by Trisha Wolfe
My connection to Grayson goes deeper than simple transference.
When I look into his eyes, I see myself. Not a reflection of the woman—but the hollow echo of my blood-stained soul.
If he’s evil, then am I in danger of falling for the devil, or am I the devil herself?
I snap my head back against the brick, just hard enough to knock the thought from my head. Then I start toward home.
I’m still in control of my mind and emotions, despite my fears. And I refuse to admit I’m falling for a patient. I refuse to fall for a killer.
11
Nexus
London
How many people can say they’ve looked into the eyes of a killer?
For most, that is never a reality to contend with. It’s a fiction experienced only through television, safely removed from any threat or corruption. For me, it’s a daily challenge.
The first pair of eyes I remember looking into harbored the soul of a killer.
The eyes I stare into now—that I can clearly discern as the palest steel-blue—stare back into me. Grayson’s knowing gaze reflects my truth, and every molecule of my body rebels in denial, wanting to defiantly snuff out that truth.
He doesn’t know… He can’t know. But paranoia is eating away my reasoning.
“The man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic,” Grayson says, disturbing my thoughts. “Would you consider yourself a fanatic, Dr. Noble? Or are you…passionate?”
I sit straighter, taking small, sharp breaths to ease the pressure in my back. Ever since my getaway from the detective yesterday evening, I’ve been in a full-scale flare-up.
I adjust my position again and say, “Voltaire.”
Grayson’s smile reaches those glacier eyes. “That’s right.”
“But you only partially quoted him. The first part states that an enthusiast takes ecstasies and visions, making dreams his reality. What do you think the difference is between an enthusiast and a fanatic? What do you think Voltaire was trying to say?”
“This isn’t classic literature one-oh-one. I asked you a question.”
My lips press together. I don’t have to consider my answer for long. “I’m passionate about what I do.”
He shakes his head. “That’s a canned response.”
“What is it that you want?”
His gaze snaps to my face, startling me with the intensity I see there.
“We’re not yet ready for what I want,” he says. “Let’s start with what I don’t. No practiced or rehearsed psycho-nonsense. Give me your honesty.”
I release an extended breath, feeling the weariness of our sessions. The patient is supposed to be the one breaking, not the doctor. His walls stand just as erect as the day he entered my therapy room.
I pick his folder off the floor and set it on my lap. “You want direct conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Because you have no inhibition in saying what you’re thinking, you demand the same of me.”
“Yes.”
I look at him. “How freeing to have the power, the candidness, to just blurt whatever is on your mind and not give a damn how it’s received. Tell me, Grayson. How does that feel?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Liberating.”
I lick my lips. My mouth too dry to speak. I’ve allowed him to get under my skin, and he’s enjoying my agitation.
“Is that considered crazy?” he asks. “Does it disturb the nice complacency of all those boring fucks we don’t actually give a shit about?”
“The freedom to do and say what one wants has always disturbed others,” I admit, immediately following up. “It may be nonsensical to you, but it’s why society chooses to shield their innermost thoughts. An empathetic person doesn’t want to hurt anyone or make those around him uncomfortable. In order to…blend, for lack of a better word, we must…” I trail off, unable to complete my thought.
“We, doctor?” Grayson sits forward. “Tell me what we must do.”
I toss my bangs from my eyes and adjust my glasses. “Master our passions.”
His stare is invasive, that disarming gaze hardening as if he’s dissecting me. “Is that how you’ve done it?”
A splash of fear ices my body. “What?”
“Blended. Have you mastered your passions or are you just delusional?”
I slap the folder closed. “This session has officially gotten off track, and so it’s over.” I rise from my seat.
“But we only have one left after this.”
The hurt in his voice sounds so genuine it stops me. I turn toward him. “I have your evaluation completed already. You don’t require another session.” I yank the paperwork from the folder and flinch. “Damn. Paper cut.”
Red beads at the tip of my finger.
In the second it takes me to assess the wound, Grayson moves. He captures my hand and hauls me forward. His vise grip serves two purposes: preventing me from fleeing, and forcing blood to my hand.
He takes my finger into his mouth. A roar fills my ears, my heart thundering at the feel of him sucking the blood away. I feel it in the back of my knees, an electric current racing through my body and knocking my legs weak.
“Stop.” The word is barely audible, but it’s enough.
Grayson pulls back and releases my hand. He draws the chain off the floor, sliding it over his palm, then rubs a pattern over the lock. “I’m afraid that when it comes to you, London, I’ll never master that kind of control.”
I step backward, separating us. “It doesn’t matter. This is over, anyway.”
Anger ignites his pale eyes. “Your lies don’t work on me. You feel everything I do.”
I shake my head and take another step away. “I don’t. And you can’t feel. You’re not capable.” Beneath the adrenaline spiking my bloodstream, I sense a distinct mock of hypocrisy.
My writing desk with the panic button is just feet behind me. The moment he stands, I sprint for it. I hear the clatter of chains and know I’m safe—that he can’t reach me—only to be thrown against the edge of the desk as he grabs me from behind.
My back crushed to his chest, he seals a hand over my mouth. I reach for the button, but his other hand is there first. His grip wrenches my wrist back and then plants my palm on the wood, pinning me to the desk. My breaths sear my chest.
“We’re not leaving here until you admit the truth one fucking time.” His warm breath touches my neck. His mouth rests against my ear.
I blink hard as he lays a thin piece of metal on the desk. I recognize it as a silver catch from a belt buckle. I mentally curse myself. I was so enraptured in that moment he held me captive. His hand sliding up my thigh…his other hand anchored to my waist. He fucking used me. I was blind. Naive.
“You’d have never been so careless unless you wanted these chains off.” He tightens his hold, letting me feel the chain still cuffed to his wrists. The cool metal of the links rub along my back. “Now tell the truth.”
Then his hand is gone. I gasp in a breath, my nails claw at the desk. “I’ll scream,” I threaten.
He hauls the chain over my head and secures it around my neck, forcing my back harder against his chest. “And I’ll crush your windpipe.”
The links pinch my skin as he makes his point. But then just as suddenly, he loosens the chain, allowing me to take in an unobstructed breath. Only as the fear of being strangled vanishes, a new one grips me. Grayson shoves my skirt up my legs.
“All your talk of control and morality…” He kicks my feet apart as his fingers splay along my thigh. “You’re a deviant, London. I know where you live—that dark corner where you hide.”
I whimper and shake my head against him. “You’re wrong, Grayson. You’ve built this up in your mind—”
“Stop.” He digs his hand into my hair and yanks. My hair comes loose, and he presses closer to inhale me. “I want you to prove how well you’ve mastered your passions.” His other hand inches higher. My belly trembles at
the feel. “If you’re not turned on, I’ll cuff myself to the floor and never touch you again. But if you are…then you’re going to confess all those dirty sins to me.”
He tugs my leg over, spreading me wider, as he roams up my thigh. His body cages me in, the edge of the desk digging into my stomach, but the pain only serves to heighten the sensual sensation of every place he’s touching. An ache blooms deep in my core, the throb sending heat between my legs…and I know he can sense it. I clamp my eyes closed.
As he reaches the joint of my leg, I flinch. His finger traces along the seam of my underwear, a tantalizing threat, before he grasps me fully. I buck at the force, then he drags his fingers over me, the pressure erotic, evoking.
A low groan vibrates from deep within him. “I can feel you through the flimsy layer of cloth, London. You’re wet.”
His words ricochet through me, every point of impact detonating like a blast. Every stroke ignites my skin like a strike of a match, and I no longer have the power. Control slips through my fingers as easily as my hands splay over the desk, releasing my will.
“You’re aroused,” he says. “Just like when you watched my videos.” He grips my throat forcefully. “Admit it.”
A shaky breath slips free. “No.”
“Such a liar. You couldn’t take your eyes off the screen, could you? Tell me how turned on you got when you witnessed Giselle’s torture. Her limbs bound, her body stretched…until she confessed her sins.”
He’s never called his victims by name before. It feels too intimate, and that intimacy stirs a needy desire within me, awakening a hunger.
“Admit it,” he breathes into my ear. He tightens his hold around my throat, forcing my head against his shoulder. “Admit the truth, London.”
I struggle to hold on to my last bit of control, refusing to admit I’m anything like him, until he pushes his hand beneath my panties—touching me with no barrier. The chain drags across my breasts, stimulating every peak of my body. “I can’t,” I force out.
“Your body tells the truth, even if you won’t.”
He slips inside me then, his fingers sinking expertly, as if he’s spent the past three months memorizing me. I gasp and push back against him, unable to stop my body from responding. He reaches the ache deep within me, and all I can do is grasp for his neck and cling to him. Save myself from falling.
“I’m inside you now…” His teeth graze my shoulder. “Under your skin. I want to break you, so I can piece you back together.” His hand tightens, and the lack of oxygen makes my head swim, yet I’m hyperaware of every erogenous zone on my body—and I want him to master them all.
I don’t have to voice the truth; he’s right. My body betrays me with each moan and undulation as I seek release. And when he tears my blouse apart, I don’t stop him. I arch against his chest and press closer as he pushes my bra down to touch me—skin to skin.
We’re an entanglement of limbs and flesh, all searching to connect. I glimpse the ink on his arm, and this time, this close, I trace the design of puzzle pieces. A thrill arcs through me, sending a shiver racing over my skin.
“I’m the puzzle you’re piecing together,” I whisper.
He releases a growl. His fingers seek deeper, working me harder, his restraint unleashed. He pushes me down on the desk, my chest flattened against the cool wooden surface. And as his fingers plunge deeper still, the stimulation to my nipples sends me over the edge.
I hear the tear of material, feel the pressure snap at my hip, as he shreds my panties. Then his hands are grasping me at my waist. He rolls me over, where there’s no way to deny this is happening between us.
Our eyes meet.
He lowers himself over me. Brushes my hair from my eyes. The action so gentle it steals my breath. “You’re my match.”
I tremble at his words.
“Does that terrify you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
A cruel smile slants his mouth. “But you still want this.”
I swallow. “Yes.”
All the permission he needs, he hauls my leg over his shoulder and takes me into his mouth. I arch off the desk, desire burning away all inhibitions. I crave to be just as free as him—and all else that doesn’t matter falls away.
Grayson’s touch…him tasting me, so wild and uninhibited…it’s intoxicating. I’ve never been this exposed to anyone. God, the elation and pure, carnal pleasure is too much. It’s all I can feel—all I want to feel.
It’s bliss. And it’s hell.
I was damned long before Grayson found me, and it was that dark note of my soul that called to him.
I’m burning.
I’ve set my whole world aflame to indulge this moment, and as he devours me, taking me within himself, consuming my willpower, I’d burn it all down for him—again and again.
He senses the second I let go and lifts up. “Look at me,” he demands. He moves above me, his hand finding my neck and forcing my eyes on him. His fingers thrust inside me, his thumb pressed hard to my clit. “Say it. Say who you are. Admit your truth.”
His fingers never stop stroking, caressing the ache heating my flesh, as his other hand closes around my throat. The erotic sensations swallow me. The pending orgasm pulls me under. I want to taste the freedom just once.
“Killer.”
Once the truth is bared, unadulterated pleasure sweeps through me. The fire sears my muscles and singes my bones, consuming me like a wildfire. I hear Grayson’s dark groan, then his mouth is on the juncture between my neck and shoulder. His teeth sink into my skin as I grind against his hand, riding the last euphoric wave.
As I return, our breathing is heavy and loud in the quiet room. My senses come back to me. Where we are, what we’ve done. It strikes hard and fast, like a collision as I crash back to reality.
Grayson strokes my neck, inspecting the marks he’s surely left behind. “I see you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He kisses me, his lips soft and claiming, in complete contrast to the rawness we just experienced.
Raw. My skin and mind feel over sensitized. Scraped raw by his abrasive touch.
I allow our tongues to tangle, my palm pressed to his chest, counting his thunderous heartbeats. He tastes hypnotic. Like a drug. Like freedom. I feel his erection as he thrusts his hardness between my legs, igniting my arousal all over again… And I turn away, breaking the kiss.
I shove him back. Pushing my skirt down my legs, I say, “You have to go.”
I slide to the edge of the desk, but his hands pin either side of my thighs. “I know how scared you are,” he says. “That moment when you first say it out loud…there’s no going back, London. You’ve already kept it buried too long. Once it’s unleashed, you can’t lock the monster back up.”
Despite Sadie having warned of this very frightening inevitability, I stare into his eyes, defiant. “Watch me.”
I push him aside and hurry to the bathroom, grabbing my tattered underwear on the way. I splash cool water on my face, avoiding the mirror. If I look, then I’ll see those haunted memories, and I’m still too weak, too vulnerable in this state to face them.
When I’m composed, I fix my blouse and wander into the therapy room, where Grayson is shackled to the floor manacle once again. Everything feels so…undisturbed. As if the past half hour only existed in a fantasy.
He looks my way. “Same time tomorrow, then?”
A hollowness takes up residency where I was just so fulfilled, so assured. I leave the room to summon the officer.
12
Tomb
Grayson
Gen pop, otherwise known to the unaware public as general population, has its benefits in prison. It’s less restricted, and therefore a con can acquire certain hard-to-get items if the price is right.
It’s a bit trickier to take advantage of this currency when sanctioned in enhanced security confinement, but not impossible. It all boils down to supply and demand. In prison, things we take for granted in the outside world hold m
uch more value on the inside. Out there, if you need a prescription, you go to the pharmacy. Here, you have to pay off the right guard.
With less than forty-eight hours until my transfer, time is my enemy. Locked in this cell is like being sealed inside a tomb. I’m already dead to the outside world.
And just as a dead man has no need for possessions, I’ve made arrangements. My cell is an empty, blank slate, ready for a new occupant. Everything has been thrown out in preparation for the transition to New Castle—all except for London’s puzzle.
The photos, the research, the evidence of my obsession…all gone. It’s locked inside me. Locked, locked. Only one other holds the key.
I stare down at the completed portrait of London, every curved jigsaw piece fitted together flawlessly, the seams of her face a delicate maze I’ve mapped over and over.
I touch the beveled edges, recalling her taste, like sweet lilac. The feel of her in my hands. Her soft body molding to mine, coming undone under my touch. When the pieces snap together, it’s an intoxicating satisfaction like nothing else in this world.
We’re a perfect match.
Once you’ve sampled that perfection, that utterly seductive gratification, you cannot live without it. She’s becoming a necessity, part of my addiction, and just as I can’t quiet the compulsions, the absence of her stirs a restlessness, the fear of not having her a madness squirming inside my mind.
I pace my cell. A caged animal awaiting the gate to open.
We’re being tested. She can’t bottle what’s been unleashed, and I can’t return to the man I once was. That man only knew one way to survive: alone. Isolation is a survival instinct. But I no longer crave solitude to suffer my penance—I’ve found the one thing that can set me free, and I’ll kill for it.
Footsteps near my cell. The heavy footfall of boots hitting cement spikes my adrenaline. I want this too badly.
“Delivery from gen pop,” the guard says as he shoves a package into the slot. He holds it there on his side, his gaze narrowed on me. “This wasn’t cheap, con.”
