Page 42 of Sin Like the Devil

I won’t survive a second round.

One already broke my soul in half.

“This guy bothering you?” he asks crisply.

“Xander.”

“Hello, Ripley.”

Nothing escapes his all-consuming orbit. Not even the promises I made to myself that if we ever came face to face again, I’d be more than the submissive toy he saw me to be, standing in the way of his grand master plan.

A mere obstacle.

And one he could destroy.

That’s what put me in Xander’s line of fire. It was never personal. Not even sexual. He wanted power, and to get to Holly, he had to eliminate me. Even if that meant reaping my soul and devouring it whole, like a fucking appetiser.

It was just one night.

One fateful, agonising, fucking liberating night.

That’s all it took to leave her exposed.

“Cat got your tongue, little toy?” He raises a single, platinum-blonde eyebrow. “I wondered when our paths would cross.”

Unable to stand the sight of him looming over me, I ignore Rick’s pained whimpering and clamber to my feet. “I hoped they never would.”

“I bet you did. Have you been hiding from me?”

Yes.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I grind out instead.

Tall and compact, Xander doesn’t pack his threatening prowess in bulk like Lennox does. He’s still ripped beneath his starched polo shirt and jeans, but he could raze entire armies with nothing more than his intelligence and sharp tongue.

Those soulless orbs are framed by long, luscious lashes, a stark contrast to his spotless alabaster skin pulled taut over exaggerated cheekbones and thin lips. He’s beautiful in that ethereal, masculine way only those blessed by the DNA lottery can be.

His hair, kept neat and short, is the purest shade of snow-white. It gleams like pale moonlight. Oh, the fucking irony. How can this walking, talking incarnation of the devil so closely resemble an angel?

And he knows it.

But his victims never do.

“Back off.” I force some steel into my voice. “He’s mine.”

Xander’s brow is still raised. “Were you under the impression that anyone but myself is allowed to steal those exquisite sounds of pain from your tongue?”

Goddamn. Fucking. Psychopath.

“I’ll be giving you no such thing,” I snap back. “Exquisite or otherwise.”

“It seems you’re mistaking me for giving you a choice in the matter.”

It takes all of my willpower to force back a barrage of desire-tinged memories. Wrists throbbing beneath the tight constrict of restraints. Shoulders burning from being pinned, powerless and vulnerable during the hours of torment he inflicted.

I wish I could say that he forced me. But even as I protested and writhed, terrified by his clinical, sadistic approach to sex, a traitorous part of me wanted the pain he was so fascinated by inflicting.

“I’m rather busy right now.” I brush myself off. “Find another time to annoy me.”

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