Born, Madly_Darkly, Madly Duet [Book Two]

by Trisha Wolfe

  “That’s because there isn’t one,” he says. “She’s still alive.”

  A cold dread whispers over my skin. “Okay. Thank you,” I manage, then hang up the receiver.

  Before I lose my nerve, I cross my office and unlock the filing cabinet where I keep confidential patient folders not stored on my computer. I pull out Grayson’s file and bring it to the desk.

  Having a computer do the search would be easier, but not wise. Technically, the transcribed sessions in the folder are off the record. I had shut the camera off—but I left the audio recording. I’m unethical. I’ve established that. I scroll down the dates, seeking one session in particular.

  My mother liked to watch. But we’re not talking about that. You’re not ready.

  A statement Grayson made when I questioned him about his mother. But which mother was he referencing? His birth mother, or the woman who held him prisoner?

  As I read through the report, making comparisons to Grayson’s sessions, I come away with a terrible conclusion. All the children were sold to the couple by relatives.

  Grayson was not kidnapped by his abductors. Someone sold him to them.

  The only likely suspect would be his own mother.

  A sinking feeling pulls at my stomach.

  He murdered his blood relatives to escape a hell that no child should suffer. And yet, he didn’t return to his mother once he was free. He fled Ireland, leaving her alive. She didn’t undergo his vengeance.

  Why?

  I print out the report, highlighting and sectioning off the areas of interest for further research, and then tack the new material to my private corkboard embedded beneath my Dali painting. Grayson studied me for nearly a year before our official introduction. It’s only fair that I gather insight into his past, as well.

  There’s a reason why he refuses to give me answers.

  I want it.

  For more than just my own curiosity. It’s keeping the status quo.

  Grayson set me free, and liberated me of my past at the same time. I’m unsure if he believes I’m able to do the same for him…or whether or not he’s decided I already have.

  His compulsions haven’t changed. How he channels them has changed. His disorder has progressed into one of a team dynamic, and that takes trust. Something that was stripped away from him at an early age. By the person who he should’ve been able to trust the most in his world.

  His own mother sold him into hell.

  I replace the painting along the wall, then unlock the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. Tapes of my patient sessions are organized by name, year/date, and diagnosis.

  When I first arrived home after the excavation of my father’s victims, my office was my immediate destination. To this drawer. To where the videos of my deceased patients awaited confirmation of my malpractice.

  I plugged in the video of my last session with Thom Mercer and waited, breath bated, for what I knew was about to unfold. The alternate memories I created had been eradicated while I was caged in Grayson’s cell. But that wasn’t enough. I had to see it with my own eyes. Hear it with my ears. Experience the sessions—this time—with no hindrance of a deluded state.

  Some kind of morbid awakening, I suppose.

  Only the evidence—the only tangible proof of my misconduct—had been erased.

  The tapes were blank.

  At the time, I reasoned I did so myself, a form of counter forensics—a measure taken to protect myself. I still had holes in my memory. Gaps. Not everything recovered. It made sense that I would hide the evidence of my crime even from myself.

  I check the tapes once a week. Just to be sure. It’s a frightening thing not to trust your own mind.

  Static flickers over the TV screen.

  I eject the tape and return it to the filing cabinet, the pressure at my temples easing, but only marginally. There’s still a record in existence.

  Trust.

  Grayson has a recording of my confession. It’s captured under duress, and it’s unlikely authorities would consider it authentic. It could’ve been enhanced, manipulated. My lawyer could work up a strong defense. And yet, just the existence of that confession disturbs me.

  Every serial killer partnership suffered one common flaw: complacency. One or both became too secure in the relationship. This security wasn’t established with trust; it was established through power.

  One dominated the other. Their trust exploited.

  It always comes down to power and control.

  Grayson having something over me places him in a position of power—and I’m not reluctant to admit I’m struggling with the trust part of our relationship.

  Lydia would never belong in a relationship such as this.

  I press my palms to the cool surface of my desk, letting the temperature bleed from my body. My hand imprints mark the wood when I move away. It’s been an exhausting week.

  I lock up my desk, making sure everything is secure, before I start out.

  A sound startles me as I near the door, and I stop. My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space. Then the door opens.

  11

  Where I Want You

  Grayson

  The expression on her face is worth the risk. I step into London’s office and quietly shut the door behind me. The muted click echoes around us, sealing us inside. “Hi, doc.”

  Her fists unclench. “Jesus, Grayson. What are you doing here? Are you—?”

  “Crazy?” I supply.

  She drops her purse on the desk. “I’m being watched. Your actions are reckless. If you were my patient—”

  “I still am—”

  “—I would suggest you were devolving. Becoming unbalanced. And yes, maybe a touch crazy.” She bites her bottom lip. “And you are not my patient.”

  “What am I, then?” I cross the room, coming up close enough to smell her lilac body lotion. The lavender notes in her hair.

  She visibly shivers as she looks up at me. “Dangerous.”

  Her hair is down, falling in a loose tumble over her shoulders. The way I love it; like she knew I was coming. I push the strands behind her ear, leaning in to whisper, “And you’re a paradox.”

  A current snaps between us, and she physically reacts to my nearness, my touch. The air is electrified. I feel the hitch in her breath as it pulses across my skin. Slowly, I remove her glasses and lay them on the desk, revealing her eyes.

  “Besides,” I say as I step back, taking her hand in mine. “By all accounts, this is the safest place to be.” I lead her to the adjourning hall, and she allows me. I swipe a finger along the fish tank, giving her a wink. “Good memories.”

  Before she can react, I push her up against the glass, grip her waist. The rooms are dark, but she’s lit by the glow of the tank. I draw close to her mouth, watching the way her face twists as if she’s in pain. That same fiery ache scorches my body. Just the threat of touching her skin burns.

  The best kind of anticipation.

  “A paradox isn’t exactly a compliment,” she says, her voice a low rasp.

  Mouth hovering near hers, I find her gaze. “It is if one enjoys puzzles.” I brush my lips across hers, the softest tease. “You’re my favorite puzzle, London.”

  Her hands seek my arms, nails digging into the material of my shirt. As if she’s just as desperate for the fire to singe her. “This isn’t a game.”

  I slide my hands up her slim waist, grazing the sides of her breasts, until I reach her neck, where I fasten my fingers to her nape and tip her head back, thumbs imprinting her jawline. She’s such a perfect fit.

  “Sometimes I forget you like your patients easy to control,” I say. “I suppose that goes for your men, too.”

  Heat flushes her face. “Thrill-seeking behavior isn’t like you. It will get you caught.” Her eyes flare. “Again.”

  My mouth curls into a smile. “How do you know that I didn’t get caught on purpose last time?”

  Her gaze flicks over my face as she tries to
decipher the truth. “Did you?”

  I shake my head slowly. “I’ve been off the clock for a long time, doc.”

  “Grayson—” She attempts to push me away, but it’s halfhearted. “The FBI can show up here at any time. I’m not safe.”

  I stare down at her strained features. She’s serious. She’s afraid for me. With a tender touch, I caress her cheek. “Then let’s give them a show.”

  Defiance sparks in her eyes. Dr. London doesn’t back down from a dare.

  “I see you,” I whisper against her lips. “I could feel your pain from fucking miles away. I know what you need.” I capture her mouth, crushing our lips together. I drown out the world and its threats—the fear, the pain—with one kiss.

  She’s the only thing that makes the compulsions quiet. A still reed in my storm.

  London kisses me back with a hard demand that bruises my mouth. Pleasure courses my system, and I crave more. There’s no give; only take. We’re feeding off each other.

  I bracket her wrists to the glass, stealing her control. She hates and loves the loss of her willpower. The same way she hates to love me—but I’m her own sick compulsion, the need driving her actions in spite of her judgment.

  She bites into the kiss and draws blood. The action stirs my desire, pouring liquid fire into my veins. Pain and pleasure receptors fight for dominance. Seeking air, she turns away to break the kiss.

  “Stop,” she says with a pant. “You have to go.”

  Anger ignites in a flash, searing as hot as my want for her. “Is this London talking or Lydia?”

  Her heated gaze matches my fire, but her body planks, hard as ice. She wrenches her wrists free and shoves me aside. Agony is the loss of her touch.

  She enters the dark therapy room, crosses her arms over her chest. “Where did you acquire the uniform?”

  Ironic. The good doctor using avoidance.

  I lean against the wall at the end of the gallery, tracking her movements as she switches on a lamp. “The guards leave them in their lockers overnight,” I say, and begin to unbutton the shirt. “Figured no one would question a security officer roaming the building.” I tug off the uniform shirt and toss it on the slender writing desk, then I untuck the white T-shirt from my slacks. “But that’s not what you’re asking.”

  She faces me, features cast in stern assessment. “Considering the last time you stole a uniform? No, it’s not. I want to know if anyone in my building was harmed.”

  “Are you truly concerned? Or are you worried about an investigation that could connect you?”

  She inhales a deep breath. “You know that would be unwise.”

  She’s right, of course. My behavior is borderline Neanderthal. I could whip my dick out and start marking my territory and it wouldn’t shock her. She’s assessing me right now, anticipating my next move.

  I start toward her. “I didn’t harm anyone.” That’s not a lie. Lawson is still alive and intact.

  She nods. “You have to find a way to alert me. Let me know…” She trails off with a huff of frustration. “It’s not fair that you know where I am at any given moment, and I have no idea where you are.”

  I stop short of reaching her. There it is, the root of her anger. It brings a crooked smile to my face. “Being on the run gets tedious. Makes for a dull romance.” I push the patient chair aside and kick the rug away, revealing the floor manacle. “Do you want me to take a seat? So you can dig around in my mind. Get your doctor rocks off.”

  She’s not amused. “I just want a head’s up, Grayson. I don’t like surprises.”

  I crane an eyebrow. “Like our agent friend gives you? He’s so well behaved, isn’t he?”

  I can almost feel her hackles raise. “You’re being hostile,” she accuses.

  “I’m bored, London. There’s a difference.” I sit in the chair. “I bet you have some extra chains and cuffs around here.”

  She moves closer. “You trust me that much? To shackle you…to take away your ability to escape?”

  “I trust your reasoning to do so, if it came to that.”

  The room grows quiet with the heavy pause. London runs her palms down her skirt, working out imaginary creases. “You’d pick the lock, regardless,” she says. “Where did you learn that talent, anyway?”

  I gift her a smile, avoiding her question just the same. “You felt more in control when I was locked up. Maybe that’s the spark that’s missing. Don’t you feel it lately? Like something is amiss?”

  “Are you jealous of Agent Nelson?” she asks outright, shifting the topic. No dancing around a matter when her professional mask is in place.

  “He’s a man obsessed,” I say. “I can’t be jealous. I empathize… No, that’s wrong. I pity him.”

  Nothing compares to the ecstasy I feel with London. If I’m being honest, this is a poor attempt to fill the well. Once you ascend so high, the plummet afterward leaves a gaping hole, the addiction that much harder to feed.

  I understand Nelson’s urges all too well. The driving need to see her…hear her voice…plot the moment they’ll meet. I really do pity him.

  The seething look London sends me ignites my skin.

  “His mind is probably a chew toy by now.” I rub my palms along the leather arms of the chair, enjoying the freedom I never experienced here before.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she says, drawing my attention up to her. “I’m not evaluating him.”

  My brows crease. “You’re such a fucking paradox.”

  “I’m not playing mind games with you, Grayson.”

  “And yet, you’re dying to know.”

  A battle of wills arcs between us. She yields first. “All right. Tell me why, then.”

  “Because of your desire to embrace Lydia.” I can be pointblank, too. “To be this better version that you believe was stolen away. Don’t deny it. You forget that I know you.”

  Her walls erect. She’s shielding Lydia from London’s world, which means hiding this part of herself from me.

  Dangerous.

  Her word. I pose a threat to this fragile part of her that she desperately wants to protect. The way she couldn’t protect her or her sister. Psychology is a nasty little twist.

  “I’m not embracing anything,” she finally says. “Lydia Prescott would not be here right now. She wouldn’t be with you. Clearly, I am.”

  I study her closely. How much of a threat does Lydia pose to us? “I think I could seduce Lydia,” I say.

  “How very cocky of you.” London shakes her head. “Is that a challenge?”

  “You know how much I enjoy a challenge.”

  She searches her suit pocket for her string. “I won’t let you turn this into a sordid game,” she says, wrapping the black thread around her finger.

  “It’s not a game to me.” I sit forward. “Who else are you going to confide in?”

  Something sparks in her eyes as she looks at me. “You want to…what? Analyze me? Work through my feelings?”

  I nod to the chair across from me. Her chair.

  She releases a lengthy breath. “You’re intelligent, Grayson. You’ve probably memorized every disorder in the book, but you’re hardly qualified.”

  “And you don’t trust me,” I clarify for her. “Not with your mind.”

  She shrugs. “One could argue it’s not so much distrust in you, rather than the fact that I manipulated my own patients, resulting in my distrust of everyone.”

  “That’s a start.” I nod again to her chair.

  “We don’t have time for this.” She rubs at her forehead.

  “If it’s affecting you, we make time.”

  Seconds pass where she considers her options, then she brings the chair up to the yellow line. I’m not shackled, nor am I a physical danger to her. She’s mentally distancing herself from me in her safe zone.

  “Tell me about Lydia.” It’s the easiest place to start.

  Her gaze settles on me. “Lydia would never betray her patients.”

&nb
sp; I smile slightly, urging her on.

  “Lydia would never forget her parents. She would never lie to the authorities, or aid and abet a criminal. Especially a killer.” A beat. “Lydia would never be aroused right now.”

  Her words bridge the expanse between us and grip me. I dig my fingers into the armrest, maintaining control. London is the master when it comes to psychological warfare. She knows how to distract me, but I’m not her doctor.

  I’m her conduit.

  “What would Lydia do?” I prompt.

  She huffs a derisive breath. “That, I don’t know.”

  “When thoughts of Lydia arise, how do you feel?”

  “Distanced. Outside myself. I believe I’m experiencing a mild form of depersonalization induced by high-anxiety.” She clings to the thread in her hand. “Some form of disassociation.”

  “How do you deal with anxiety?”

  Her breath stutters. “I immerse myself in work. In my patients.”

  “A distraction?”

  She shakes her head. “No…a form of therapy. A way to retain control.” Her string is wound so tightly around her finger the tip turns white.

  I scrutinize her, letting my gaze travel leisurely over her demurely crossed ankles, her legs, body. She’s tense; able to feel my perusal like an invasive touch. “Who feels more out of control?” I ask. “Lydia or London?”

  Her eyes meet mine. “Right now, Lydia. She wouldn’t open herself up like this.”

  “Not to me,” I complete her thought. I sit back, run my hand over my forearm, drawing her attention to the ink and scars. I even allow my accent to bleed through. “How do I make Lydia feel?”

  “Grayson…” She touches her forehead again to create a barrier. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Answer.”

  Her gaze locks on to mine. “If I never became the person I became, then I’d feel intimidated. Scared. Anxious. But more than anything…curious.”

  A smile slants my mouth. “I do make good girls curious. It’s the lure. That indefinable characteristic we both have. What attracts prey to predator.”

  Her breathing intensifies. “Lydia would only be prey to you.”

  “You’re not giving her enough credit. She’s stronger than you think. Spread your legs.”