What Sinners Love (Sinners of Hawthorne University 3)

But still, if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m dead. Gone. I’ll never see Max or Declan or Elias or Gray ever again. I’ll never go back to Hawthorne—a thought that only a few months ago would have felt like a mercy, but that now adds to the painful twist in my chest.

I don’t know how or why Alan kidnapped me as a child, but now he’s trying to take my life away from me again, and I’m not going to let it happen.

Despite my efforts to control my breathing, I’m still drawing in air in short, chopping gasps. My lungs are burning. My wrists are burning. I can tell that the skin is raw, open in some spots from where I’ve struggled against the ropes. I try to move my legs and realize that they’re bound too, but the ropes tying my ankles to the chair legs feel a little looser than the ones around my wrists.

Good. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.

I shift in my chair, focusing.

Even if I do manage to escape, then what?

Alan has apparently been watching me, keeping tabs on me, probably via his fucking son. Even if I get out of this place, there’ll be a target on my back. I’ll never be safe, not for the rest of my fucking life.

My head spins, bile rising in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the fear. If I let myself think too hard about all that other shit, the other noise, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to get myself killed by making a stupid mistake before Alan can even touch me.

I just need to make it out of here. When I get out, I won’t be alone.

The others must have lived through last night. They have to be okay. And they won’t let me face this by myself.

“Stop it.”

I glance up, broken from my thoughts. Reagan is frowning at me in the dim light, her lips pursed in irritation. I glare at her, still twisting my wrists against the binds. As I do, I realize that when I scrape the ropes on my wrists against each other, the friction seems to loosen them a little.

Not much. But maybe it’ll be enough.

“I said stop it,” Reagan repeats, her gaze zeroing in on my movements.

Fuck. I don’t think she’s realized that my actions are strategic now, not just desperate, fruitless struggles. But she will if she looks too closely at what I’m doing. I need to distract her.

“Why did you do this?” I demand. If I can get her to talk, maybe she won’t notice that the ropes are getting looser. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do any of this?”

“What do you remember, Sabrina?” Reagan asks, instead of answering my questions. Her eyes narrow a little, and I think she’s trying to infuse her voice with the same quiet confidence Alan’s had earlier, although she’s not all that successful.

My wrists burn as I try to loop a finger beneath the ropes unsuccessfully.

“I know I was held prisoner,” I say. “Kept down here when I was a kid. Just like you were.”

She scoffs. “That’s not how it is, and you know it.” Her voice softens a little as she adds, “Alan isn’t like that. He isn’t evil.”

I want to scream at her, to tell her she’s fucking insane, but I let the comment slide. She’s seriously messed up, obviously suffering from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome or something, but I doubt I’ll make any headway with her by arguing with her about Alan.

She already tried to kill me twice just to get on his good side. I can’t really see her switching allegiances and choosing me over him.

“Maybe he isn’t evil, but he isn’t happy with you,” I say, shrugging casually as I glance up and catch her gaze.

Her lips press together. “You don’t understand how things are between us.”

“Don’t I?” I cock an eyebrow, still moving my hands subtly behind the chair’s back. “I was here when he told you he was pissed—pretty hard to misinterpret that.” I shake my head. “Can’t you see, Reagan? If you’re trying to win his approval, this didn’t work. It made things worse.”

She flinches, looking at me with wide eyes.

Holy fuck, she really is devoted to this guy.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She doesn’t see it, does she? What a monster Alan is. All she wants is his approval. His love.

“I wanted to help him,” she murmurs. “I am helping him.”

“Are you?” I press. “Just look what happened. You ruined everything. You heard him. Now he has a bigger mess to clean up, and it’s all your fault.”