Page 46 of Sin Like the Devil

But with a hell of a bite.

She’s not the broken, unstable girl we last saw, screaming and sobbing as they took the body bag away, wheeled past her bedroom that was directly across the hall. The moment she turned and saw us admiring our success, she knew what we’d done.

I thought we’d scared her to silence. If the night she spent in my room didn’t do the trick, then what Lennox did while I kept Ripley occupied should’ve sealed the deal. Instead, we set alight something I never knew lived within her.

A fighting spirit.

I was fascinated by her loneliness and vulnerability before, but the bloodstained creature I found mid-brawl in the quad intrigues me even more. Breaking her won’t be easy this time around.

That thought excites me more than any small distraction I’ve found since I last tasted her. I’ll need to do my due diligence. Study her. Discover who this new Ripley is—her proclivities, vulnerabilities, pressure points.

Broken out of my plotting by my phone demanding attention, I fish it from my pocket. Like Priory Lane, we’re allowed mobile phones here, but internet access is strictly limited.

That’s how they do it—give you just enough freedom to feel grateful so you don’t ask questions. If you give a death-row inmate a small length of rope, they’ll make do and hang themselves without asking for an inch more.

“Yeah?” I snap.

“Xan. Code red.”

My spine stiffens. “An OD?”

“No!” Lennox rushes out. “Fuck… I forgot the goddamn colours.”

“You’re useless,” I mutter. “Where?”

“Music room. South wing.”

Hanging up, I pocket my phone and move fast. The carpet-lined corridors are a blur around me. Harrowdean is small and easy enough to navigate, allowing me to quickly find the wing where the classrooms are located.

Classes are in progress, humming with voices as lessons take place. The educational aspect of these institutes is yet another tactic. Offer the sick or uneducated a nice, dangling carrot to keep them satisfied. All people want is a distraction from their misery.

Scanning the doors, I follow the signage to the music room. It’s one of the less popular choices here from what I’ve heard. The instrument-filled space is cast in low light as thickly falling rain batters the bay window outside.

“Nox?”

“Down here,” his voice echoes.

Picking through scattered chairs and sheet music stands, I search the polished hardwood floors for a body. Though we tried to avoid that by controlling his supply ourselves, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve found Raine passed out and incoherent.

“Here, Xan.”

The broad set of Lennox’s shoulders hunched over someone guides me to the farthest corner. He’s kneeling down next to Raine, who rests against the wall with his glasses set aside and his blonde head lolling forwards.

Concern causes my pulse to spike as I join them on the floor. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Raine mumbles.

“He’s not,” Lennox rebukes.

Resting the back of my hand against his forehead, he’s blazing hot to the touch. Clammy sweat coats his face. He’s breathing rapidly and shivering uncontrollably too. Sharing a glance with Lennox, we communicate silently.

I knew he’d run out soon enough, though he promised me he’d ration his stash until we could assess the situation. Ripley’s presence in Harrowdean—as the clinicians’ stooge, no less—has sent all our plans up in smoke.

“You guys know I hate it when you don’t talk out loud.” Raine winces at some invisible pain. “I’m f-fine. Just need another b-bump.”

“So why haven’t you?” I question as Raine weakly shoves my hand away from his face.

“He’s run out,” Lennox growls.

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