Page 2 of Born To Be Bad

I have no words. I shake my head, showing that I can’t believe it either. When we get to the chopper I climb up into the cabin, then reach down for Ivy’s hand to help her in. Together we lift Ariana’s limp body from Henderson and Christopher, then Henderson hops into the pilot seat and soon the blades are cutting through the air, and we lift off the platform. Usually, I love the feeling of ascension, but right now it makes my stomach lurch. I cradle Ariana, who, now unconscious, offers no resistance.

Ivy checks on her tourniquet, which has helped to staunch the bleeding, then covers her with the blanket she brought up from the panic room.

“Ariana,” Ivy says, gently. “Ariana, stay with us.”

My sister’s eyelids flutter, but remain closed.

Ivy takes her hand and squeezes it. “We’re almost there. You’re going to be okay.” She checks Ariana’s pulse and blanches.

My face feels like it has turned to stone. I can’t show any emotion. If I do, I’ll lose control. All that matters now is getting Ariana to those paramedics before her body surrenders.

I thank god that Henderson is so cool under pressure. He’s completely focused despite the panic we all feel, and when the hospital pad comes into view, he lands with his usual well-practiced precision. As the hum of the rotor blades fades I can hear my heart pounding. I hit the release and the cabin door lifts. The wind is wild. The paramedics surge toward us with their gurney, and I hoist Ariana off my lap and pass her down to them before jumping out myself. When I help Ivy down, I hold on to her for a moment, her hair whipping around as she holds me.

CHAPTER 2

Demolish Me

IVY

We stand rooted to the spot on the roof of the private hospital, despite the galeforce wind threatening to blow us off, holding onto each other as if our lives depended on it. I feel his love for me in his furious embrace, I sense his fear and longing. The medics strap Ariana to the gurney and we follow them off the exposed platform and into the relative quiet of the building where an elevator swallows them up. We wait for the next one, then step in and descend to the waiting room. I expect chaos and urgent paperwork, but the nurse there offers us a seat and something to drink. I’m reminded again how the wealthy live such completely different lives to regular peasants like me—though I don’t suppose I can call myself that anymore. I also remind myself that bigger bank balances sometimes bring bigger problems, or we wouldn’t be sitting here.

It’s difficult to talk, because what do you say to someone who has just had the rug pulled out from under them in such a traumatic way? Every thought that surfaces seems shallow and insufficient.

“I don’t know what to say,” I eventually tell him.

He squeezes my hand. “You don’t need to say anything.”

We sit quietly for a while, but I can’t stand how heavy the silence is. “You must be so … shocked.”

Alistair swallows hard. “All that matters right now is that she pulls through.”

“She’s in the very best hands,” I assure him, just as he had assured me when Jamie’s condition turned critical. Jamie who is still in this very building, sedated, and on his ventilator.

If my mind is spinning with questions, I can’t imagine how he feels. I didn’t even know Ariana existed until forty-eight hours ago, but he and his family have been grieving her for most of his life. And now, not only is she alive, but she is the enemy. She came into the Ravenscroft home hoping to kill them. It didn’t make sense.

I don’t bother Alistair with questions. He’ll talk when he is ready.

“I’m here for you,” I tell him.

He drags his eyes from the carpet and looks into mine. There are so many emotions there—relief, love, worry, confusion, grief—I’m desperate to take away his pain.

“Tell me how I can make you feel better.” I wish I didn’t have to ask; I wish I knew him well enough to instinctively know what he needs in this moment.

I half expect him to prickle and mutter “Nothing you can do will make me feel better.”

Instead, he squeezes my hand harder. “It would be inappropriate.”

“I don’t give a fuck about being inappropriate,” I reply. “And nor do you. Tell me what you need.”

He swallows, not taking his eyes off me. “I need to kiss you. I need to be inside you.”

I nod. “Yes.”

At first, he doesn’t react. It takes a moment for my words to land. Without speaking, he stands and pulls me up from my seat. We walk down the passage, looking for a room or broom closet. There is no giggling or enjoying the taboo of it. There will be no joy, only comfort and deep connection. Alistair needs to feel grounded.

We slip into a narrow room with a gurney along the wall. There is no lock on the door, so Alistair forces a flimsy office chair up against the handle. It will have to do.

I expect Alistair to smash me up against the wall, taking his fury out on me. Demolish me. I will welcome it. But there is no anger in his movements, no violence. His touch is gentle as his hand travels to my hair; his lips tenderly seek mine out. We kiss, long and slow, and I open myself up to him, offering everything I have.

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