Page 43 of Refrain

After another prolonged second, he leaves without waiting for an answer. Keeping the gun in one hand, I feel my face with the other. Maybe it’s written there? Everything I’m thinking? Or is it just that damn easy to read me these days?

In contrast, his emotions are transcribed in an archaic language. One minute, I think I’ve deciphered the code. The next, a new symbol comes into play, and I have to start all over again.

I find myself taking the stairs two at a time out of a need to do something else than wallow in self-pity. A short hallway is lined by a row of closed doors. I follow his instruction and approach the last one on the left, finding a key hidden underneath a black welcome mat when I arrive. Once I get the door open, I have a decent view of the entire apartment. It’s small and cramped but clean. There’s only onebedroom,however, right near the front door, two twin beds placed on either side of it. In addition are a gray couch in the middle of a small living room and a narrow kitchen.

It’s not much, butit’s definitelymore than the average person would dish out to a stranger.

This suffocating sense of emotion weighs me down as I lock the door behind me and carry the bag of clothes into the bedroom. I toss it onto one of the beds and perch myself on the end of the mattress. Only now do I remember Grey, though maybe I’ve been unconsciously ignoring his request all along.Get me something on Mackenzie.

Well, he has a fondness for triple malt whiskey.

A million new secrets swirl inside my skull as I lie back against the wall, leaving my body slung horizontally across the mattress. I’ll let my eyes close only for a second, or so I tell myself. I’m not stupid enough to stay here. I’m not stupid enough to pretend that Piotr isn’t on the prowl or forget that Anna may still be out there.

I’m notstupidenoughto trust.

I’m notsure what noise snaps me fully awake, but I open my eyes to aghost. Bright-red hair is all that gives her contrast against the wall.

“An…Anna?” Hope wells up in my throat as I greedily seek out each childish feature.

It dies in vain, of course, swallowed down like vomit. This girl is too old, her nose too big, and I would pray to never see such darkness in the eyes of a child.

“No. It’s me—Domi. Did I wake you?” She’s already fully dressed, sitting on the opposite bed.

Apparently, she helped herself to the spare clothing but somehow managed to pick the most risqué items to wear. Her outfit of choice is a black lace bra she’s paired with one ofEspisido’shoodies, the only saving grace.

“No,” I lie. “I was already awake.”

“Good.” She kicks her feet into the air while her wide eyes scan my face. “So, it really is you. Number ten. Piotr’sangel.”

She gives the word a nasty twist. How strange is it that such a name can have so many variants depending on how it’s uttered? Reverently by some and reviled by others.

“I would have thought…” My throat is too dry, and I have to swallow hard to clear it. “I would have thought that he wouldn’t talkofme much.”

“He didn’t,” Domi admits. “But we still listened. We all knew of the girl he used to have. His prized little pet. The things he made her do…” She shudders and wraps her arms around her slender front. “She was our bedtime story. A reminder of all the ways that, no matter how fucking awful it was, it could always get worse.”

I turn my face toward a threadbare pillow. It’s hard to stomach this mythical version of myself—the girl who strayedtoo close to a monster and got eaten alive. If only that were where the story ended.

“And what impression do I make?”

Her gaze sweeps over me once she’s given permission to truly stare. “You’re pretty,” she says carefully. “I thought you’d be prettier.”

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

“So… Did you really do it? You really killed Vlad?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She’s already heard the story from somewhere, and I can see the curiosity burning within her eyes. There’s hunger too.Espisido’snot the only one familiar with violence.

“What was it like?”

“Messy,” I tell her. “Very, very messy.”

“Oh.” Her teeth click together noisily, as if they’re trapping more questions behind them. Exuding nervous energy, she jumps to her feet. Her outfit seems even more garish when I take her in—an underage demon in a hooker’sclothing,drapedbeneaththe cloak of a fallen angel.

“How did you…” I trail off, unsure of how to phrase the question.How did you wander into hell?

“Family debt,” she says simply, as though we’re merely discussing the weather. “I was sold to pay it off. It was okay though.” She glances back at me over her shoulder and shrugs. “I had three other sisters.”

That awful ache in my gut—is that pity? I’ve spent so long suppressing it. Guilt, empathy, pain—they aren’t emotions prized in either Piotr’s slave or a cop.

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