Devour (Twisted Metamorphosis #1)

Prologue

One Year Ago

Quantico, VA

“Sullivan, let’s go!” my friend Evan Matthews called out from the other side of the open door to our dorm room.

“Coming!” I called back while quickly scanning my room, and mentally checking off my list of everything I needed to grab for today’s lecture, which I had previously taped to the wall by the front door.

Notebook, check.

Pens, check.

Phone, check.

Keys, check.

Dr. Lawson’s book, check.

Shower…

Wait, did I shower? I pulled my shirt away from my chest to take a quick sniff toward my armpits.

Fuck, I forgot deodorant. Rushing back into the bathroom, I shoved the deodorant stick down the neck of my unbuttoned polo shirt and applied it to both armpits.

Rushing out of the bathroom, I gathered up my things and ran my hand down the front of the book I had stacked on top: Forensic Psychiatry: In the Mind of a Villain written by Doctor Helena Lawson, our guest speaker today in the lecture hall.

“Fucking hell, Cam. You’re a mess.” Evan chuckled while he leaned on the wall outside our shared dorm, his hands in his pocket and his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Well, I can’t fucking help it, Evan. Trust me, I wish my brain had an off switch. Maybe I’d sleep more at night, and not need these… fucking sticky notes to remind me to fucking shower,” I groaned, ripping the note off the wall and crumbling it in my hand.

ADHD was so difficult to manage, but I hated the medication. I’ve tried pill after pill, therapy, acupuncture, deep meditation—nothing seemed to help. So, I relied on a bunch of chaotic sticky notes and alerts on my cell phone to remind me of my daily tasks.

Standing in the open doorway, I attempted to juggle my things while fumbling with my keys to lock the door behind me. Of course, everything fell out of my hands except my keys, scattering across the hallway floor. Pulling the door closed with a harsh slam, I quickly locked the deadbolt before tossing my head back exasperatedly.

“I stand by my previous claim. You’re a fucking mess, man,” Evan said while kneeling down to help me gather my notebooks and pens. “You need to get laid. How long has it been since Emily left, huh? A year? You’re twenty three, man! Live a little! Maybe it will help you chill the fuck out!”

“Coming from the real cocksman. Girls just throw themselves at your feet, begging for your lovin’, right?” I rolled my eyes as we stood together. He handed me half of my things and we fell in step next to each other, heading toward the exit of the dorms. I tossed my crumpled sticky note in a nearby trash can as we walked.

“I can’t help it when women have good taste. What can I say? I’ve got the lady-pleasing skills.” Evan adjusted his collar, so it was standing straight up and started to strut like he was on a runway.

“Fucking asshole,” I spat, trying to suppress a chuckle as he fixed his collar and slapped my back. I immediately flinched. Evan’s friendly slap landed on one of the scars my father gave me when I was thirteen; I shook off the waves of anxiety, not wanting to worry him.

I reveled in his feelings of self-righteousness, confidence, and arrogance, letting them wash over me as I walked in his presence. Empathy was always a big part of who I was. I'm quite literally able to truly see both sides of an argument and put myself in someone else's shoes. I have found out that with practice, I can truly become them in my mind, feel their emotions, and see through their eyes.

While this is a gift, it comes at a price. I have a hard time with eye contact. The eyes are doors, and whether you want them to, whether you're ready for them to, they always open.

Not that anyone would believe me—not here, not in the FBI Academy, anyway. But I wanted to make my way up to the Behavioral Unit where my skills could be used to help people.

“Alright Mr. Serious. What’s the big deal about the lecture today? We only have two weeks left until we graduate and get placed in our rookie positions. They should be giving us a break! What’s gotten you so excited about it?”

“Doctor Lawson is speaking today about profiling and how psychiatry helps catch serial killers,” I said, almost a little too excitedly.

“That’s right. You want the Behavioral Analysis Unit placement.”

“Yeah, plus, Doctor Lawson is an expert in the field. She’s helped the FBI capture over two hundred criminals with her process.”

“Uh huh. Sounds like puppy love to me,” Evan said, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe she’ll see you’re the FBI’s most eligible fuck buddy,” Evan laughed.

“Fuck you, asshole.” I shoved him playfully while he laughed out loud.

“Hey Cam! Evan! Wait up!”

“Hey Nance,” Evan said, draping an arm around Nancy Johnson’s shoulders. “We were just talking about Sullivan’s hot doctor crush.” Nancy’s eyes went wide with amusement.

“Oh? Do tell!” Her eager eyes met mine and Evan began telling her some made-up story about how I have the hots for a doctor who’s old enough to be my grandmother.

Fucking asshole. She’s not that old…

The lecture hall came into view and as we approached, Evan and Nancy were giggling at his outrageous story. I drowned them out as I remembered an interview I saw on the news with Doctor Lawson last week.

“So tell me, doctor,” the interviewer said, while flipping through his notepad.

“Please, Helena is fine,” Doctor Lawson purred, looking like a queen, even in the shitty chair in the news studio. Her ankles were crossed elegantly at the floor.

“So tell me, Helena, what makes forensic psychiatry so useful to law enforcement? What is your process?”

“The mind is a fascinating thing. Especially in those who are more neurodiverse or who have experienced severe trauma. Once we better understand how the brain works in serial criminals that show signs of any mental impairment, we can find and apprehend them more quickly and efficiently.”

The interviewer nodded, but I could tell he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Let me give you an example, Mr. Johns,” Helena said. “Say we have a serial robber, targeting banks and credit unions, and the police have been unable to locate the perpetrator. Especially if there doesn’t seem to be a pattern with the locations or types of banks they chose. It would be difficult, and a waste of the city’s resources to send police and search teams to blindly search or wait them out at various banks, when they don’t know what they’re dealing with, or who they’re dealing with.”

I couldn’t help but be completely enamored with her. She was so animated when she spoke; her hands were up to her chest and dancing in the air with each word she said. Their graceful, elegant movements were hypnotizing, and I wished I was the one interviewing her.

“So, walk me through your process. You had offered valuable assistance to the FBI in the apprehension of the Spring Harbor killer.”

“Well, that one had a difficult start. We had four deceased victims that were found at the bottom of the harbor with weights tied to their ankles.” Doctor Lawson’s eyes found the camera, and it was as if she was looking directly into my soul. I was completely spellbound, mesmerized by her piercing green eyes that radiated power and intelligence—

“Earth to Sullivan…?” Evan snapped his fingers in front of my face and I jumped, startled by the snap.

“Fuck man, sorry.” I shook my head, trying to forget the memory of her eyes haunting me. “Let’s get inside, the lecture is—”

I was interrupted by Doctor Helena Lawson herself, walking toward us and the lecture hall. She carried a large laptop bag with a strap slung onto one shoulder, and a large takeout cup of coffee. Her long, brown hair fell in delicate waves, framing her face, and her tight black pencil skirt accentuated her slim waist and luscious hips. She wore a sheer cream-colored blouse with a skintight tank top underneath, and her charcoal gray knee-length peacoat was unbuttoned, trailing behind her as she moved.

The click of her black high heels was like a metronome, timing the beats in which my heart was pumping. My body was on high alert, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I couldn’t help but lock my eyes on her, and as she approached the door to the lecture hall, she removed her aviator sunglasses with a delicate hand. She tucked them in the inside chest pocket of her coat and her intense eyes found mine, scanning me with a smirk forming in the corner of her mouth.

She looked at me…

“See, Nance? Puppy love at its finest.” Evan nudged me with an elbow as Doctor Lawson entered the lecture hall, peeling her eyes off of me.

“I see, I see…” Nancy pretended to jot down notes like she was studying me.

“Fuck you both.” I rolled my eyes and pushed open the doors to the lecture hall with them giggling behind me.

“Okay, let’s get Cam a seat up close so he can see the hot doctor and have new material for his alone time tonight.”

“Alright, Matthews. Let’s give the poor guy a break, huh?” Nancy smiled at me sympathetically and started side stepping down one of the aisles of seats toward the middle.

We settled in with two minutes to spare. Nancy was on my left and Evan was on my right, but was turned over his right shoulder and looking up at another female agent in training. She was giving him the look of love, resting her chin on her propped up arm.

Rolling my eyes again, I turned my attention to my notebook and Doctor Lawson’s book on the desk in front of me. A wave of anticipation consumed my body as I glued my eyes to the empty podium below.

A few moments later, Doctor Lawson emerged from the professor’s entrance and placed her bag on the desk next to the podium. As soon as she did, all the chatter in the lecture hall instantly ceased. Her presence commanding everyone’s attention with minimal effort was proof of her power. Something stirred inside me as she stood at the podium like a queen about to address her subjects. I wanted to kneel before her and devote my life to her, offer her every part of my broken soul to mold into whatever she wanted me to be.

“Good afternoon, new agents,” Doctor Lawson addressed the room as she shuffled a few papers on the podium. “My name is Doctor Helena Lawson. I am a board certified forensic psychiatrist and forensic pathologist. I’ve been invited here today by the FBI to discuss my process of profiling unsubs and to give you a look at my process. Let’s get into it, shall we?”

She reached into her bag for a glasses case and placed a pair of thin, black-rimmed glasses on her nose before tucking her hair behind her ear. My dick twitched in my pants as I imagined that silky brown hair wrapped around my fist while I—

“Profiling is a process in which we dive into an unsub, or unidentified subject’s, mind and mental state to help identify them and their motives.” Her words interrupted my thoughts, and I bit my lip, trying to ground myself to reality while scribbling notes in my notebook.

“The FBI’s process is made up of six main steps. While criminal profilers may have different ways of handling their investigations, they all follow these six main steps. I will read them out loud, but please see the main screen above me for the slide with the information.” She pressed a button on the handheld remote for the projector. “These will be very abbreviated, since we have limited time.”

I clicked the bottom of my pen a few times, ready to write on a new page of my notebook.

“Step one is profiling inputs. As profilers, we must gather as much information as we can relevant to the case. What happened? Were there any casualties? We need to gather reports from any responding officers, the medical examiner, witnesses, and all crime scene photos that were taken. As an example, I will share with you the crime scene photos from the Spring Harbor case.” She pressed a button on her remote, and a photo of the crime scene appeared on the overhead screens.

“Step two is constructing the decision process model of the unsub. In this step, we must have a comprehensive evaluation of the specifics of the homicide. Was the homicide a single killing? Serial? Was the unsub’s main motivation the homicide itself? Or was there something else driving them? Money? Sex? We also look deeper into the victims the unsub chose. Are they more of a high-risk victim like a sex worker or homeless person? Or were they low-risk like a married business man? It is also important to determine if the victim was murdered at the scene in which they were found, or if evidence points to them being killed elsewhere and brought to the scene. Evidence is key; even the smallest piece of trace evidence could solve a complex case.” Clicking her button again, the next slide appeared, showing images of evidence collected at the scene: bloody clothing, a knife, and one victim’s wallet.

“Step three is crime assessment, which is the most lengthy and tedious step of profiling. We evaluate the crime scene to determine if the unsub shows characteristics of being organized, disorganized, or a combination of both. This process is accomplished by evaluating everything about the crime scene and the victim.”

I couldn’t help but notice how her eyes scanned the room, as if she was analyzing everyone she was lecturing too.

What would she think when those stunning, green eyes find me amongst my peers?

“Was the victim’s body positioned a certain way for law enforcement to find? Was the victim sexually assaulted? Did the sexual acts happen antemortem? Postmortem? Are there signs of mutilation? Cannibalism?” Doctor Lawson clicked to the next slide, showing a photo of a severed limb with a chunk of skin missing as if bitten off, earning a few squeamish whispers and noises from the lecture hall.

“Gruesome, I know, but these details help differentiate and identify the unsub as organized or disorganized. This organized/disorganized dichotomy is a main component of how the FBI profiles its unsubs. Now, take care to pay special attention to this next subsection. This differentiation of characteristics is crucial,” Doctor Lawson said, her intense eyes scanning the room.

She stopped talking briefly to take a sip of water from a water bottle she had pulled from her bag. Her striking green eyes found mine as her crimson lips pursed to take a sip. I was left breathless, but managed to turn to a fresh page in my notebook with a shaky hand.

It's like her eyes can see me—see what I truly am…

“Organized unsubs are those that commit premeditated crimes. Their crime scenes and acts are carefully planned, with meticulous precision. Offenders at this level, according to the ‘organized’ classification, are typically more detached and withdrawn; more antisocial. These unsubs know right from wrong, but show little to no remorse for their actions. They are not considered ‘insane’ because they are highly likely to have higher than average intelligence. They are usually educated, skilled, charming, and seemingly upstanding members of society.” Doctor Lawson switched slides to show the Spring Harbor Killer.

“The Spring Harbor killer was a married man with two young children—a hard-working and skilled carpenter. He studied at the Art Institute of Virginia Beach, graduating with the highest GPA in his class.” She stopped to sip water again, and her eyes met mine as she subtly licked her lips, forcing me to shift in my seat to calm my growing hard-on.

“Organized killers will usually have three crime scenes: where the killer approaches the victim, where they murder the victim, and where they dispose of the body. They are masters of covering their tracks and are the hardest to capture. Ted Bundy is a prime example of an organized killer.”

“Now, disorganized killers…” Doctor Lawson continued her lecture, and my hand was flying across my paper, scribbling notes down. The information in her lecture wasn't new to me since I've read it in her book at least eight times. It was written in deep detail, but hearing it said out loud in her voice was like learning it for the first time again.

I kept replaying the moments her eyes met mine, as if she was looking for me. I probably looked crazy, staring at her in awe. The way one of her eyebrows peaked, and the grin that formed in the corner of her mouth completely shattered all control of my mind. I immediately wondered what her lips would feel like on mine, her hands—

“Uh… Sullivan?” Evan was standing next to me, nudging my shoulder. “You coming? She finished the lecture ten minutes ago.”

Fuck my fucking ADHD brain… Has it already ended? I thought she was in the middle of step three…

“Yeah,” I said, while fumbling to close my notebook, dropping my pens. “Fuck!” I jumped up, bending over to pick up my pens, and gathered up my notebook and Doctor Lawson’s book. I checked my watch, and I was in such a trance that I didn’t realize I missed a half hour of her lecture.

Filing out of the row behind Evan with Nancy behind me, I glanced toward the podium again, where Doctor Lawson was putting her notes from her lecture back inside her bag and writing something down in a notebook.

“Go talk to her. You have her book! It’s a conversation starter.” Nancy said softly behind me with a pat on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to Evan. You know he just responds with humor and taunts all the time like a frat boy.”

I chuckled and nervously looked at her book in my hands.

“Go. I’ll make sure Evan’s occupied.” She gave my arm a tender squeeze, and I stepped into the walkway so she could pass me. Looping her arm in Evan’s, she pulled him toward the exit, and I could hear her bring up the girl he was into. “You’ll never guess what Dana did last night…”

They walked away, and the rest of the room filed out to their next class or training. Trying to shake off my nerves, I made my way down the stairs toward the podium. Doctor Lawson was writing something down on what looked to be a business card when I approached her.

“I was waiting for you to come say something, rookie.” She continued writing, and I stood there, frozen. Not in fear, but I was completely in awe of her and I didn’t want some ADHD rant to fuck this up.

“I um… Hi, Doctor Lawson…” I shifted my notebook and her book to my other arm, mentally cursing myself for stuttering.

“Please, rookie, you don’t need to be so nervous. Although, I’m worried about how you’re managing your ADHD without medication, all while trying to get into the BAU,” she purred and looked up at me over her glasses with a grin.

Fuck me. Wait, how did she know…

“What’s your name?” She removed her glasses, gifting me with a raw, unfiltered view of her hypnotizing green eyes.

“S-Sullivan, Doctor. Camden Sullivan.”

“How about a little quid pro quo, Camden? I can see you have some questions for me,” she said as she leaned on the podium, her glasses hanging from her fingertips. “You tell me something about you, and I’ll answer whatever questions you have. What do you say?”

“What about me?” I asked hesitantly.

“Everything. So, what do you say?”