Page 139 of Sin Like the Devil

I’ll regain control.

But still… my body doesn’t comply. Not even the slightest twitch of my finger. I’m left staring at the rise and fall of her chest, the scrunch of her dark-brown brows, each vulnerable whimper sliding past her lips.

The cracks are deepening.

I’m being dragged down.

It’s several hours before the storm breaks, and clouds disperse enough for a weak beam of sunlight to break through the barred window. I distantly realise there’ve been no overnight checks from the guards—the situation downstairs must be disastrous.

The faint morning light makes the air sparkle through drizzling rain. I’ve watched her sleep for hours. Fingers clenching and unclenching around the knife. The morning dawn reveals my predicament. She could open her eyes at any moment and catch me. But doing what?

Watching her?

Or watching over her?

I may be obsessed with her, but in the sickest way possible, it’s learned behaviour. I’ve been the subject of fascination before. If that’s even the right word. Stitching the haphazard quilt of my identity back together when I escaped took years. She’s going to rip those unhealed stitches apart with her bare hands.

My muscles protest as I finally move. I crawl onto the bed and hang over her, eyes tracing the edge of the towel barely being held in place. Her arms are curled up to her chest protectively, but her throat is exposed.

The moment my blade touches her skin, she inhales sharply. Ripley’s eyes flutter open, revealing still bloodshot whites surrounding her greenish-brown irises. It takes a moment for recognition to filter in, her nostrils flaring with a panicked breath.

“I won’t let you destroy me, Ripley.”

Her throat bobs beneath the sharp kiss of steel. “Please?—”

“Begging for your life won’t change the outcome. I should’ve left you in that pool. It would’ve been simpler.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Human weakness. But I won’t be weak anymore.”

She blinks, her expanding pupils betraying well-kept secrets. “Is it weak to care?”

“It’s weak to feel.” I press the knife in deeper. “It’s even weaker to want something.”

A fat tear escapes the corner of her eye and rolls down her cheek. I watch its path down to her chin.

“Then get on with it. Kill me.” Ripley sucks in another short breath.

“Why?”

“Because I hate you, and I hate myself for also wanting something more.”

Thin dribbles of blood paint her neck. They coat the blade that could so easily end this for the both of us. All it would take is one swipe. An easy slash.

Her skin would cut like butter, and I could watch her choke on her own blood. My mouth moistens at the thought. I could own her final moments.

“You’ve fought so hard to survive.” I frown in confusion.

She offers a bleak smile in return. “Maybe I’m tired of being the survivor. Look what it’s cost me.”

Blood speckling the sheets beneath her, Ripley wraps a hand around my arm. But she doesn’t attempt to prise the pocketknife away. Her fingers glide over rigid lumps and gnarly scar tissue, tracing each individual scar like she wants to spend hours memorising the exact details.

“What did being the survivor cost you, Xander?”

I hold her life in my hands as I answer. “Everything.”

“What would you do to get it all back?”

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