Page 84 of Burn Like An Angel

“I know he is,” Ripley confirms, rage forming lines that bracket her mouth. “After Harrison beat the shit out of me over that business card… Bancroft paid me a visit. Told me he had my uncle’s consent to repurpose me.”

“Repurpose?” Raine asks breathily.

“It’s what the Zimbardo program does.” I swipe a finger over an old stain on the table. “Dehumanise, manipulate and torture until the mind breaks. Then it can be reformed.”

“To what end?”

“Incendia creates mindless killing machines by destroying the vulnerable, one brain cell at a time.” My lip curls at the thought. “Then they sell their creations off to the highest bidder.”

Raine grows even paler than Ripley. “Jesus Christ.”

We’ve shared enough of our past for him to understand. It was never a secret—hell, he was our customer once. But the real purpose behind the institutes is a tough pill to swallow.

“If I can’t even trust my own flesh and blood… I can’t trust anyone.” Ripley pinches the bridge of her nose. “I hate it, but Lennox is right.”

“Don’t tell him that. It’ll go straight to his head.”

“Not funny, Xan. What the hell are we going to do?”

Staring at the phone left behind on the table, I can confidently say I have no fucking clue. We’re completely alone out here with nothing but the clothes on our backs and the truth we carry with us.

Telling it may just set us free.

But it may also get us killed.

CHAPTER 13

RIPLEY

SAILOR SONG – GIGI PEREZ

Rain hammersagainst the mobile home’s thin roof, creating a deafening roar. It’s like we’re trapped in the belly of a moving aeroplane. I stare up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Each falling droplet too closely resembles the patter of gunfire.

It doesn’t matter that we’re taking turns to keep watch while the others sleep. Nor does it matter that we’ve seen no signs of life in the holiday park for the last few days while recuperating and weighing our options. It’s as secure as anywhere for now.

That doesn’t eliminate the fear, though.

There are still targets on our heads.

Carefully rolling over, I study Raine’s face. Even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, he’s asleep. I have no idea how with his hypersensitivity. Even I have a headache from the pounding rain.

I run my finger down his straight, perfectly proportioned nose. There are slight indentations on either side that I never noticed before, evidence of him constantly wearing glasses. He still wears the aviators everyday like they’re his proudest possession.

Without them on, I can see his thick black lashes, framing the brilliant, honeyed orbs that he keeps hidden from the world.I trace my fingertip over his cupid’s bow, the defined dip exaggerating his full lips.

We’re running dangerously low on his withdrawal medication. He puts on a brave face for our sakes, but I see the constant trembling, cold sweats and how he barely eats anything.

The methadone alleviates most of the withdrawal symptoms but not all of them. Without it, there’s no telling how he’ll react. Getting clean from years of opiate use is a long and extremely difficult process. Not to mention the impact his returned cravings would have.

With all the attention on Raine and his dwindling supply of pills, I’ve managed to keep my own ticking time bomb quiet. I know Xander sees everything, but out here, there’s nothing he can do to help.

The insomnia can be explained away. We’re all stressed and bone-deep tired. It’s the constant agitation and unmanageable mood swings that are taking me to a dangerous place.

I screamed at Lennox yesterday for eating the final stale doughnut before bursting into violent sobs when he offered me the last bite. It was safest to barricade myself in the rear bedroom until I could think straight again.

“Rip?” Raine mumbles.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

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