Page 42 of Burn Like An Angel

The physical change is clear when he transforms back into the lifeless droid I’m used to. The fog clears from his gaze, and he wipes any trace of vulnerability away, smoothing a cool smile into place.

“Are you concerned?” Xander asks dryly. “I can assure you I don’t need your pity.”

“Fine, be like that,” I snap in frustration. “I’m not the one who’s scared to feel anything at all.”

“Scared?” He laughs.

“Yes!”

“I don’t get scared, Ripley. You should know that.”

“Bullshit. I think you’re fucking terrified.”

His amusement makes my teeth grind. I finally see his cruelty for what it really is—a defence mechanism. The world shaped Xander into the psychopathic monster he proclaims to be. He wears it like a cloak.

“Fear is for children,” he spits out.

“Is that who was crying out for help?” I lash back.

“I wasn’t doing that.”

“Bullshit! Tell me, who hurt little Xander?”

He physically recoils like I’ve slapped him. It brings me a shameful sense of satisfaction to see the hurt my words inflict. I’d rather he feel that pain than nothing at all. As long as he’s feeling, there’s hope.

When he releases my wrist and tries to wriggle away from me, I act quickly. Xander falls back on the bed with a huff as I pull myself on top of him, straddling his waist in a position of power.

I don’t care that he still holds the pocketknife. He can lash out again if he so pleases. I’ll take the blade and sink it into his chest to make him understand. This is our breaking point.

“Ripley,” he warns.

“What? You’re allowed to make demands and take my choice away from me, but I can’t do the same?”

“Enough.”

“No. It isn’t enough, Xan.”

Beneath me, his chest rises and falls in a fast rhythm. I trail my hand between his defined pectorals, over his breastbone and down his sloping abdominals. My fingertips catch on raised, puckered scar tissue.

His breath catches. “Stop.”

“No. Not yet.”

I watch indecision and torment flicker over him, breaking his act. My thumb strokes across a deep, jagged groove beneath his belly button, the shiny mark faded with time.

“I think the truth is… you feel too much.”

Xander remains silent, so I plough on.

“It’s why you bear these marks. It’s why you hurt others to feel in control. And it’s why you won’t open up to me. You’re consumed by fear.”

“That’s… That’s not true,” he splutters.

“Then you won’t mind if I walk away right now. I can’t forgive or forget without first understanding the man demanding so much from me.”

Climbing off him, I leave Xander looking startled. My gut burns with frustration and regret. For a brief, pathetic second, I dared to believe that he could be more. Thatwecould be more.

I’m searching for my shoes to storm out when I hear movement behind me. Pale fingers wrap around my bicep.

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