Page 51 of Ramsay

I've no idea why I’m here, and although I’m grateful for the respite, I don’t trust a single one of the mercurial but hot Sinners of Sterling High.

“This is ridiculous, no more!” I hear Diem’s deep voice say as I approach another room down a long hallway and past another three fucking bathrooms. Yes, I counted.

“Stop, you’re being stupid. Move on,” Oliver says in his mild-mannered tone.

“Why? Jealous?” Diem says snidely.

“Enough!” Ramsay breaks in. “No pussy comes between us, we agreed. I don’t care if it’s tight enough to strangle my dick. We don’t need the complications. Let it go.”

Grimacing at their lewd comments, I appear in the doorway as, one by one, they turn to me and fall silent. The industrial sized kitchen is massive with sparkling black countertops and white cabinetry, accompanied by stainless steel appliances and a gigantic island currently boasting a tall vase with pretty red flowers.

As expected, Oliver leans against the breakfast bar in his oh-so-casual stance while Diem paces across the kitchen and Ramsay sits at the head of the table, lord-of-the-manor style.

When they all stare at me silently, I rub my face hoping I don’t have something sticking to it, but soon I’m too uncomfortable to care, and I heave a breath.

“What?” I ask irritably, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Ramsay.

He smirks, his arctic eyes trailing over my face, observing my head injury before looking over my shoulder in warning. “I see you’re awake. Enjoy yourself?”

Shrugging, I stare at my nails and say in a bored tone, “As couches go, yours was a little uncomfortable.”

Although I hardly expected a complete change in personality, I’m still confused by Ramsay’s behavior. From holding me during my breakdown which was actually kind of sweet to the cool asshole sitting before me, I’m left wondering who the real Ramsay is. What motivates the icy bastard?

At my sarcasm, his eyes light with fire, and I ignore the pulse of pleasure I feel as a result. Thankfully, Oliver, standing behind me, turns my thoughts when he stalks forward and says gruffly, “What did my father want?”

He’s so fucking intense right now the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and dropping my gaze, I pull at a string on my jeans, “He wanted, I don’t know, to comfort me?”

There’s a weird ass pause while I feel his stare boring into my skull before he stands abruptly and stalks from the room.

“Fuck.” It’s all I hear before a door down the hall slams with a sharp report.

Turning back to Ramsay, who’s staring at the threshold with a furrowed brow, I ask, “What’s the big deal?”

But I don’t get an answer because Diem steps into my view and demands, “What happened to your face?”

Although I’m unwilling to admit it, I’m smarting over their conversation and I look straight at Ramsay as I say, “Why do you care?”

Diem chuffs and leans down, but Ramsay interrupts him. “Since you’re here, there’s a matter we need to discuss.”

“What’s that?” I ask, glancing between them.

At this point, I’ll take anything that means I don’t have to think about Carmen because whenever I allow the reality to come through, waves of pain pulse through me, and I’m not sure how much more I can take before the void consumes me.

“Payment,” Ramsay says with an arrogant smile and damn me if the curl of his lip isn’t enough to have me wet in all the wrong places.

This is why I knew the Sinners would be the beginning and end of me because I crave their darkness, and I could too easily fall into the damn abyss never to fucking emerge.

Raising a brow, I cross my arms and meet his gaze steadily.

His answering smirk sets my teeth on edge, as he says, “That’s right. We provided you information in return for a favor. It’s time to cash in.”

With that, he turns his phone my way and presses play. The assembly I missed blazes across the screen and leaning forward, I spy students seated in the bleachers facing the principal, an asshat with a cheap toupee who pretends to care.

I’ve never liked Mr. Carhart, and the few times I was forced to speak to him, I've left with a sour taste in my mouth. Although he exudes false charm and insists on his genuine concern, he’s never backed up his claims, going so far as to completely ignore your plight.

The video pans to the right, and it’s weird to see the normality of this, which I was anticipating before my world came crashing down around me.

The cheer team sits at the bottom of the bleachers preparing for a show, Sabrina in the middle, surrounded by her sycophants. She’s chattering animatedly to Hailey sitting beside her, and my mouth sours at the sight.

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