Page 113 of Beautiful Sinners

Not the best comeback, but whatever.

Piano music starts playing from somewhere in the house.

“Do you hear that?”

Hendrix lifts up onto his elbows before collapsing back down. “It’s someone’s phone.”

I stumble out into the hallway just as the music cuts off and starts up again.

“Sounds like it’s coming from Aoife’s room,” Con says.

Why would anyone be calling her at four in the morning?

“Red,” I say when we enter her room, only to find it empty. The phone stops ringing and begins again, but it’s not coming from in here; it’s coming from down the hall. “Hendrix, you jackass, it was your phone!” I yell.

He shouts something back, but I don’t hear him through the sudden rush of white noise that fills my head when I see what’s on the bed. A gust of air brushes my arm when Con edges up next to me.

“The fuck?”

Aligned in a straight row on top of the bedcovers are five photographs that look like they were taken at the Knight Foundation benefit in London last year. And each one has a dark red letter written on it in jagged slashes of what looks like blood.

L-I-A-R-S

CHAPTER 40

Darlington’s familiar streets, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moon, take on an entirely new character in the early hours of the morning. The solitude is both eerie and peaceful, a stark contrast to the bustling life that envelops the town and its campus during the day. There’s an undeniable darkness lurking beneath its charming façade, where every shadow holds its own secret—something I refused to see when I first moved here.

The rubber soles of my tennis shoes pad silently on the black asphalt as I round the corner into the alleyway. I watch my shadow elongate and shrink, then elongate again, as I pass under the dingy, yellowish light that shines down from the top of the building. The cooler night air helps dampen the stench of rotting garbage overflowing out of the trash receptacles, but the sour smell is pervasive and inescapable.

Approaching the back service exit of the Bierkeller, I trail my fingers over the coarse brick until I feel the circular indentation of a bullet hole.

Funny how you always end up right back where you started.

“I’m glad you called.”

Aleksander steps out into the open, his face a harsh mask of trenchant angles created by the light of the waxing moon. The severeness of his face is softened somewhat by the slight Cupid bow shape of his mouth and the light pewter of his eyes.

“Cut the bullshit, Aleksander. How long have you known?”

He runs a hand through his short hair, mussing it up. “Not long. A year, perhaps.”

His words from the bar make much more sense now.“Oh, they’re still very much alive. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.”

“How long havetheyknown?”

Alexsander’s broad shoulders hunch as he breathes in deeply through his nose. “Malin is Francesco’s fixer and right-hand man—”

He wasn’t before. I would’ve remembered him.

“—so, I can only assume that Tristan has known all along.”

Pain lances my chest, its blade sharp and hot. I remember Constantine’s reaction in the shower when I told him about the constellation man. I point-blank asked him today about it. He fucking knew who I was talking about, yet he said nothing.

Betrayal sinks its fangs into me, delivering the bitter poison of their deceit straight to my heart. As my thoughts swirl in a maelstrom of doubt and anguish, I question every moment, every memory, every touch between us.

Meeting Aleksander’s penetrating stare, I let the pain I feel erupt, molten and scalding.

“That’s his name? Malin?”

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