Page 101 of Sin Like the Devil

She’d eye me with disdain and keep walking, unwilling to spare a drop of empathy. I cared less back then. All I cared about was survival; nothing else mattered to me.

“I… need a moment,” I choke out.

“Of course.” Elliot gestures for his cameraman to stop rolling. “Would you like some more water?”

“Just… air. I need air.”

Tugging the clip-on microphone from my lapel, I toss the handful of wires onto my chair then flee. The doors to the soundproof studio slam shut behind me.

Several startled employees working for the production company look up as I run past, though none look surprised. I bet I’m not the only interviewee who’s ran from that damn camera.

The elevator ride is a painfully long wait that only adds to the pressure squeezing my throat tight. Finally breaking outside, the hustle and bustle of Central London is an unwelcome slap in the face.

I’m almost mowed over by a distracted commuter when a strong hand clamps around my bicep. Dragged out of the way, I’m propped against the wall of the huge glass skyscraper.

“You promised to let me do this alone,” I pant raggedly. “I don’t need a private security team.”

“No, we promised not to follow you inside.”

Tall, muscled and coated head to toe in tattoos, Hudson Knight is an intimidating force of nature. He’s never caught out of black clothing, and there’s an earpiece tucked beneath his chaotic mop of raven hair.

A few paces behind him, two others stand at ease. I stare into Warner’s familiar baby blues. Along with Hyland, his number two, they’re both members of Sabre Security’s ruthless Anaconda Team.

“Ripley?” Hudson prompts.

When I turn back to him, his gaze is boring into me, a pierced eyebrow quirked in challenge. I should’ve known Kade would send his brother to hold the perimeter. He got all uptight and stressed when I mentioned that I’d accepted this interview request.

“I don’t need the head of Sabre Security here to keep me safe.”

“Technically, I’m only one half.” He smirks at me. “Nobody would put me in charge of the company on my own.”

“You’re right about that. The place would crumble.”

“Precisely,” Hudson drawls. “So where’s the fire?”

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he lights up and takes a long drag. I eye the tempting little death stick. Never been much of a smoker, but right now, I’d take a stiff shot of vodka and a fucking sedative.

Hudson rolls his eyes and surrenders the cigarette to me. “You don’t smoke.”

“I don’t do a lot of things.”

My hands tremble violently as I hold it between my lips and inhale deeply. Smoke fills my struggling lungs, causing me to splutter. The amused look on Hudson’s face is gonna get him punched in a moment.

“Not sure smoking is the answer,” he comments.

“Please leave the therapy shit to Jude. You’re no good at it.”

Hudson snorts. “Fair enough.”

With Hyland and Warner keeping a close eye on us, we stand in silence. It’s a welcome reprieve after hours of relentless questioning and reliving the past. I tune the hustle and bustle of England’s capital city out.

Although I feel less trapped outside the confines of the blacked-out TV studio, it takes time for me to calm down. We’ve been talking non-stop. I’m exhausted and we’ve still barely scratched the surface of the story.

“I don’t know why you’re even doing this interview.” Hudson lights his own cigarette. “These producers have been trying to pin us all down for years. It isn’t worth the hassle.”

“Not all of us have been able to move on, Hud.”

“You think we’re not still haunted by the shit that went down?” He shakes his head, pulling in a long draw of nicotine. “You’re not the only one who can’t forget. But that doesn’t mean I’d entertain some clickbait interview.”

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