Page 106 of Sin Like the Devil

There’s no avoiding this shitty conversation. With a lot of willpower, I wrench my eyes open. I have to blink rapidly to get the cubicle to settle. I am indeed in Harrowdean’s small but functional medical wing. Curtains are drawn to offer my bay some privacy.

With white sheets pulled up to my chin, my right arm is resting on a pillow off to the side, a thin rubber tube leading into the crook of my elbow. I watch the dark, gloopy droplets of borrowed blood feed into me.

Thick swathes of bandages are twined around my other arm from elbow to wrist. Lower still, each finger has been splinted with black Velcro, holding the throbbing digits in place.

“Ripley.”

Jonathan has what my mum called a business meeting voice on the rare occasion that she mentioned her baby brother. I remember that detail clearly. It’s one of the first things I noticed when I was forced down to London as a kid.

He’s ten years younger, now in his mid-forties, but he wears his age with well-pampered youthfulness. His dark-brown hair is an expensive dye job that covers the silver wisps he was developing when I last saw him.

With smooth, tanned skin, a well-trimmed beard and clear eyes that both captivate and terrify, it’s no wonder he’s a formidable opponent in the boardroom. Capable of negotiating even the trickiest of business deals or investments.

Elbows braced on his knees, his broad shoulders strain against his perfectly fitted, pinstripe suit. It probably costs more than the yearly salary of his multiple personal assistants. He has a whole walk-in wardrobe full of designer clothes.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak out.

He casts an eye over me. “Perhaps you’d like to answer that question. What am I doing here, Ripley?”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“When I get a phone call saying my niece has been half-beaten to death and sliced up by some punk, I’m forced to find out what she’s gotten herself into.”

Wincing, I try to sit up to see him better. He doesn’t bother to help or offer to fluff my pillow. The needle feeding into my arm tugs, forcing me to give up and slump back on the lumpy mattress.

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” he echoes coolly.

“This idiot has it out for me. Thought I knew where his friend got shipped off to. People assume I know stuff… for obvious reasons.”

Jonathan exhales through his nose. “The whole point of this role was to offer you protection. Do you have any idea what strings I had to pull to sort this safe haven for you?”

Safe haven?

For a man who’s used his intelligence to amass a multimillion-pound fortune, he can be so fucking obtuse. Harrowdean isn’t safe for anyone—patient, stooge or otherwise.

“You asked to be transferred from Priory Lane,” he continues smoothly. “I made all the arrangements and ensured you’d have a comfortable life here. Perks included.”

In my exhausted state, I can’t hold my tongue.

“Do you think it’s comfortable to be management’s bitch?”

“You asked for this position!”

“I asked to be saved! Not sacrificed!”

Folding his arms, he leans back in the chair. “And what about the sacrifices I’ve made for you?”

My eyes prickle with furious tears. I’ve dealt with too much today to hold them back or plaster on a brave face. My mum isn’t tucked into this hospital bed with me, holding me tight. In fact, no one is.

I’m alone.

Eternally.

Years of frustration and pain come rushing out. All the times I’ve wanted to scream and rave at him, but have managed to hold it back with a shoestring of control. I hate the pathetic tremble in my voice.

“The only thing you sacrificed was another dusty, unused room in your mansion. You never wanted to get stuck with me. If we had any other living family, you soon would’ve shirked the responsibility.”

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