by Trisha Wolfe
My back is propped against the wall. Grayson holds a wet washcloth to my forehead. “I was going to let you sleep it off, but you were starting to stink.”
I snatch the cloth from his hand. “That tends to happen when you’ve been buried alive,” I snap.
He doesn’t rattle. His mouth tips into that smug half-smile. “Towels are in the closet. Everything you need is already in the shower.” He stands. “I’ll leave you alone.”
I watch him exit the room, shutting the wood panel door behind him. I toss the cloth and jump to my feet, and immediately sway. Using the wall to right myself, I creep toward the door and check the handle. Locked.
From the outside.
Christ. I’m in a house designed for captives.
I find a bottle of water on the counter and drink half of it down before rationalizing that it could be drugged. I wait to feel any disorienting effects. Once the fogginess starts to clear from my brain, I drink the rest and try to recall how I got here. Did we cross over a state line? Yes, Grayson said that was part of his plan—to get outside of Delaware in twenty minutes. But how long ago was that? How far did we drive?
A knock sounds at the door. “I laid clothes out for you in the guest room. You can discard of the ones you’re wearing.”
I brace my palms on the counter. I can’t make another mistake. I can’t underestimate him again. “And food?” I need energy.
“I’ll have something ready for you.”
I wait until his footsteps recede. Then I unbutton my grimy blouse and pull off my filthy slacks. All my clothes go into a wastebasket near the toilet. It takes too long for the water to heat. I dive into a cold shower, thankful to feel something clean against my skin.
Halfway through bathing, the water begins to warm, and I assume this is due to the generator Grayson mentioned. As I wash my hair, I filter every piece of data he gave me, processing his words, the scenery, my predicament. I need more information.
I need to suppress my fear and do what I’m trained to do: listen.
I shut the water off and step onto the chilly hardwood floor. Towel wrapped tightly around me, I look for clues. The whole bathroom is paneled in light and dark reclaimed wood. The shower and sink are white porcelain with contemporary fixtures. The candlelight reflects off a tall vanity mirror, setting the space in an ambient glow that I’d otherwise appreciate if not for the fact that I’m trapped.
Under normal circumstances, I’d never condone using a patient’s unhinged state to beguile them…but this is no normal circumstance. And my patient is a special brand of disturbed.
I have to stay sharp. I have to outwit him. With that in mind, when the bathroom door opens, I’m primed. Ready to take on Grayson with the only weapon I have.
I’m not prepared for the impact, however. Grayson stands in the doorway shirtless, unashamed. His tattoos and scars on full display. A gauze bandage wraps his shoulder, and a low-slung pair of jeans hangs on his hips, accentuating the toned body I’ve only felt before.
I tug my towel higher, wrap it tighter.
“Make sure those thighs are squeezed just as tight,” he remarks.
I bristle, but I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to react.
He crosses his arms. “You’re many things, London. Demure isn’t one of them.” His gaze travels over my body, and I feel the press of it as if he’s physically touching my exposed skin.
I clear my throat. “I need clothes.”
He pushes off the doorjamb and stalks forward. I back up, but he reaches me before I have a chance to retreat. We’ve only spent short lengths of time together where he wasn’t shackled in a chair, and as he towers over me, I’m reminded of how much taller than me he is.
He brushes a finger across my shoulder, down my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. Then he grasps my wrist and brings it up to inspect. Deep-red bands wrap each of my wrists from where the cuffs bit in.
“Sit on the counter,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Clothes,” I demand.
Without warning, he grips my waist and hoists me onto the counter. I dig my nails into his arm, but he easily pries me off, turning my hand over between us. He uses the soft light of the candles to inspect my scrapes and bruises.
A charged current electrifies the air between us. His touch is too intimate, too familiar, my body on high alert, so aware of him and every caress of his sure fingers over my skin. I struggle to breathe.
He’s silent as he reaches above my head to gather alcohol and gauze from behind the vanity. His cologne invades my space. It’s a clean, nautical scent—and I imagine this is his scent; the way he always smelled before incarceration. The thought is tantalizing.
“First you hurt me, then you mend me,” I say, shaking my head. “Your diagnosis is ever advancing, Grayson.”
His fingers trace the sensitive skin beneath my scraped wrists. “Even a sadistic hunter prefers healthy prey.”
I try to snatch my hand away, but his grip tightens. “Hold still.”
I straighten my spine. “You’re enjoying this. Getting off on my pain.”
“Nothing has ever gotten me hotter.” A devious smile twists his lips, annihilating what’s left of my resistance.
My pulse speeds as I allow him to treat and bandage my wrists. I try to think, to process, but his bare chest is just inches from me, and all I can do is stare at his scars. One diagonal slash on top of another—eleven in all. He catches me staring. “They’re self-inflicted,” I say, and he glances down.
“Yes.”
I recall during our sessions, the pieces he revealed of himself and his self imposed punishment. “Is that the number of lives you’ve taken?”
“Yes.”
He’s been convicted of nine murders. He brandishes two additional scars. I swallow an ache. “Am I going to become number twelve? Just another scar on your flesh?”
A muscle feathers along his locked jaw. “I won’t let that happen.”
He finishes wrapping my left wrist, and I pump my hand into a fist. “How can you stop it from happening when you can’t control your compulsions. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because you obsessed over me—over some connection, our ‘inevitability’. And then you fantasized about your escape until you made it happen.”
He rests his hands on either side of my thighs, his face too close to mine. Shadows dance over his face. The flicker of candlelight casts his features in dark, predatory beauty. “There are too many contingencies to account for them all. I had to focus on the most likely ones, but we—you and I, London—we were always a contingency. What we’re working through now is the variables to determine our exact outcome.”
I hold his gaze. I find and wrap a stray thread from the towel around my finger. “A less intelligent person with your disorder would simply be insane. They’d have been locked up long ago with the rest of the criminally insane. But you…your IQ distorts the madness, Grayson. It may feel like brilliance, even mimic it, but it’s still madness.”
His head tilts slightly, bringing him even closer. “One man’s madness is another’s genius. Is that what you’re saying?”
My shoulders tense, his nearness unnerving. “You buried me,” I say, the accusation clear in my raspy voice. “Where is your genius in that?”
“Patience, love. You’ll realize it soon enough.” He lowers his head and inhales deeply, breathing in my skin. The pulse of his breaths against my shoulder vibrates along my body like a current, humming with a warning.
Grayson pulls away, putting a small space between us. Then, reaching for the white candle, he slowly swipes a finger through the flame. “Touching you is like daring the fire to burn me.”
He taunts the fire, deliberately toying with the wick until the flame is almost snuffed out. Then he moves in. His hands slide along the counter, eating the distance separating us. His thumbs make contact—the slightest touch to my thighs, but I feel the impact rock through me.
“You’ve always been too
tempting,” he says. “Alluring, seductive…making me question myself. Seduction is one of your sins, did you know that? Are you aware of your power?”
I lick my lips, completely aware of the way he’s watching my mouth. This is a complicated matter, though; how far to push him without going too far, without pushing him over the edge. It could just as easily backfire.
I’m willing to take that risk.
“I’ve never felt weak until you happened,” he says, inching my towel up my thighs. “That can drive a man crazy. The want. The need. Craving what you know is bad for you.”
I stop resisting and let his hips push my knees apart. “I’m just as guilty,” I admit. “Of desiring that bad thing, of wanting you.”
His hand travels eagerly up my back, then he pushes his fingers into my damp hair. Restraint unleashed, he fists my hair and tugs, exposing my neck. I close my eyes against the feel of his mouth touching down, his lips and tongue coaxing me to give in as he kisses a blistering trail over the juncture of my neck and shoulder.
He pauses when he reaches my ear. “You are the bad thing.”
My eyes open. Arousal forgotten, I pull back and stare into his pale gaze. “I’m tired of this game, Grayson.”
“Then stop playing and show me you.” His hold in my hair tightens as he grips my upper thigh with his other, forcing me against him.
The abrasive rub of his jeans between my legs makes me gasp, and I thrust my hands out. I plant my palms on his chest, keeping a span of air between us. “Let me go—” His mouth captures mine in a ruthless kiss, swallowing my plea.
I push at his chest, hating that I notice the strain in his muscles, the way my body responds to the hardness pressing against my inner thigh. His fingers dig into the flesh of my backside, pulling me harder to him, my struggle only fueling the fire.
My nails find purchase in his skin, and I claw for freedom, the same way I clawed the box. He absorbs the attack as if he’s feeding on the pain. I locate the bandage on his shoulder and nail the wound with my fist. His guttural roar fills the cavern of my mouth before he breaks away, breaths heavy.
“I want out,” I demand. “I want out of this sick game.”
He takes my hand and flattens it to his chest, covering the scratches beading with red. “You’re here—right here—because you chose to be. This is where you belong.”
“I didn’t choose to be your captive…your victim.”
“What did you want to be, then? My love slave? My clandestine lover? Fucking like animals between inmate visitations?” His laugh is hollow. “I hardly think that would be good enough for the respectable Dr. Noble. Or maybe it’s the other way around. You thought I’d be your dirty secret. Your pet. Take me out when you want to play, then lock me back up when you’re through.” He moves in closer, thrusting his erection hard against my seam. “Tell me. What did you think this was about?”
I hate him—I hate the way his words fracture my mind. The way his touch sears my flesh. I hate the way my body arches toward him against my will, the ache deep within my core a pulsing heat that demands to be sated.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“You hate everything but me.”
“Stop fucking with my head—” My hands become fists that beat at his chest. Blind punches land anywhere I can strike.
Grayson groans and pulls me off the counter. His strong arms haul me forward, then I’m against the wall. My back makes contact as his body pins me, his hands trapping mine above my head. My lungs fight for oxygen.
“Is this your attempt at mastering your passions?” he says against my lips. “Let’s see how mastered you are.”
Keeping my wrists locked together, Grayson frees one of his hands. He slides it down my arm until he reaches the towel. With a quick tug, my only barrier from him drops to the floor.
I’m more than naked; I’m bared. Exposed. Vulnerable.
His skin touching mine, the heat of his body, our raw desire…it’s real. And it’s decimating. The air around us is charged with an alarming current that threatens to combust all the molecules in the room.
His knee wedges my legs apart, and my body doesn’t fight. The ache intensifies at the feel of his hand finding me instantly. I quake under his touch and arch off the wall, my breasts seeking contact with his rough skin.
“Deny it,” he whispers as he expertly slips his fingers between my thighs. “Utter one claim that this isn’t what you want, and I’ll stop.”
But he knows the truth of me already. He can feel how wet I am as his fingers slide over my clit, hear my yearning in the breathless moans I try to hold back.
“Tell me you want this—say it. Tell me you want us.”
I bite my lip, refusing to give in completely. “I can want physical satisfaction,” I finally say when my body peaks. “That’s not a shattering revelation. It means nothing.”
The sound of his zipper lowering sends a thrill coursing through my veins. Want is a dangerous emotion. When it’s strong enough, all other emotions fade into the background. I want Grayson, and my loathing isn’t present enough to stop me.
His hand moves against my pelvis as he takes himself out. The silky smooth touch of his cock along my stomach speeds my pulse, my heart knocks painfully against my chest wall.
“You’re so strong, London. So damn strong and stubborn.” I can feel him stroking himself, and my eyes flutter closed. The ache builds into a sharp throb between my legs. “I love everything about you—even your sickness. It turns me on and drives me mad. The bad things you’ve done. I should despise what you are, but you caught me in your web, and I’m begging you to bleed me dry, that’s how twisted you got me.”
I gasp for air, my skin scorched everywhere he touches.
I open my eyes, and there in the vanity mirror I glimpse the tattoo between his shoulder blades. The inked keyhole is dark and fresh, hand drawn. Inside the shading are numbers and formulas—an equation I can’t make out, but I know it’s important. What does it mean?
“Look at me.”
I do. I stare right into him, taking in the heated look I see in his pale blues. How his arms flex with his sure movements as he continues to stroke himself. I can’t fight the need any longer. “Fuck me.”
A smile notches the corner of his mouth up. The way his features shift, so subtle, so knowing, I shiver. He leans in, pushing his body fully against mine. “Say it again,” he whispers in my ear.
I swallow my erratic heartbeat. “Fuck me.”
He bites down on my shoulder, eliciting a cry from me, as he slips his cock between my slick lips—teasing, but not entering. He pulls back just as quickly and jerks his cock with fast and hard strokes. His movements painful to my neediest part. His groan travels the length of my body, then I feel warmth coating my stomach.
He releases me then. My arms fall to my sides, my muscles weak, my body yearning for fulfillment from denied gratification. My belly is cold from his semen, and I pant at the sight of his cock pulsing after release.
Grayson says nothing as he bends and picks up the towel. He tosses it at me.
I barely catch it and fumble to cover myself. Reality sinks in. “You used me.”
He pulls his jeans up and zips them before he steps close. “Now we’re even.”
I push him away from me, my body a fit of pent-up frustration. “If we’re keeping score, then you have another one coming. Six feet under.”
His lips graze my jaw, and I’m too depleted to push him away again. “I really do love you dirty mouth. But you should work a little harder on mastering your passions.”
I watch him leave the room with a scowl. I clean myself off and blow one of the candles out, my shame too noticeable even in the dim light. I want to snuff out the world so I can hide in the shadows.
I’m only given a moment before I hear a rattling. My senses go on alert, and I scramble toward the door, but Grayson steps into my path. He grabs me around the waist and fastens the handcuffs to my bandaged wrists.
The darkness is everywhere. Grayson’s house devoid of light. It follows me as he drags me to a black room.
24
Cell
Grayson
To break a person of their will, you have to break their hold on life itself. London knows this all too well. She employs this very tactic with her patients. Gradually stripping them of all hope.
Hope.
It’s hope that gives a person the strength to fight, to persevere, to overcome. To live. Take their hope away, and you’re left with a perfectly pliable, shell of a person to mold and shape. I don’t have to agree with the psychology of it to appreciate the process, the structure. It’s brilliant.
You could say it appeals to the welder in me, and the puzzler. I enjoy the building part more than the tearing down, and that’s why London and I are a perfect match.
Together, we’re complete. We’re whole.
All these years, I’ve been missing an important aspect of the process. Torture isn’t enough. Physical pain isn’t enough. It’s the psychological element—the total mental destruction—that breaks a person. Like a twig, when the mind is bent to the snapping point, the slightest outside pressure will break it clean through.
I admit this is a recent revelation. I’m prone to stick with what I know, the tried and true methods of my craft. In her presence, I’m lacking. But I hope she’ll come to appreciate my methods just as I admire hers.
I turn the key, locking the cell door, then pocket my key ring. London is curled into a ball in the middle of the room, looking beaten, defeated. But I know better. She’s dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of my sweats. She’s disheveled and beautiful.
I didn’t build this dungeon for her—I built it with the idea that one day it would serve a purpose. Which proves how fortuitous we are. A twisted design by fate itself.
It’s perfect.
“Did your father have a light?” I ask her. I relight the candle that went out during our struggle to put her in the cage.
“Did you make this cell for me?” she counters. “How long have you been planning to take me?”
