Page 89 of Refrain

“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 justwould, 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHLOE

He makesme chase him for blocks without slowing down. My calves are throbbing by the time he finally mounts a concrete stoop and disappears through a doorway. His own.

I find him pacing in the center of the kitchen, shoving the table out of his way, knocking loose pages and his sketchpad from the cluttered surface. The way he moves stops me from reaching for it, however. Shadows flicker over his shoulders like living appendages. Broken, corrupted wings.

In one swift motion, he forms a fist and pummels it into the fridge. “Fuck!” His knuckles leave a telltale smear across the white surface. He goes pale when he sees it, and the offending hand falls to his side. “Shit…”

“Come here.” I don’t think. I don’t have to. Instinct guides me over to him, and I let my body take control. I shove him toward a chair and make him sit. Then I wet a rag from the sink and wipe the blood from his hands.

Drip by drip. Smear by smear. He never stops looking at me while I do so. It’s an expression I can’t decipher—part darkness as shadow falls over his face, part light from his eyes, which never seem to lose their brilliant glow.

It’s his eyes that save him.

“You think I’m sick,” he tells me, his voice a gruff composition of timbre and baritone. “You…you think I’m crazy.” He grabs my wrist, and I stare at his injured hand, the fingers tan against my skin.

Crazy.I almost wish I felt those things. Almost…

With a sigh, I force myself to swallow before disentangling my arm from his grip. Without a shred of hesitation, I run my fingers along his forehead, pushing the thick curls back from his face, further revealing that beautiful gaze. “I think you’re tired,” I tell him around another sigh. “I think…I think you’re exhausted.”

My heart pounds to punctuate the words I can’t say out loud.So am I. So am I.

“Exhausted.” He frowns.

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