Arno’s men can’t leave her alone though. Varying levels of anger distort their features, but I’m not impressed. How many of them fucked Parish or gave her money for drugs? How many of them treated her like shit and called her as much to her face? Her death has made her a saint. Arno’s sister will be avenged, all right.
One of the men steps forward, tugging at the clasps of his pants. “How about a little preview, sweetie?” Once his limp prick is revealed, he palms it, gasping out, and gives her an impromptu performance.
The princess doesn’t even spare a glance in his direction. I’mgrudgingly curious as to why—especially when she didn’t seem to shy away from my own dick. She’s staring off again, her features blank and empty. It pisses me off, that look. She’s far from the pain. The indecency. No one can touch her wherever she flies off to, and deep down, some part of me acknowledges why that dazed expression lights a burning in my fingertips. I fuckingknowthat look.
Arno’s man jumps back when I approach, his jeans still bunched around his fucking ankles. I ignore him, my focus solely on the girl. She doesn’t react, but a part of her returns to observe me curiously the closer I come.
I expect her to wince when I reach out and seize her chin in the palm of my hand, but she doesn’t. Not even when my thumb presses into her split lip and then slides along her mouth, painting it with her own blood like a canvas. I can see her chest rise and fall from here, but the movement is steady. She’s not afraid. When I lean down, close enough to bring my mouth alongside her ruined ear, her breathing doesn’t even hitch. She’s flying off again, steeling herself for whatever I’m going to say. I don’t feel the urge to whisper, but I find myself speaking gruffly anyway, for her benefit.
“Tell me about Stacatto.”
I withdraw just in time to see her eyes flash with interest. We’ve hit upon her favorite topic of conversation, it seems. Apparently, nothing gets a bitch to talk like her own fucking love life.
“This won’t work,” she says. She meets my gaze fully, and I don’t know if it’s amusement or despair that I see there. “Hurting me... It won’t work. Vinny will expect me to suffer.” She shrugs as if the threat of pain is just a messy business she’ll have to just endure. “He thinks I’ll die for him.”
It’s the second time she’s spoken like that. Heexpectsher to be honored to die for him. Hethinks.
“So, whatdoesn’the expect?” I wonder.
Arno certainly seems to be in the mood to try all new kinds oftorture. The princess doesn’t seem capable of giving me an answer though. She frowns, her expression thoughtful. I guess she hasn’t considered that side of the scenario. Her gaze drifts down to the ring sparkling on her finger.
“You’re wrong,” I tell her. “What Arno plans to do to you...” I trail off, shaking my head. Something that could be a smile shapes my mouth, and I watch her carefully to see how she reacts to it.
“You don’t know Vinny,” she replies, her voice steady and assured despite the tender hint of a bruise that’s already blooming over her jaw.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to see those things happen tomyfiancée—”
“He’s not human,” she counters as if it’s as simple as that.
I frown, not liking the way she assumes I’m not in the same boat.We’re all monsters here,I think, looking her up and down. Even her to some degree. She’s seen things—her eyes hold the scars. Whatever shred of humanity she might have once had has already been tainted, long before Arno’s men snatched her.
“Well, whatwouldpiss him off?” I wonder for the second time.
She laces her hands together, seeming to think it over. “I’d have to...disobey.” She frowns as if confused by the possibility. Her ring catches my eye again, and I can’t resist imagining what drew her to such a man. Perhaps the little princess gets off on power?
“Disobey?” I repeat, curious despite common fucking sense.
She whispered the word like a prayer—one of those naughty ones we mutter internally so the priest won’t hear, those imploring pleas for God to smite whoever wronged you. To hurt that bully on the playground or strike a wayward offender down with fire and brimstone. I knew those prayers well, back when I still believed in them, that is.
“How?”
She shrugs, and her gaze begins to glaze over.
But I’m not satisfied, and I snatch for her wrist; she won’t fly off so easily. “Disobey how?”
She doesn’t answer me, and rather than press the issue, I let her go and reach for the camera Arno left. It’s small but easy to use.
“He wanted a picture,” I remind her. A part of me bristles at doing Arno’s dirty work, but something tells me his men won’t let her pose alone. Intervening isn’t my main goal, however—once again, I’m fucking curious.
“Disobey,”she said. As if the man controlled her by a leash and not a priceless diamond ring.
When I raise the camera and capture her face on the screen, it’s utterly expressionless, dangerously pale. With the wad of duct tape over her mangled ear and her hair a mess, she cuts a striking image. Despite what she claims about the man, a mad dog can guess the reactions of another mad dog—and there isn’t one alive who wouldn’t growl when another beast steals his toy.
“Smile, sweetheart,” someone goads from the sidelines.
When my finger hits the button and the flash goes off, I assume she ignored the taunt. With the swelling shaping up nicely on the left side of her face, Arno will have a veryprettysnapshot regardless. But, when I glance down and scroll through the gallery, something rises up swiftly, knocking me full in the chest.Shock?
The zombie-caricature of a woman stares at me from the camera’s screen. Shesmilesback. The grin contorts her mouth, plumping up her cheeks and giving life to her eyes. She looks like a party girl, exhausted but having the time of her fucking life. She isn’t imploring help or begging her fiancé to save her with puppy-dog eyes. She taunts him, her bitter smile a twisted message:I’m bruised and broken and bloody, but I would rather be.
