No.
I spent most of my life believing I was slightly above average. Symmetrical enough. Forgettable enough. The only thing I was ever truly blessed with was a big brain.
But after Valerio, I swear I feel like a different woman. A woman who gave a psychopath a show and didn’t let him leave a single mark on her skin.
I feel powerful.
It’s a sick, dizzying kind of vanity—like I’m the only woman on earth capable of making a man who hates touch want to crawl out of his own skin just to get to me.
With him, I feel wanted. Sought after. Needed.
The sensation makes me fuzzy.
His eyes are on me twenty-four seven. A burn at the back of my neck while I work. Even in the shower, the steam clinging to my skin feels like his breath. I know he’s there, watching.
But I’ve let the line blur until it no longer exists. I need to be the doctor again. I need to try to fix him before he finishes ruining me.
When he walks into my office on Tuesday, he looks wrecked. The shadows under his eyes are darker, carved deeper into his face. He stops in front of my desk. Without a word, he reaches for his left hand and peels the leather glove off, dropping the black skin onto my desk.
Then he offers me his bare hand.
I freeze.
After a moment that feels too long, I finally reach out and slide my palm against his. The contact is jarring—our auras bleeding into one another, two voids collapsing into a single black hole.
When I pull back, my heart is tingling.
I sit, gripping the pen until my knuckles go white. “Let’s work, Valerio.”
“No.”
“That’s not how this works. You’re here for help.”
“I’ll answer your questions on one condition,” he rasps. “An exchange. A truth for a dare. I answer—you do what I ask, Doc.”
I should end it. But the scavenger in me wants more.
“Fine,” I say. “Why did you kill Sarah?”
“She deserved it for hurting you.” His eyes don’t leave my face. “Now take your panties off. Give them to me.”
The dare is blunt. And hot.
I reach beneath my skirt, sliding the lace down my legs.
I step out of them and hold the scrap of fabric out.
He takes them with his gloved hand. Never looking away, he lifts the lace to his face and inhales.
A low moan slips from his throat as he drags the fabric over his cheeks, his jaw—like a man finding oxygen after drowning.
He looks unhinged.
It makes me wet.
The man who recoils from skin touching his own… is rubbing my arousal over his face like it’s holy water.
“Next question,” I say, desperate to regain control. “What was the first thing you killed?”
“A rat. In the cellar.” His eyes are glassy, the lace still pressed to his nose. “Next.”
“The gloves,” I push. “Is it really about filth—or are you afraid you’ll feel what your mother felt when your father touched her?”
He flinches like I struck him.
“Both. Your turn. Unbutton your blouse. All of them.”
I obey. One by one. His pupils dart wildly, like he can’t decide where to look.
“Why me, Valerio?” I ask. “Out of everyone you could have stalked—why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who ever interested me. Push your bra down. Now.”
I shiver as I lower the cups beneath my breasts. The office feels obscene, wrong, charged.
I take advantage of his trance, pressing where I know it hurts. “The first time you felt like your father—”
“Stop.” His voice breaks.
I should’ve realized he was pushing himself too far. He clutches his chest. His skin turns a sick, translucent gray. He gasps, clawing at his throat as he collapses into the chair, eyes rolling back.
The Morelli monster is breaking apart in front of me.
The doctor finally wakes up—but she’s soaked in blood and lace.
I rush around the desk, gripping his shoulders.
“Valerio! Breathe. Look at me!”
I drop to my knees between his legs, cupping his face. Doing this bare, exposed, feels like a fever dream. He isn’t in my office anymore. He’s back in the dark cellar. I try grounding him. Nothing fucking works.
Desperate, I do the only thing I have left.
I kiss him.
For a single, suspended second, he goes perfectly still. Then he explodes.
He doesn’t kiss me back—he consumes me. His arms lock around me like iron, slamming my body against his. One hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head back. The other crushes into my lower back. His tongue is everywhere, but with no finesse or tenderness. Just hunger.
I’m trapped between his thighs. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He breaks away just enough for our foreheads to touch. His grip is bruising.
“You,” he rasps, breath scorching my lips. “What did you do?”
“I brought you back,” I whisper.