Page 85 of Sin Like the Devil

Especially me. I don’t even have a life to return to. My existence was a solitary one, and at least in here, there’s plenty of fresh meat for my machinations. Endless targets. Curiosities. And the one victim I can’t seem to take my eyes off.

Ripley’s routine is loosely set. Her moods rise and fall like the tide, and with it, her day-to-day activities. It’s taken me a few weeks of careful observation to familiarise myself with her habits.

One of those habits was an eyebrow raiser. I doubt Lennox has clocked that his adopted stray is fucking the girl he loathes. Raine has been a little distant, but given his new Velcro-attachment to Ripley, it isn’t surprising.

Right on time, she stalks into the cafeteria. Today, her loose, tawny curls are pinned back by a crisscrossed pair of paintbrushes, leaving those fierce, mottled brown and green eyes to take centre stage.

They’d look better filled with tears.

I can still remember the magnificent sight.

Absently fiddling with the silver ring slotted into her septum, she pauses to snag an apple and shove it into her pocket. The sweats she wears are ripped and paint stained. Apparently, she couldn’t care less about her appearance or what anyone thinks.

It’s one of the things that makes her so enticing. Previously, I would’ve gone for the weak, insecure ones. Their fear always tasted the sweetest. But getting Ripley to break with her newfound backbone is a far sweeter challenge.

I follow her out, my breakfast long abandoned. Rather than heading for her scheduled therapy session, she stops outside, where the early signs of spring are beginning to reveal themselves.

Ripley pauses at a picnic bench occupied by that sullen, auburn-haired girl she’s often with. Something exchanges between them. The glint of blades, I think. Leaning against the exterior wall, I can just hear them.

“Make these last a bit longer this time?”

The girl shrugs. “You know I’m good for it.”

“That’s not the point, Rae.”

“You going soft on me? What’s with the sour face?”

I watch Ripley’s hands fist. How interesting. She usually wields her authority with complete detachment. It’s enough to make me proud. But right there is a hint, a mere snippet of a different reality within.

The prospect is intriguing. I can work with that. The more I watch her, the more I uncover the chinks in her armour. It’s why I’m doing my due diligence. This time, when I ensnare my little toy, I have no intention of her walking away after.

“Just… Fuck, Rae. Whatever. Forget it.”

“Rip!”

But Ripley is already storming away, her lips clenched tight. Fascinating. I could stay and torment her frowning friend—she seems practically begging for an excuse to splinter apart—but Ripley has my sole attention.

I follow her, tucked out of sight as she scales a small staircase in the west wing, above the therapy rooms. She’s detouring from her schedule. My intrigue spirals. With her all-access pass, obstacles like the locked, staff-only doors are no issue.

Lunging through each door before it can click shut, I follow her ascension to the top floor then prop a shoulder against the wall, hanging back in an empty corridor.

Ripley punches in a short, six-digit code on the door’s keypad. I let her go ahead, the numbers already committed to memory. Though it will be disappointing if she’s resolved to toss her pretty ass off the building before the fun has begun.

When enough time has passed, I tap in the code, finding a narrow service staircase on the other side. Cool morning air beckons me upwards, a silent footstep at a time, until I emerge on the manor’s rooftop.

“Took you long enough.”

Ripley’s voice is flat, resigned.

I step out of the shadows. “Secret hiding place?”

“More like testing how far you’d be willing to follow me. How many more weeks are you going to keep up the stalking for?”

“I prefer the term enthusiastic observation.”

The rooftop is slanted on either side with a flat strip down the centre. She’s tiptoed her way down that platform to find a safe perch, her legs hanging over the edge to rest against slatted roof tiles.

“I prefer the term fucking sociopath.” She flashes me a cold look.

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