Chapter 20
CHEMISTRY
LONDON
Trekking through a muddy creek with a convicted killer on the run is not how I imagined my life would end.
And it will end—badly. There’s no other logical conclusion to this insanity.
Detective Foster probably already has me pegged as Grayson’s accomplice. When he discovers the gun Grayson discarded, he’ll determine that I helped Grayson escape, that I went with him willingly.
If I don’t end up dead, I’ll face prosecution for aiding and abetting a murderer.
I’m still trying to comprehend what made me take his hand.
I know he’s a killer. I know he’s a psychopath. I know that when he’s forced to confront his delusions, he’ll become even more unhinged, and I’ll likely become his next victim.
Yet, for just one moment, as I stared into the clear blue of his eyes, every warning vanished, and I craved that clarity for myself, the freedom to exist without shame or guilt.
He has answers.
In retrospect, as I experience my own bout of clarity—brought on by extremely sobering pain—I see how expertly he’s mastered his manipulation tactics. He was able to manipulate me for one simple reason:
He has my secret.
I’ve spent nearly my entire life running from my father’s deviant legacy. How could I let Grayson go, just vanish into the world, leaving me in a constant state of dread—the fear of when and how he’d expose my lies. Always looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to return for me.
He didn’t really give me a choice.
And I’d be lying if I claimed fear was my only motivation. The draw I felt to Grayson during our first session has influenced every choice I made since. I’m tethered so tightly to him, I can feel him in my veins, like poison in my blood. Drunk on him.
Fear and attraction. A toxic combination.
And yet, I’m a skilled manipulator, too. I’ve spent months getting inside Grayson’s psyche, studying his compulsions, learning what makes him tick. He’s highly intelligent and methodical, but he’s also vulnerable.
Grayson walks a little ahead, his broad shoulders tense. He glances back to ensure I’m keeping up.
“I can’t go on like this,” I say, my bare feet dragging, my heels long gone.
I’m not sure if I’m talking more about my emotional state or the fiery pain consuming my body. Both are wearing on me, and I drop to my knees.
Grayson kneels beside me and pulls my shoulder bag over my head. “You have meds in here?”
“I do, but they won’t help. I’m too far gone.” The only thing to help the pain at this point would be to knock me unconscious. It would be a welcome break from this reality, honestly.
I notice the blood staining his damp shirt as he rummages through my purse until he finds painkillers. He thumbs out two and feeds them to me, forcing my mouth open. “Chew them,” he orders.
I’m too drained to argue. I break each pill in half with my teeth and swallow the bitter chunks until the pills are dissolved. “You’re hurt,” I say, nodding to his shoulder.
He doesn’t acknowledge the wound. Instead, Grayson scoops me into his arms effortlessly, carrying me against his chest once again.
I’m too drained to argue this point also, and simply link my arms around his neck. “A lot of women end up with men like their fathers,” I say, my fingertips tracing his skin. “I admit, I used to judge some of my patients pretty harshly for that, but I guess I’m no different.”
He doesn’t remark as he wades through the shallow stream, just holds me securely against him, focused ahead.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” I ask.
“Yes,” he finally says. “There.”
I angle my neck to see a shopping complex that abuts the creek, a strip of multicolored townhomes renovated into boutique shops. “I don’t think we’ll get the best customer service. I’m sure our faces are plastered all over the news by now.”
He smirks down at me as he treks up the embankment. “Don’t worry,” he says. He releases a low groan as he sets me down. “Stay here.”
As if I could escape in my current state. Liquid fire singes my veins, threading every muscle. Nausea twists my stomach. Even so, I’m moments away from forcing myself upright when the rumble of an engine turning over cuts through the night.
Grayson is stealing a car. I hate the relief that washes over me. But I remind myself he’s not doing so for me—this is part of his plan, the only way he’ll escape the state within his calculated timeframe.
I let my eyes fall closed and count to ten.
I block out the pain, my reckless desire for Grayson, and force myself to focus on the aftermath. When we’re no longer running, what happens then? If I couldn’t walk away from him on a rooftop with the world closing in, how will I be strong enough to deny him anything?
In every dysfunctional relationship, there’s always one partner who’s codependent, who surrenders their control to the other. I need to decide right now who that will be: me or him.
“Let’s go.”
Grayson’s strong arms surround me, and I’m again swept up, being carried toward a destination only he knows. The passenger door of an outdated Ford Taurus hangs ajar, the engine idling. He places me inside, leaning over to buckle my seatbelt.
The chilly night envelops us, providing enough darkness to conceal our escape, and I relent to this sparse comfort. Right now, we’re alone, and I’m so tired of fighting...everything.
My eyes shut, and sleep pulls me under.
An intense spike of pain rouses me awake.
I try to reach for my back, but my arm catches. A prickling sensation bites into my hand and I groan, turning my head to find my wrists cuffed to the door handle.
Panic floods my system as I yank at the restraint.
For a brief moment, I fear we’ve been caught—until I realize Grayson is behind the wheel, driving.
As grogginess lifts and my head clears further, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s still night, headlights illuminating the grimy windshield.
“Why am I handcuffed?” I demand. “Where did you even get them?”
Keeping his gaze ahead, he says, “We’re almost there.”
I twist in the seat, trying to face him. “That’s not what I asked. Why am I restrained, and where is there?”
He glances my way and tugs at his belt—the officer’s belt he stole. Then he reaches between the console and grabs a bottled water. “Here, drink this.”
With a frustrated sigh, I jerk at the cuffs until my wrists are scraped and stinging.
Grayson looks over and cranes an eyebrow. “Finished?”
“Oh, fuck you,” I seethe.
He still holds the water outstretched, and suddenly thirst grips my throat. I wriggle my fingers, and he removes the cap, placing the bottle in my hand. I tip it to my mouth and guzzle. When I’m done, he sets the water in the cup holder.
“You said you’d release me at any point,” I say.
“I never said that.” He glances over, a smug smile pulling at his mouth. “I said I would release you afterward, and I will. But we have a lot to do first.”
“I’m not your hostage, Grayson.”
“No,” he says, his voice a rough tease, “you’re a hostile prisoner of your own making. Once you’ve freed yourself of that, you can go. But you have to pass your test first.”
My breathing shallows. The way he says test ices my blood. “I won’t run,” I say, trying to reason. “I made a choice to be here.”
“You’ll run,” he says. “Everyone runs from their truth.” His hand slides to my thigh, comforting, possessive. “I can’t let that happen, London.”
My mind spinning, I sink back into the seat, assessing my situation. My skin is sticky, itchy with dried sweat. I’m barefoot, my legs and feet covered with dusty mud. Pain pulses through my body, but it’s manageable. We’re in a stolen car.
I look and am behaving like a captive.
I’m a psychologist who needs to act like one and reason with her patient.
“How did you get the car, Grayson?” I ask him.
“Luck,” he says evasively. At my impatient glare, he releases a strained breath. “Newer models are designed to prevent theft. Just needed to find an older model to hotwire.”
For all I’ve learned of his psyche, I realize I know very little of the man. “Is that a trade you picked up from your childhood, from your stepfather?”
His smile is knowing. “Not every confined space belongs to you, doctor. You can stop trying to shrink me.” He looks over at me, his hold on my thigh gripping tight. “You were never the one in control.”
Heat rushes to my face, humiliated, anger singeing my nerves over the fact that he’s right. “How long have you been planning this?”
He releases me to grip the wheel with both hands. “At first, I accepted my outcome. I believe you call it the cool-down period. But then you requested an interview.”
“So this is all my fault.”
“No,” he says, his tone low, measured. “There’s no fault. That’s like blaming the sky for being blue. The sky doesn’t determine its color—it’s the sun and atmosphere, external influences scattering molecules to create an illusion.”
His gaze finds mine, intense. “We’re no different. Just molecules and impulses, light and dark playing fucking god with our identities.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if it was nurture or nature that influenced us, but like recognizes like, London.”
“Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re twisting things, using decades of psychological debate to serve your own purpose, Grayson.”
“Hmm,” he hums, smoothly turning the wheel. “Maybe, but the sky doesn’t feel bad about being blue. It just accepts it as fact.” He glances over and winks.
We’re silent for a while, until he suddenly asks, “How many patients have you tried to rehabilitate?”
I stare off into the dark, ignoring the throb in my wrists, watching headlights flash across the grimy windshield. “Too many,” I admit.
“You chose me that day in the waiting room not because you believed that, just maybe, I was the answer to whether rehabilitation was possible. You chose me because I was proof it’s not.”
I shake my head again. “No.”
“Yes, London,” he says slowly, letting his words sink in.
“I couldn’t have orchestrated all this without you.
I’m good—damn good, I admit—but this was a complex strategy, over a long period of time.
It required every piece to fall perfectly into place.
” He looks over, a taunting gleam in his eyes. “You enabled us.”
On some level, he’s right. Grayson is a master manipulator, adept at identifying my weaknesses and exploiting them. Which he did remarkably well to achieve his desired outcome. And I’m the arrogant psychologist who believed I could control a volatile relationship with her patient.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” I whisper, almost to myself.
“You didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, “but it’s what you need. You’ve been screaming into a void, demanding the truth, and the void gave you the answer. Just accept it.”
“You are absolutely psychotic,” I say.
We exit the highway, and after a few miles, the car bumps down a dirt road. Anxiety knots my stomach, and I start to tug uselessly at the cuffs. Too soon, we’re turning into a darkened driveway.
He puts the car into Park, kills the engine. “We’re here.”
I duck my head to see past the visor. Tall, dense trees surround us. Amid the secluded, wooded scenery, a large contemporary-style home rises up against the night sky.
If he brought me to a house, it means no one knows it exists. Most of my patients had hidden places. A cabin, a trailer, a storage unit—some secret location where they took their victims.
Dread constricts my chest as the reality of my situation sinks in.
Grayson brought me to his kill spot.
Panic steals my breath as he digs into his pocket and produces a set of keys.
He then leans closer, voice dropping to a low, rough cadence.
“I already gave you the answer to your question before,” he says.
“During one of our sessions, I told you how much I enjoy puzzles, how satisfying it is to fit the pieces together.” He brushes my tangled hair behind my ear, and I suppress a shiver, forcing myself not to recoil.
“You were a puzzle, London. I couldn’t not put the pieces together. You’re the key.”
My heart rate climbs. “The key to what?”
He doesn’t respond, just calmly reaches for my hands to unlock the cuffs.
“The key to what, Grayson?” I demand, panic fully gripping me now. “God, do you know how insane you sound? Before the trial, I would’ve never diagnosed you as delusional. But now you’re making me question my own judgment as a psychologist.”
He grips my wrists, holding them bound together.
The pressure pulses against my skin as he kills the slight distance between us.
“You forget I’ve tasted you,” he says, his words a heated brand across my lips.
“I’ve been inside you. Felt your desperation and longing.
The pain you carry isn’t physical. You’re begging for the punishment you know your deserve, but never got. ”
I blink hard, my heart clenching painfully. “You fucking tricked me,” I accuse, anger thrashing wild inside my chest. “Making me believe you had answers…that you actually care for me.”
He touches my cheek reverently. “I do care,” he says, his features tense, almost pained. “Do you know how difficult it is to watch the woman you care so fucking much for suffer, to live in agony, knowing the only way to help her is to break her.”
Fear compresses the space between us, crushing the air from my lungs.
His gaze darkens, voice lowering to a harsh whisper. “Fuck, London. I’m the only one strong enough to do this for you. That’s how much I care, baby.”
My entire body trembles as I press into him, desperate. “Grayson, please…”
He starts to pull away, and panic rips through me. “No—wait, please. Let me leave. Right now, Grayson. Please, let me go.”
He pauses, releasing a strained breath as he collars my throat. “You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers before his lips brush mine softly.
He kisses me, tentative at first, then deepening. My resistance dissolves as I pour my conflicted emotions into the kiss, desperately pleading with each urgent movement.
When he breaks away, my breath shudders. “Please,” I whisper on a broken plea. “Release me.”
His tongue coasts across his lips, his gaze dragging over me. “Not happening, doc. You’ve been a very, very bad girl.”
He hauls me across the console. My bare feet kick at the door as I struggle against him, my screams tearing into the night.