Burn Like An Angel (Harrowdean Manor #2)

6. Ripley

CHAPTER 6

RIPLEY

FREEDOM – YOUNG LIONS

The shower spray is freezing cold as it hits me square in the face. Whatever hot water remained when I woke up in the medical wing has petered out along with the electricity. We’re truly cut off now.

Scrubbing myself with my papaya body wash, I continue to survey my mental map of Harrowdean, considering possible places where Lennox, Raine and Langley could be hiding.

Xander and I searched until the sun rose and our exhaustion refused to be ignored any longer. He was already dead on his feet when we started looking. We had to stop and find somewhere to get some rest.

I turn off the cold spray, teeth chattering as I step out into the chilly bathroom. My bedroom has been turned over, much like everyone else’s on the fifth and sixth floors. The thieves didn’t find anything, though. I’d already retrieved my stash.

As I set the makeshift shank made from a toothbrush and razor blade on the bathroom sink, a low-pitched whimpering echoes from the adjacent room. I left the door open a crack in case any wayward patients decided to surprise us with another sweep.

The noise stops before I can figure out what it is.

After hurriedly drying off, wincing at the pain of my aching body, I stand poised. It’s silent. The floor is pretty much abandoned—during our searching, we found most still-lucid patients congregating in communal areas where light sources can be shared.

A smaller, almost incoherent group was attempting to break into the pharmacy to raid the medication stash when we passed. Unsuccessful, of course. The store is locked behind a reinforced steel cage that wouldn’t budge.

Everyone’s going cold turkey.

More fuel for the fire.

I pull clean leggings and my favourite oversized anime tee on, thankful to be back in my own clothes. The butter-soft, over washed fabric doesn’t irritate my lingering injuries. It feels so good to be clean.

“No… S-Stop… Please.”

My hands freeze while pulling the t-shirt down. The whispered pleading is barely audible. Confused, I glance around the bathroom, convinced my several missed doses of medication are taking effect.

It’s definitely coming from the bedroom where I left Xander resting alone. I wasn’t about to climb into the tiny, twin-sized bed with him, despite the kiss we shared. Surely, he isn’t the one crying out?

“No! Leave m-me alone!”

Oh, shit.

It is Xander.

The sheer terror in his voice seizes hold of my heart and wrings the blood from it. I creep into the bedroom, now bathed in late afternoon sunlight leaking through the barred window.

My bed is occupied by a sprawled out Xander, his legs sticking out from the twisted sheets and arms flailing blindly to ward off something I can’t see. In his fist, he holds a familiar pocketknife.

I should remain at a safe distance, but his mouth is frozen open in a silent scream for mercy. I can’t just watch. He’s keening like a frightened child, thrashing and kicking.

The powerful iceman is battling invisible demons and crying out to be saved from his own mind. Equal parts fascination and reluctant empathy carry me towards him.

Beneath his whimpering, I can almost hear the fissures in my heart cracking wide open. Hatred spills out in a violent geyser, leaving space for something else. Something unnerving. Something a lot like… understanding.

Xander Beck isn’t only a monster.

He’s a survivor too.

Just like me.

Resting on the edge of the bed, I tentatively place a hand on his cold, bare shoulder. He stripped out of his shirt and jeans to sleep, exposing the pale, defined ridges of his packed abdominals and pectorals.

While ganglier than Lennox, he’s still wiry and muscular. His marble-like skin stretches tight across each chiselled tendon. The old, silvery scars that cover his arms and biceps also adorn his flat stomach and lower still.

“Xan,” I murmur gently. “You’re safe.”

At the sound of my voice, the tension drains from his posture. Xander slumps on the thin mattress, a sigh whistling from his nostrils. I trace circles on his skin with my thumb, whispering under my breath.

“That’s it, Xan.” My throat thickens as my conflicting emotions battle it out. “You’re safe.”

The urge to climb into bed with him and hold this fragile version of the psychopath I thought I knew is overwhelming. In this moment, he looks so lost. So alone. So irreparably broken.

I know what that’s like.

I’ve been so alone it physically aches.

Xander is evil, capable of inflicting incomprehensible cruelty. I know he craves pain and humiliation. To him, love is degradation. Power. Control. It’s all he knows, and that’s why he targeted me.

Being evil doesn’t mean the person is all bad, though.

We contain multitudes.

There are a million reasons why he deserves to be left to battle his nightmares alone. Anyone saner would take one look at the terrifying brutality inside him and run away. But… fuck, there’s something comforting about his capacity for violence.

How would it feel to have that power on my side? I’ve been alone for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to be defended by someone. To have the protection of another human being—even one who once hurt me.

When I try to put some space between us, a low moan rumbles from Xander’s throat. His eyelids move, and before I can pull away, his weapon-free hand snaps out to capture my wrist in an iron-tight grip.

His long fingers tense, digging deep into the barely-healing wounds that ring my wrist. The hot throb of pain makes my breath catch, and at that tiny noise, his eyes suddenly fly open.

“No!” he shouts.

“Xan! It’s me!”

Unseen ghosts haunt his shadowy cobalt orbs as the knife flicks out and swoops towards my face. I duck before he can stab me, trying to capture his attention so he can see it’s me.

“Xander! Stop!”

Panting hard, he looks at me. The palpable fear warping his face into a child-like caricature morphs into surprise when he realises I’m the one touching him.

My chest expands with relief when he lowers the pocketknife. For the first time, he stares back at me with no defences intact.

Holy. Shit.

The truth is plain as day, written in blinding lights. He can’t hide his secrets in this state. In his uncertain stare, I can see the tormented reality he hides behind cold smiles and indifference.

“Let go,” I whisper in a small voice. “You’re hurting me.”

“Ripley?”

“It’s me. You were crying out in your sleep. I thought…”

Not sure what to say, I purse my lips. He’s still clasping my wrist, blinking hard to clear the sleepy fog from his mind.

Xander licks his lips. “You heard.”

“Does this happen often?”

He looks away, blinking several times before answering. “Sometimes.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing,” he replies flatly.

“That didn’t look like nothing. You nearly stabbed me.”

I wouldn’t have put it past the old him to use physical violence, though that’s more Lennox’s style. Xander prefers mind games and careful manipulation.

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. That we could be more.

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

“Stop.”

I’m spun on the spot, forcing me to look up at Xander as the blade presses deep into my throat.

“Don’t go,” he croaks.

“You’re threatening me to get me to stay?”

The pressure slicing into me is a silent bid for control. I don’t think Xander knows how to communicate without threatening death in one way or another.

“I… I can’t… I don’t know how to do… this,” he mutters awkwardly. “Talk.”

When I try to pull away, his grip intensifies, holding me prone. He’s clothed in nothing but form-fitting black boxers, his hair wild and eyes darting around like he’s hoping to pluck the right words from thin air.

This Xander isn’t in control.

“I was dreaming about your voice,” he blurts abruptly. “Telling me I’m safe. No one told me that when I was a kid. No one… cared.”

Holding still so he doesn’t cut me, I carefully lay my hand over his. “Safe from what?”

Inhale. Frown. Exhale. Blink.

“Let me in, Xan.”

“I… don’t know when it started.”

“Did someone hurt you?” I coax.

He licks his lips, avoiding my gaze. “You could call it that. I was too young to understand, I suppose. The memories are blurred, but the dreams about him are vivid.”

Blood trickles down my neck, leaking from the shallow nick I can feel he’s inflicted. If he needs to do this to feel in control, I’ll take the punishment. A scar is a small price to pay for Xander’s bared soul.

“So you were dreaming about… him?”

Watching his reaction, I’m unsurprised by his terse nod.

“Who was he?”

I’ve been able to deduce some of Xander’s past from my conversation with Lennox. When he revealed the truth about his sister’s suicide, he made it clear that he believes Xander was a victim of sexual abuse too.

“He was my stepfather,” Xander grits out.

My stomach rolls. “Fuck.”

“I never knew my real father. Mother spent my childhood at the bottom of a bottle. She almost died from liver failure when I was six. He was my only real parental figure.”

My hand tightens on his, more blood sliding down my neck. Xander blows out a long breath and lifts his gaze to mine.

“He came most nights. I suppose Mother was too inebriated to hear or notice anything. We never spoke about the… the assaults. He just snuck in, left before dawn and always returned the next night. Every day for as long as I can remember.”

His throat moves with a hard swallow.

“I was eight when the police came. I didn’t say anything, the damage was done. He was actually arrested for assaulting a young boy in a park, nothing to do with me.”

“That’s so incredibly messed up.”

“I guess he couldn’t help himself.” Xander eases the knife slightly, keeping it held at my throat. “The authorities took one look at Mother and sent her to rehab. I was taken into foster care. That’s it.”

Processing, I try to make sense of his words. “You never told anyone?”

Xander laughs humourlessly. “I didn’t have to.”

“Why?”

He drags his other hand over his weary face. “The bastard admitted it all. I wasn’t the only person he hurt. He was charged with multiple counts of sexual assault and died in prison four years later.”

Emotion boils behind my eyes, matching the white-hot sensation his blade is inflicting. I don’t pity him. He doesn’t need that. Yet the truth tears at my soul regardless.

“What happened after?” I ask in a guttural voice.

“I bounced between foster homes until I aged out of the system a decade later. No one wanted to adopt the antisocial kid who liked to cut himself. I scared off every potential adoption.”

“Your mother never came back for you?”

Lowering the pocketknife fully, his shoulders slump. “No. I never saw her again. She could be dead for all I know and care.”

Watching him breathe heavily, I can’t comprehend how any mother could abandon her son like that. Sure, she was sick. But to never come back for him or make contact? After everything? It’s plain cruel.

“When he…” His voice falters as he looks down. “When he used to hurt me, I’d cry and plead with him to stop. He warned me about what happens to little boys who cry.”

“Xan. You don’t have to keep going.”

“I need to say it,” he explains with a newfound fierceness.

I close my mouth, waiting for him to continue.

“After years of his nightly visits, it was easy to switch off to the pain, the fear, the confusion and disgust I felt… and feel nothing at all. He told me not to cry. So I stopped.”

“He threatened you?”

My voice is barely a whisper, fraught with horror for that poor little boy, alone and scared, who found a sense of safety in not feeling at all.

“Me… Mother… His threats were indiscriminate. Crying wouldn’t save me. If I laid there silently, the time passed quicker. The less I cared, the less it hurt each time he came back for more.”

The broken person standing in front of me hardly resembles the white-haired demon I met in Priory Lane. The same man who tried to scare me into submission. Who kept me busy while his best friend ensured Holly’s demise.

Xander scoffs, his gaze focused on the floor. “I never cared about anything ever again.”

My attention latches on to his visible scars. I wondered about them for months in Priory Lane.

“These look old.”

“It started in foster care.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Xander pauses for a long moment, searching for the right words. He flips the pocketknife in his hands, uncaring of my sticky blood coating the surface.

“No matter how many times I sliced my skin until I ran out of space, I felt nothing. But I loved the act of doing it. The pain became a way to prove to myself that I’d never be vulnerable again. As long as I could confirm that the numbness was still there… keeping me safe.”

I can’t help but think of Rae. Her own addiction to pain. But for Xander, he wasn’t cutting to feel something. He did it to check whether he still felt nothing at all.

His need for pain suddenly makes more sense. Not just his own, but the pain he inflicts on others. It’s all a test of his control. A way to ensure his own survival. If everyone else is hurting, then they can’t hurt him.

“That’s why I didn’t care about Holly.” Xander finally looks up at me. “I didn’t care how much it would affect you either. I was willing to push her over the edge.”

“Because it was necessary?”

He shakes his head. “I know how it sounds.”

“The amount of times I’ve told myself the same thing.” I laugh at the insanity of it all. “I guess nobody survives with their morals intact. Desperate people do desperate things.”

Lips parted, Xander cocks his head. “Do desperate people forgive others’ shitty choices?”

Even with a fresh wound, I’m twisted enough to actually consider it. Old Ripley would’ve left him, naked and humiliated. Lord, I’m fucking tempted. It would be no less than he deserves.

That was before I experienced for myself the true cost of survival. The evil that breeds when you’re existing in a world forever weighted against you. We can all be a little monstrous when we’re desperate.

“They try to.” I touch the slick mess at my throat. “Even when it isn’t easy or quick… they can try to make progress.”

Stepping closer, I admit defeat and curl my arms around him. Xander shudders against me, his skin chilled and goose pimpled. He hides his face in my hair then grips my hips.

“For what it’s worth,” he says into my curls. “I’m sorry for the pain we caused you. For all that you suffered through because of our choices.”

“I know, Xan.”

“I mean it. We put you through hell.”

“Well, yes.” Pain prickles my throat at the admission. “But I suppose I did the same to you. You were tortured because of me.”

Xander chuckles against my head. “It was no less than we deserved.”

“As true as that may be, I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Xan. I want us to be more than that.”

A long pause is filled with the sound of his rapid breathing.

“I thought I knew what I wanted. What… I needed. Now I’m not so sure.”

I tilt my head up to look at him. “What do you want right now?”

“Right now?” His tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip. “You.”