Page 136 of Sin Like the Devil

Xander’s features seem to cave, overcome with sudden exhaustion. “You’re worth more to me alive.”

“But… you h-hate me.”

His lids close, as though bracing for impact.

“I thought I did too.”

CHAPTER 22

XANDER

DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME – NESSA BARRETT

Kicking Ripley’s door open after scanning my stolen all-access pass, I heave her inside and let it slam shut. Carrying a semi-conscious woman through the quad would’ve been impossible on any day but this.

I heard the alarms ringing as I resolved to check the swimming pool earlier on, taking a lesser-known guards’ exit to avoid being seen. Harrowdean has gone into lockdown. Everyone is confined to their rooms for safety.

It took some stealthy wading through flooded grounds to get back to the manor in the dead of night. And some even stealthier tactics to get upstairs without being spotted. No one can know about this.

Ripley doesn’t need the heat.

I’m sure she’s already on thin ice.

Telling myself a few months ago that I’d one day worry about her would’ve been entertaining. That Xander would have revelled in the notion that she’d lose her protection and suffer the same fate that we did.

Her tactics don’t work on me. The public displays of solidarity for management and their aggressors. Using threats and manipulations to control an increasingly disenchanted client base. She’s playing it well, for sure.

I’ve studied her enough. Theorised the best ways to break her down and reclaim those pieces for myself. Plotted and waited then plotted some more. While I may feel nothing, Ripley feels the world all too acutely.

But that isn’t true, is it?

Did I feel nothing while watching her drown?

Brushing those peculiar thoughts aside, I mentally debate what the fuck I’m doing here, and more importantly, what the fuck I’m going to do with her. We’re both drenched, shivering and near-hypothermic.

With the storm still battering against her barred windows, I locate the bathroom and hit the lights. She’s breathing normally but still waxy and ashen. Heat. We need warmth. I quickly turn on the walk-in shower.

“Raine,” she murmurs groggily.

If the motherfucker wasn’t already half-dead in a hospital bed, I’d quickly send him to one for being the name on her tongue right now. She’s my Ripley. My toy. I’ve let him have his fun, but I won’t be observing from the sidelines anymore.

I carry her into the shower fully clothed then hold her up beneath the warm spray. When she doesn’t respond, I inch the temperature higher, watching the steam billow around us.

“Come on.”

Ripley jerks in my arms, crying out at the lash of hot water on her frozen skin. Now that she’s beginning to respond, I prop her against my front and slowly peel the sopping clothes from her body.

“Easy,” I whisper when she struggles.

I’m not certain she knows where she is or who holds her. There’s no other explanation for the way she curls into me, seeking some kind of protection from the pain of warming back up. Like I’d ever be the one to protect her.

Turning my attention to her wrists, I rinse off the blood. She’s rubbed them raw in an attempt to escape. I even cut her a few times while fumbling in the pitch-black water. My cock unashamedly stirs at the sight of blood drawn by my hand.

A once-white bandage covers her forearm. The adhesive edges are peeling from water damage, with all manner of detritus and filth stuck to the fabric. I pinch a loose edge and begin to peel it off.

When her still-healing stitches are revealed, I try not to get distracted by the sight of her skin held together by synthetic fibres. Only the deeper cuts required treatment. The others have scabbed over in precise carvings.

A risk of infection joins my list of concerns. It was far simpler when I was content to let her suffer. I never anticipated the jealousy that watching others torment my toy would inspire.

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