of the blood that drips from my fingers onto the bills might counter that statement, though no one in this room seems to give a damn either way.
“Is that what I’m supposed to tell the police when they come looking for you?” Arno’s almost smiling as he twists a block of chalk onto the end of his cue. Closing one eye, he lines up his shot—a yellow ball toward the corner pocket. He shouts when he makes it and brandishes his fist toward the man who steps up next. “Top that, you son of a bitch! Your secret’s safe with me, Kitty,” he grunts in my direction, his grin giving way to a colder expression. “Dead or alive. I don’t really give a shit—just as long as you got my point across.”
“His...memory’s been jogged,” I say while my eyes hunt the bar counter for something to drink. Rock music pulses and the bartender taps her foot in tune to the beat. Her dark eyes glance me over, lingering over the spot where my hips disappear beneath the edge of the counter.
“Can I get ya something?” she asks, her voice low and throaty.
“No.” I grit my teeth. My fingers flex, their sore knuckles throbbing, but the buzz at the back of my skull continues to grate on my nerves. Beating up some punk for petty cash barely made a dent in the itch that demands to be scratched. I consider asking Arno for another job or finding another asshole to pummel on the streets—anything to silence it.
“I told you to make that fucker into your man,” Arno says, sounding closer. I turn to find him stepping up to the bar beside me. He snaps his fingers at the bartender, and she smiles before turning to fish a bottle from the shelf, swaying her hips with every step. Arno licks his lips at the display, but his mind is still on business when he slaps his hand over the bloody wad of bills and shoves it firmly toward me. “Take it. This is your spoil.”
I shove the money back toward him. “Don’t want it.”
When the bartender returns, I jerk my chin at the bottle she holds, and she silently pours two shots. Arno knocks his back with a grunt, but I sip mine slowly, savoring each burning rush of liquid down my throat.
Neither sip is enough. She’s in my veins—in my head—challenging every drop of liquor. My body hums, demanding something that won’t be satisfied no matter how many times I pound my fist into the face of whatever fucker Arno wants intimidated, or whichever bastard is unlucky enough to cross my path.
“Another,” I choke out, and the woman’s barely topped me off before I down the next shot. Then another. My body burns with the aftereffects when I finally stand and snatch for the money, leaving Arno there to flirt his way into the brunette’s pants. I barely hear a word he says to me when I push my way through the men who crowd the bar. I take the stairs two at a time, gritting my teeth in lethal anticipation.
The blood already on my hands isn’t enough. My skin craves more—specifically hers. I could tear her from limb to limb, and I bet her eyes wouldn’t even widen in shock. That lamb’s already been nibbled at—she’s used to the snarls of the monsters who prowl the edges of her pen. Even when I finally reach the door to the apartment and throw it open, she doesn’t flinch from her position on the couch.
She merely draws her knees up to her chin. Cautiously, she watches me slam the door and approach, but there is no fear in her gaze. Even when my hand lashes out, the tips of my nails grazing her wrist, she doesn’t make a sound.
I don’t expect her to stand when I miss though, placing herself directly in the line of fire from my fists should I decide to hit her. I don’t know why the hell I don’t. My eyes flicker over her body instead, and my nostrils flare to register her scent. She’s showered. Her hair is wet. She’s stolen another one of my shirts, and underneath it, I can make out the edges of what I think are my boxers.
I have to clench my teeth together and flex my fingers to send my blood surging again. It flows through my heart and then straight down to where I need it the least. Her eyes watch me the entire fucking time. It’s like she can sense the way I harden, thicken, and strain. She’s as smug as she is empty.
Something flashes through her gaze before I can name it. Disgust? Her nose juts a little higher into the air. The princess doesn’t enjoy being commanded, but her knees bend regardless, and she lowers herself onto the floor—but it’s entirely of her own volition. Through the shadows that paint the room gray, she stares me down, unafraid.
“Get up.” I turn on my heel before she can obey and tear down the hall. The room is nearly dark when I enter it, and I don’t bother turning on the light as I strip off my shirt and toss it in a random direction. My right shoulder twinges—a result of being overworked while beating a man half to death on Arno’s say-so.
Though, if I wanted to be honest, the bastard had merely been a distraction. A toy. Fun. I want to take my rage out on something...real. Something that might scream when I go too far. Beg. Plead.
I want her to bleed.
As if following some cruel cue, she appears in the doorway uninvited. Apparently, the bitch just couldn’t save herself, and I certainly wouldn’t do it for her.
“Come here.” I leave no room for hesitation this time when I beckon her with a finger as if toying with the invisible trigger to my own sanity. I shoot, and the bullet goes flying, delivering a dose of hatred right into the center of her chest.
Her eyes are wary now. She’s uncertain of just what I want. To strangle her? Get off by shoving my dick down her throat? She seems to mull over each possibility, her lips pursed. I want her to struggle, but I can almost sense her uncaring shrug. Either one works for me.
Damn her.
I step back when she starts forward until I hit the wall. She’s paces away when my arm shoots out, sending her sprawling flat onto her ass, half onto the mattress and half off. Her eyes widen, but her teeth seize her lip as if to hold back a cry. Her gaze goes glassy, and like a true caged bird, she flies off... But she’s not fast enough. Her soul smacks off the ceiling when I crouch over her, and she blinks, landing back down on the filthy cage lining. She’s trapped inside her skin again, forced to watch as I bring my mouth close...grazing the tip of her nose before honing in on her ruined ear.
She smells like a mixture of old blood and cheap soap. These past few days of filth have seeped into her pristine skin, dulling its luster. Regardless, she still glows, still seemingly untouchable. I can’t seem to even make a stain when my fingers encircle her throat and begin to press into the supple flesh.<
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She gurgles something unintelligible, turning her eyes up to the ceiling. I can almost sense the fight rise and then die within her. She wastes more energy on forcing her limbs to give up their instinctive urge to resist than she does trying to breathe. She’s like a child, holding her breath and counting to ten in anticipation that the “scary time” will soon be over.
It’s such a fucking stupid comparison, but for some reason, I don’t squash it down as I finally let her go to sputter and wheeze beneath me.
Espi compared me to him. Like father, like son. Maybe I fucking was some sick fuck who could only feel in control at the expense of someone else’s pain. My thoughts swim, threatening to crack the shell of my skull and escape. Red drenches my vision. My hands sear with the need to punch, hit, attack and the only way to ease it is to reach out and grasp the first thing I touch.
I’m not like him.
Old memories hitchhike on the air, sneaking into my lungs and clawing through my thoughts like roaches. He used to tiptoe into my room, trying his damn hardest to be silent—as if I wasn’t already lying awake. I think he thought the stealth was doing me a fucking favor...
A lone moan scratches the air, too soft to be one of mine. I’d grabbed her, my nails biting into the skin of her arm. Scowling, I let go, swiping my hand against my hip as to wipe her off. It was like some part of me instinctively needed an anchor—something to tether me to reality.
“Turn over,” I growl. Before she can, I flip her over myself and position her on her hands and knees, presenting her ass to me. Her head dips low, her forehead pressing into the twisted sheets. From between her legs, I can see her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip once again skewered by her teeth.
I pull back, exhaling sharply. Air hisses in and out of my lungs weighed down like smoke. The stench of her blood, sweat, and tears in the sheets is a bitter smell. It chafes my nostrils when I try to ignore it and sink back down within the rage. I want it to consume me. I want to take every violent emotion out on her.
