22. Xander
CHAPTER 22
XANDER
DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME – NESSA BARRETT
Kicking Ripley’s door open after scanning my stolen all-access pass, I heave her inside and let it slam shut. Carrying a semi-conscious woman through the quad would’ve been impossible on any day but this.
I heard the alarms ringing as I resolved to check the swimming pool earlier on, taking a lesser-known guards’ exit to avoid being seen. Harrowdean has gone into lockdown. Everyone is confined to their rooms for safety.
It took some stealthy wading through flooded grounds to get back to the manor in the dead of night. And some even stealthier tactics to get upstairs without being spotted. No one can know about this.
Ripley doesn’t need the heat.
I’m sure she’s already on thin ice.
Telling myself a few months ago that I’d one day worry about her would’ve been entertaining. That Xander would have revelled in the notion that she’d lose her protection and suffer the same fate that we did.
Her tactics don’t work on me. The public displays of solidarity for management and their aggressors. Using threats and manipulations to control an increasingly disenchanted client base. She’s playing it well, for sure.
I’ve studied her enough. Theorised the best ways to break her down and reclaim those pieces for myself. Plotted and waited then plotted some more. While I may feel nothing, Ripley feels the world all too acutely.
But that isn’t true, is it?
Did I feel nothing while watching her drown?
Brushing those peculiar thoughts aside, I mentally debate what the fuck I’m doing here, and more importantly, what the fuck I’m going to do with her. We’re both drenched, shivering and near-hypothermic.
With the storm still battering against her barred windows, I locate the bathroom and hit the lights. She’s breathing normally but still waxy and ashen. Heat. We need warmth. I quickly turn on the walk-in shower.
“Raine,” she murmurs groggily.
If the motherfucker wasn’t already half-dead in a hospital bed, I’d quickly send him to one for being the name on her tongue right now. She’s my Ripley. My toy. I’ve let him have his fun, but I won’t be observing from the sidelines anymore.
I carry her into the shower fully clothed then hold her up beneath the warm spray. When she doesn’t respond, I inch the temperature higher, watching the steam billow around us.
“Come on.”
Ripley jerks in my arms, crying out at the lash of hot water on her frozen skin. Now that she’s beginning to respond, I prop her against my front and slowly peel the sopping clothes from her body.
“Easy,” I whisper when she struggles.
I’m not certain she knows where she is or who holds her. There’s no other explanation for the way she curls into me, seeking some kind of protection from the pain of warming back up. Like I’d ever be the one to protect her.
Turning my attention to her wrists, I rinse off the blood. She’s rubbed them raw in an attempt to escape. I even cut her a few times while fumbling in the pitch-black water. My cock unashamedly stirs at the sight of blood drawn by my hand.
A once-white bandage covers her forearm. The adhesive edges are peeling from water damage, with all manner of detritus and filth stuck to the fabric. I pinch a loose edge and begin to peel it off.
When her still-healing stitches are revealed, I try not to get distracted by the sight of her skin held together by synthetic fibres. Only the deeper cuts required treatment. The others have scabbed over in precise carvings.
A risk of infection joins my list of concerns. It was far simpler when I was content to let her suffer. I never anticipated the jealousy that watching others torment my toy would inspire.
Only I’m allowed to hurt her.
Now I have the responsibility of helping her too.
Thoroughly rinsing the wounds, I settle for getting them as clean as possible. I’m woefully unprepared for this task. Lennox is the bleeding heart; he would know what to do here. If only he weren’t the one who attempted to kill her in the first place.
“Warmed up?”
Her teeth chatter together. “B-Better.”
Sagging against me, I’m forced to pick Ripley up bridal-style to exit the shower.
“Raine… okay?” she asks.
I strip her down to her underwear, wrapping her in a towel to carry her through to the bedroom to be deposited. “Last I checked.”
“M-Medical wing?”
I study her steady breathing until I’m satisfied she isn’t dry-drowning. At least for the time being. She isn’t out of the danger zone yet.
“With Nox.”
Gasping, she fists the bed sheets beneath her in an attempt to leverage herself upright. I place a hand on her shoulder and easily push her back down.
“Stay.”
“Len-n-nox… I… he…”
“Isn’t going to drown Raine in an abandoned pool,” I finish her rambling. “If that sets your mind at ease for now.”
Her eyes are swollen slits, landing on me. “Why?”
Sighing hard, I perch beside her on the bed. “Why what?”
“Why help?”
Staring into blood-lined hazel orbs, I don’t have an explanation for her. Not even a deflection or lie. My reasons for diving into that pool to save her life are as unfathomable as the way she makes my senses come alive.
It’s been a long time since I felt the stirrings of a normal human existence. Switching those parts of myself off became a necessity. A means of survival. I endured my childhood that way. Not to mention the years of foster care afterwards.
But I could never turn it back on again. Not with a blade. Not with the cries or pleas of others. Not even as Priory Lane’s doctors beat, whipped and tortured me to their heart’s content. Cracks formed but failed to split my defences open.
“Lennox wants me dead,” she whispers. “You do too.”
Her raspy voice wraps around my heartstrings and tugs. Those ancient cracks that I thought I’d plastered over have become deep crevasses that I’m at risk of falling into. The same bleak crevasses that I spent years hiding in to escape what was happening to me.
Whatever darkness Ripley sees brewing in my gaze makes her flinch. She pulls the towel tighter across her chest and swallows hard.
“You should go.”
“Is that any way to treat your saviour?”
Her reddened eyes shine with tears. “Thank you for helping me. Now go.”
Standing up, I leave a sodden patch behind on her bed. I’m not sure what prompts me to look over my shoulder at her, a single question hanging on my tongue. Seeking an answer I didn’t realise I needed.
“Do I scare you that badly?”
Ripley watches me closely. “Versions of you do.”
“There is only one version of me.”
She swipes escaped tears from her cheeks. “Does that version feel? Or is he still in denial that he’s human at all?”
Those words detonate whatever internal defences remain inside me. The ice in my veins solidifies, expands then shatters. Deadly shards rip me apart from the inside out until it feels like I’m bleeding in front of her.
I don’t need to be told to leave again. I’m already running as far from this devil woman as possible. Far from her questions and pain-laced stares tugging something free from my soul that I have no intention of giving.
Her door crashes shut behind me. I slump against the solid wood, sliding down until I’m crouched, my knees pressed to my chest. Luckily, the corridor is deserted with no one to witness my ragged breathing.
How dare she?
I dragged her from that pool because only I get the privilege of deciding when it’s her time to die. I’m the one who gets to claim that reward after all she’s done. No one else. Not even Lennox.
But the even more disturbing realisation is that I don’t know if I want that privilege. Seeing her ruthlessness and will to survive firsthand has ignited an obsession too strong for petty revenge to get in the way.
Still breathing hard, I can feel myself vibrating. What the hell is happening to me? My chest is tight. Jaw clenched. Brain whirling. Too many foreign sensations from a time long past are returning.
That conniving bitch is making me fucking feel again. I will not go back to being that person. I took the victim I once was and crushed that little kid into a tight corner in my mind. He’s been chained there since.
I don’t care about others.
I don’t care about myself.
I only care about the next target.
Head resting against the door, I know I should leave. She doesn’t deserve my concern. If she’s found dead by morning, it will be one less concern for all of us. We’ll go back to our original plan—taking Harrowdean for ourselves.
Even if she’s not in it.
That thought is unbearable.
Banging the back of my head against the door, I savour the dull ache. Pain has always been a means of control to me. A way to check that my bulletproof shields are still intact. Only now, the pain has wormed its way back inside me.
I need to expel it. Purge this spreading poison from my veins and reset my operating system. I can go back to my last safe backup. The uncompromised version of Xander.
Before I ever met Ripley Bennet. Before she sunk her claws into me. Before seeing her in pain made me revert back to that wounded child who endured so much.
The storm rages outside and my own inner tempest grows with it. A battleground has opened up in my mind. The cold logic of removing the malware attempting to corrupt me versus embracing the bug and letting it tear my system apart.
Taking the pocketknife from my still-wet jeans, I spin it in my hands. Considering. Analysing. Reaching the only logical conclusion to end this madness. I’ve humoured my obsession for too long.
Pulling her from that pool was a mistake. Becoming infatuated in the first place… I never should’ve been so weak. Allowing hatred and fascination to become so inextricably entwined was only ever going to lead to ruin.
Scanning the keycard, I slip back into her room. The knife is cold in my grip. I follow the path to her bed, lit by lightning flashes. In the time I’ve spent deliberating, Ripley has passed out in her towel.
I stop a metre or so away, statue still and frozen. She’s breathing deeply, sticking it out at this fickle thing we call living. Nothing seems to kill this girl. She’s survived far more than I’d ever thought she would.
It would be so easy to sink the knife into her, removing any further temptation. She couldn’t survive that, right? Not if I stayed to watch the life fade from her eyes. I’m longing to hear her dying breath.
But my body doesn’t respond. Not to move an inch closer, not to lift the knife and not to sink it deep into any available organ. Instead, I’m fixated on the continued evidence of her breathing.
What is she doing to me?
Not even hatred can offer me comfort as she whimpers in her sleep. My stomach lurches, filling with the most unwelcome sense of anxiety. She’s afraid. Not in the pleasurable way I want her to be—in actual fear.
I don’t want her fearful of the world’s monsters. I want her to fear me . The real monster. No one else has earned the right to haunt her nightmares. I deserve to be the object of her hatred and revulsion.
If she hates me, this feeling will stop.
I’ll regain control.
But still… my body doesn’t comply. Not even the slightest twitch of my finger. I’m left staring at the rise and fall of her chest, the scrunch of her dark-brown brows, each vulnerable whimper sliding past her lips.
The cracks are deepening.
I’m being dragged down.
It’s several hours before the storm breaks, and clouds disperse enough for a weak beam of sunlight to break through the barred window. I distantly realise there’ve been no overnight checks from the guards—the situation downstairs must be disastrous.
The faint morning light makes the air sparkle through drizzling rain. I’ve watched her sleep for hours. Fingers clenching and unclenching around the knife. The morning dawn reveals my predicament. She could open her eyes at any moment and catch me. But doing what?
Watching her?
Or watching over her?
I may be obsessed with her, but in the sickest way possible, it’s learned behaviour. I’ve been the subject of fascination before. If that’s even the right word. Stitching the haphazard quilt of my identity back together when I escaped took years. She’s going to rip those unhealed stitches apart with her bare hands.
My muscles protest as I finally move. I crawl onto the bed and hang over her, eyes tracing the edge of the towel barely being held in place. Her arms are curled up to her chest protectively, but her throat is exposed.
The moment my blade touches her skin, she inhales sharply. Ripley’s eyes flutter open, revealing still bloodshot whites surrounding her greenish-brown irises. It takes a moment for recognition to filter in, her nostrils flaring with a panicked breath.
“I won’t let you destroy me, Ripley.”
Her throat bobs beneath the sharp kiss of steel. “Please?—”
“Begging for your life won’t change the outcome. I should’ve left you in that pool. It would’ve been simpler.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Human weakness. But I won’t be weak anymore.”
She blinks, her expanding pupils betraying well-kept secrets. “Is it weak to care?”
“It’s weak to feel.” I press the knife in deeper. “It’s even weaker to want something.”
A fat tear escapes the corner of her eye and rolls down her cheek. I watch its path down to her chin.
“Then get on with it. Kill me.” Ripley sucks in another short breath.
“Why?”
“Because I hate you, and I hate myself for also wanting something more.”
Thin dribbles of blood paint her neck. They coat the blade that could so easily end this for the both of us. All it would take is one swipe. An easy slash.
Her skin would cut like butter, and I could watch her choke on her own blood. My mouth moistens at the thought. I could own her final moments.
“You’ve fought so hard to survive.” I frown in confusion.
She offers a bleak smile in return. “Maybe I’m tired of being the survivor. Look what it’s cost me.”
Blood speckling the sheets beneath her, Ripley wraps a hand around my arm. But she doesn’t attempt to prise the pocketknife away. Her fingers glide over rigid lumps and gnarly scar tissue, tracing each individual scar like she wants to spend hours memorising the exact details.
“What did being the survivor cost you, Xander?”
I hold her life in my hands as I answer. “Everything.”
“What would you do to get it all back?”
“Anything.” The unexpected admission breaks free.
With the pocketknife still slicing into her neck, I lower my mouth to hers then slam our lips together. I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t care if she wants me to kiss her or not. I want to taste her fear and see if she’s as terrified of this as I am.
Perhaps we’re not so different after all. I’m holding her at knife point and taking exactly what I want, regardless of whether she wants to give it. In many ways, she’s doing the exact same thing to me.
Hatred and desire collide hard enough to split the fucking atom.
I shove my tongue into her mouth with the necessary force to prise her lips apart. I don’t know if she grants me access or simply accepts defeat, but her mouth opens up to me.
Teeth clinking, our kiss is a violent duel. I’m determined to find the answer to my inner turmoil. Even if it means tunnelling my way inside her soul to find those elusive secrets. I have to know why.
Why now?
Why here?
Why her?
Old Ripley was a pleasurable thrill. An intense fuck. Spanking her until she bruised satisfied me. Dragging my blade across her skin and smearing the resultant blood spill enthralled me. Holding her on the cusp of an orgasm made her irrevocably mine.
I broke her.
Claimed her.
Kept a piece of her soul as a souvenir.
Little did I know that she did the same thing to me. All this time, she’s been waltzing around with a twisted part of me living and breathing depravity into her too. The girl I broke became the ruthless woman I created.
Perhaps I’ve broken her enough.
Perhaps now I should worship what I created.
My mouth rips from hers, nipping and sucking from her chin to her throat. Her tiny whimpers make my cock twitch as I slide the knife free and admire the uneven slash it leaves behind. All that glistening blood. Perfectly formed droplets of pleasure.
I lick the crimson beads up. Copper ripples across my tastebuds, far sweeter than any other nectar. Her essence is inside me now. I’ll be able to find the control I’m looking for in the metallic tang of her blood.
“Xander,” she pants. “I… we can’t… Raine. I have to see him.”
My temper burns white-hot. “He can wait. You were mine first.”
“Please… No. I can’t do this!”
Her fresh blood still slicked across my mouth, I grab the edges of her towel and rip them apart. Her now semi-dry panties and bra are revealed beneath the rough, hospital-grade cotton.
Ripley recoils and tries to hide herself, but I prevent her from covering up. She’s hidden from me for long enough.
“I don’t care what you want,” I state fiercely. “I care what you need. What we both need.”
Her eyes are gaping saucers. Not even I recognise the raw possession in my own voice. The sheer breadth of emotion and passion colouring each syllable instead of a thick coating of frost.
Blood smears over her collarbones and chest as I trace a path to her breasts. She’s struggling to escape, still protesting like I believe a word she says. But as my bloodstained lips clamp around her left nipple, those protests morph into high-pitched moans.
I bite down, sucking the pert bud into my mouth. Hardness rolls between my lips and grazes against my teeth, each suck serving to heighten her arousal, evidenced by panting moans. I grab her right breast and squeeze, adding enough pressure to elicit just a hint of pain.
“Xander!” she mewls. “Please… stop.”
Still massaging her breast, I release her now reddened nipple and skate lower still. My lips coast a path down to the apex of her thighs. She whines those pathetic little complaints all while lifting her hips to seek out what her body craves.
I kiss the soft curve of her belly before moving lower. Despite soaked cotton covering the desire she’s so frantically trying to hide, I can smell the promise of her wet cunt. All mine. I bring the knife to the elastic holding her panties in place.
“Hold still. I wouldn’t want to slip.”
“No,” she moans.
“No?” I tap her clit through the fabric.
Her hips buck, pushing her clit against my thumb again. She smashes her eyes shut while grinding against my hand. Always so needy. That much hasn’t changed.
Sliding a finger beneath her panties, I push it between her awaiting, slick folds. Ripley cries out as I find her molten core and slip inside, burying my finger deep in her enticing heat.
“Still saying no, little toy?”
She clenches tight around the single digit, her pussy spasming in response to the intrusion. Unwanted or not, she’s practically dripping on my hand, she’s so wet. That’s why I’ll never believe the lies she tells herself.
“No,” she repeats.
“Wetter than a bitch in heat,” I observe plainly. “And still telling me no.”
Stretching her with a second finger, I love watching her squirm. She wants to hate my touch so badly. Let’s see if she feels the same way when my tongue is buried in her cunt instead.
Sliding the knife’s edge across her public bone, I watch the gooseflesh that rises. My dick swells at the sight. Her writhing abruptly halts when she realises I have a knife so close to her most vulnerable place. Keeping one hand at her pussy, I twist the knife and begin to slice her panties free.
Elastic pings, then the fabric falls away, revealing her swollen nub. I easily sever the strap on the other side, still pushing two fingers in and out of her entrance. Her inner-thighs are already slick.
“Why does your body tell a different story?” I croon.
She gasps as I curl a finger inside her. “I… I… fuck! I hate you so much.”
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, then go right ahead.”
Pulling my fingers free, I suck them dry. Ripley stares down at me, wide-eyed and trembling. When I bury my face between her thighs, she immediately responds.
Hips bucking, her pussy opens for me so perfectly. I push my tongue inside and lap at her core, sucking up every drop of moisture she’s fighting so hard to hide.
Stopping for a short breath, I turn my attention back to her clit as I insert my fingers inside her again. She moans at the pressure of my lips on her tight bundle of nerves.
Licking and teasing with the lightest graze of teeth, I steadily fuck her with my hand, reading her body like it’s my favourite playbook. She’s clenched around me and panting so loudly, I know she’s close to climaxing.
“Does my little toy want to come?” I whisper against her clit.
Ripley huffs in response.
Such a stubborn brat.
Sucking her clit between my teeth, I apply enough pressure to take her to the edge. Then I cruelly rip my fingers from her cunt and sit back up. Her subsequent whine is music to my fucking ears.
“No!” she wails.
“No again, hmm?”
Only this time, she isn’t protesting but mourning the loss of what I could give her. What she’s too chicken shit to ask for. Smirking, I bring my hand down on her glistening cunt. Hard. The wet slap echoes around us.
“You have to ask for it,” I command. “No. You have to beg me for it.”
“Fuck you!”
I slap her wet pussy again. Ripley’s back arches, her lips parting in the perfect O shape. I wonder if I could make her come from doing this alone. She’s always had a masochistic need for punishment.
My jeans have become painfully restrictive. I want to strip off and prowl over her so she can see all that she’s denying herself. Contemplating the pocketknife, I flip it to hold the blade portion then raise the smooth handle to her lips.
“Suck.”
“Go to hell,” she seethes.
“Already there, sweetheart. Suck or I’ll find another use for this knife.”
Gulping hard, she opens wide to accept the slightly curved black handle. I move it in and out of her mouth, letting her saliva coat the surface. Strings of spit stretch from her lips when I pull it free.
“Now, I can’t leave this greedy cunt empty. Can I?” Pinning her legs completely open, I run the lubricated handle over her folds. “Keep those legs open for me.”
“Xander?” Her voice trembles.
“I told you how this works before, Rip. You’re mine to do with as I please. That much hasn’t changed.”
I push the pocketknife inside her like any other sex toy. Even when I lift my hand from her thigh, she keeps her legs spreadeagled, exposing every last inch of herself to my perusal. Her pelvis must be aching.
“Perfectly safe,” I murmur. “As long as you don’t move a muscle.”
She can’t see it from her position, but the blade is a safe distance away. Her fear is delicious, though. I keep an eye on the blade impaling her as I stand and peel off my rain-crusted clothing. Her eyes drink in every pale inch that’s revealed.
I’ve never had trouble baring myself. I’m not ashamed of my scars. Only the secrets behind them. From the feverish gleam in her eyes, she’s as dedicated to unearthing them as I am to forgetting.
Standing over her, I wrap a hand around the hard length of my cock. That smart mouth remains clamped shut as I begin to pump my shaft, imagining the glistening heat that will soon be around it.
“Are you ready to tell the truth?”
Her locked jaw tightens.
“I see. We can play this game all day if that’s what you desire.”
Settling between her legs, I slowly slide the pocketknife from her cunt. It’s glazed with her juices. Such a tantalising sight. I raise it back to her mouth then cock a brow expectantly.
“Clean up your mess. This is my favourite knife.”
Her rosy lips remain tightly sealed.
“Ripley.”
Still being a brat.
“Fine.”
I keep the blade pinched but drag the razor-sharp tip across her lips as if I intend to carve her up. She quickly follows my command, letting her mouth open. I push the handle inside and watch her lick it clean.
“Good,” I hum. “Not so hard to obey, is it?”
Once the knife’s clean, I flip the blade to retake the handle. She can’t suppress a terrified squeak when I suddenly stab it into her bed, mere centimetres from the side of her head. Her breaths are sharp and rapid.
“Give me attitude again, and I’ll sink it into your heart instead.”
Ripley gulps in response.
Perfect.
Kneeling between her legs, I have a great vantage point to study every trembling inch of her. Disfigured ink. Stitched wounds. Trails of dried blood. Odd fading bruises. Every imperfection is its own siren’s call.
I don’t want her perfect and unblemished. Some of us are brave enough to admit that we find beauty in the twisted and depraved instead. I only wish someone else hadn’t touched what’s mine to tarnish.
“Poor Ripley. So desperate for relief, yet so willing to deny herself too.”
Her tattooed arms are limp at her sides. That won’t do. I seize her wrists, above raw abrasions inflicted by zip ties and hand-carved letters, to pin her arms above her. My body knows where to go without needing a map.
Already, my cock is pressed up against her entrance. I nudge it inside a small amount before withdrawing and swirling the head around her moisture again. Each rotation causes her to thrust upwards, a silent beg for more.
“Please,” she whines.
“Not until you say it.”
“Say what?” Her temper explodes. “That you’re a cruel bastard for making me want this?”
There she is.
My furious hellhound.
“No. Say that you want me, the man you claim to hate so fucking much, to fill this sweet cunt up to the brim.”
Ripley hisses in frustration as I push inside her again, a tiny bit farther, then withdraw. Such exquisite torture. I’m feeling the pressure already, but I won’t relent. Not until she does.
“I told you to beg me, Ripley. Do it now.”
When she curses under her breath, I move one hand lower to press against her wounded wrist. The lash of pain soon loosens her tongue, but I squeeze hard for good measure.
“Please!” Ripley gasps.
“Yes?”
“Please… fuck me, Xander. I’m begging you to fuck me. I need you.”
How odd it is to be needed.
Satisfied, I surge into her in one fast pump. She takes my full length, but it’s a snug fit. Her yelp takes me back to the first night I forced her to beg. Oh, how she wailed when I finally let her fall apart.
I retreat fast then thrust back inside, not giving her even a moment to catch her breath. Watching her blood-streaked tits bounce with each movement is close to godliness. There’s no better sight than her submission.
Each time my hips surge and I slam back into her, Ripley moans in such agonising ecstasy. The animalistic sounds burst free, unable to be suppressed for a second longer. She can no longer deny that she wants this.
Wants me. Wants us.
Do I want the same?