Page 99 of Sin Like the Devil

“I d-didn’t mean it,” I struggle out.

“Mean what?”

“What I told them… You’re not worthless.”

He looks stricken, his frown lines pronounced and toffee eyes watering. “I couldn’t protect you. If I could see?—”

“No. Not your fault.”

“But—”

“No.”

The sound of incoming shouting reaches us. Thudding footsteps. Several guards, no doubt. Raine doesn’t stop holding pressure on my arm, though he looks ready to keel over himself.

Everything fades out in the flurry of noise. I feel Raine being pulled away from me and replaced by someone else. Questions are barked. That familiar, sonorous voice sounds even angrier than usual. Now there’s an achievement.

“Who the fuck did this?”

“I’m fine, Nox. I need to help Ripley!”

“Forget her! She deserves this.”

“She’s bleeding!” Raine shouts loudly. “You can’t?—”

There’s a scuffle. More pained moaning. Through slitted eyes, I can see Raine clutching his head, like he tried to struggle but couldn’t escape the muscled boulder pulling him from my side.

Lennox actually spares me an uncertain glance. Our eyes meet, hazel on seafoam. Hatred on disdain. Only neither of us can muster either emotion in the midst of such destructive violence.

The evil bastard should be enjoying the satisfaction right now. But instead, he looks physically sick as he studies my bruises, swelling and finally, my haphazardly bandaged forearm that’s steadily leaking blood.

“Fuck,” he splutters. “Xan?”

“Yeah. I’ve got her.”

Kneeling in my blood, I can just about distinguish Xander’s spearmint scent in the copper-laced air. A pair of scarred arms slide beneath me and lift, half-pulling me against his body.

My head is cradled in his lap. I have no choice but to stare straight up into those midnight globes, filled with endless nothingness. The dark-blue hue is a mere breath away from murderous black right now.

“Who did this to you?” he whispers in a dangerously low voice.

“Why… do you… care?”

Those terrifying, onyx eyes catch on my dislocated fingers. I watch his throat bob up and down. Jaw muscles tightening. So many silent tells told in the smallest of reactions. Xander can’t strangle all his emotions.

“Hold still,” he orders.

Picking up my hand, Xander studies each traumatised joint in a clinical way. Cataloguing and assessing. I don’t have time to wonder how he knows what to do with them.

“Breathe in.”

He swiftly clicks the first finger back into place. The pain is intense but short-lived. Numbness resurfaces, filling me instead. It seems I’ve reached my threshold for the time being.

Xander is unperturbed by each swollen, misshapen finger he finds. Not even blinking, he deftly shifts them back into place, working efficiently despite my continued whimpers. Only experience can teach that perfect motion.

“This must make you h-happy.”

His eyebrows knit together as he works. “Do I look happy?”

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