Page 71 of The Devils They Are

Bexley

"Whatthefuckisthis?" I hiss, storming into Rylan's bedroom without knocking, waving the receipt in the air.

If he's surprised to see me breaking into his house, he doesn't show it.

Looking up from his desk, he raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "How the hell would I know?"

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid," I snap, slamming the paper down in front of him.

Rylan casually leans forward to inspect the receipt, staring at it with disinterest. "That would be a receipt, Bexley. Businesses give them out after making a sale."

"Get up," I demand, kicking the side of his chair.

He pushes back with a little too much force, which tells me he's not as unbothered as he's pretending to be.

"Cool it, Spencer. It's not that fucking deep."

"Not that deep?" I repeat, astonished. "It's everything, Astor. I don't want your goddamn charity."

When I went back for my follow up meeting with Mr. Morrison, still completely lost at having to organize everything, the last thing I expected was for him to say that Mom's funeral services had been paid for in full.

I had spent days trying to figure out what to do. I had a plan walking into that meeting—it wasn't much, but it was something at least. Even though it meant no public service, cremation, and the basic, cheapest options possible, it was a step in the direction of handling this. After days of self-pity and drowning in my demons, I was ready to face everything and deal with the cards that had been given to me.

I would have been still up for a large sum of money, but after brainstorming with Arch and working on the résumé, I had come to the conclusion I would need to borrow the funds from the bank and start working to pay it back or enter into some type of payment plan with Mr. Morrison. Even if it meant eating nothing but raw pasta and canned vegetables for the next two years of my life. I was ready. To anyone else, it probably seemed insignificant. But I was damn proud of myself for not staying in the pity party and hiding from the new responsibilities that had been thrown upon me.

So, imagine my surprise when I found out ananonymous donorhad gone to Mr. Morrison and offered to cover the costs. I could confidently rule out Archie as the culprit, especially when he looked just as shocked as I was. After getting the description from Mr. Morrison and putting two and two together, it was easy to figure out. Though I'm still stuck on thewhy. And it haunts me.

"It's not charity, Spencer."

"It sure looks like it from where I'm standing," I breathe out angrily. "You had no right to interfere with my mom's death."

Rylan crosses his arms, giving me a hard, expressionless glance over. "Then just consider it as payment for your services."

I move so fast that he has no time to react, my open palm slapping his cheek with a loud smack. I didn't even realize I was going to hit him until I felt the sting vibrate through my palm.

Something snaps in Rylan, his face twisting in red, blinded anger, and for a brief second, I wonder if he's going to hit me back. To be fair, I'd deserve it. I had no right using his code to enter his house and storm into his room, yelling at him—even if it feels totally justified.

Crash.

Shit flies everywhere as Rylan flips his desk over, laptop bouncing on the carpet along with a mug full of coffee. It stains the floor, but I barely have time to assess the damage as he steps into me, our chests connecting.

Rylan's chest heaves angrily as he presses his forehead to mine. For a brief moment, I catch his eyes darting to my lips, my breath stalling at the sight.

"Get out," he growls, pointing toward the door. "Just get the fuck out, Bexley. What gives you the right to come into my house and fucking hit me? So what? I did something nice for you. No wonder you are alone. You can't even stand your own company. Why would anyone else want to deal with you?"

All my pent-up rage vanishes in a mere instant at his words. It feels like I've had a bucket of ice water poured over my body, his words hitting places I had fought hard to protect and hide from.

He's right.

I am alone.

Shame and guilt overwhelm me. I'm better than this. I'm not this person.

Still, every fiber of my existence has fought against situations like this. It's engrained in me. I don't let people in, don't allow them to do something nice for me out of fear that it will be a favor, expecting repayment.

I purposely hide my personal life from everyone around me so I wouldn't have to deal with conversations like this. But I was so mad when Mr. Morrison said it had been taken care of. It felt like there was a price attached—like he'd own me. And it exacerbated the guilt that lingered from the night Mom died. It was already bad enough that I hadn't been there, and now, someone I didn't even like had stepped in to pay so I could say goodbye to her properly.

I hated it. I've never felt so weak and pathetic—so out of control.

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