Untitled Chapter
The silence in my apartment is too loud.
I’m pacing the length of my living room, the hardwood cold under my bare feet. Every few minutes, I find myself drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, peeking at the balcony. I’m looking for him. I’m looking for the man who spent the last few weeks making me feel like a hunted animal.
Nothing.
I bite my lip, the skin still feeling swollen from the afternoon. I pushed him too hard.
I need to know if he’s okay. A phone call won’t do it, even if I had his number—which I don’t. I need to see that the cellar inside his mind didn’t swallow him whole.
I grab my phone. My thumb hovers over Lucian Morelli’s contact. It’s nearly eleven. Calling a man like Lucian at this hour is usually a death wish, but I’m desperate.
The phone pings three times before the line clicks open.
“Doctor Charlotte,” Lucian greets. In the background, I hear a soft laugh and the rustle of sheets. His wife.
It’s jarring—the eldest Morelli being capable of such terrifying kind of devotion.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. The edge is back in his tone, the family man receding, the boss stepping forward.
“I’m sorry for the late hour, Mr. Morelli. I’m calling about Valerio. Our session today… it was high-intensity. I’m concerned about his mental state.”
I count my heartbeats until he answers.
“Explain,” Lucian orders.
“He had a panic attack. A severe one. I’d like to check on him, but I don’t have his home address or number.”
I cross my fingers that he won’t tell me to mind my business and stay in my lane.
“I would usually say no,” Lucian sighs. “But the change in him these last few weeks… it’s been remarkable, Charlotte. He’s been focused. Efficient. He’s doing the work we ask and nothing more. No extra bodies. I didn’t think he would benefit this much.”
My brows furrow. I honestly had no idea how he was doing outside the office, but I never would have guessed this much improvement—not until at least a few more sessions.
I don’t tell Lucian that Valerio probably isn’t going on killing sprees because he’s busy stalking me.
“I’ll send you the location and his number,” Lucian continues. “But Charlotte? If he’s in one of his moods… don’t try to be a hero. Just leave.”
The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, a pin drops on my map.
I move to the bedroom, pulling a drawer open. Black lace. It’s thin, expensive, and completely inappropriate for a house call. I hate myself as I slide it on.
I throw on a heavy coat and boots, grab my keys, and pull out into the night. The city lights blur into long white streaks. I’m driving toward a man who might kill me for showing up uninvited, and all I can think about is the way his bare hand felt against mine.
I’m sick.
When I arrive, I stand awkwardly in the lobby, shifting my weight on my feet.
“Doctor Charlotte for Valerio Morelli,” I tell the concierge.
He taps a screen, the blue light washing over his face. What if he says no? What if he’s pissed at me for showing up?
After a year of silence, the man nods toward the elevators. “Penthouse. He’s waiting for you.”
The ride up is silent. My stomach drops as the numbers climb. When the doors slide open, I take in the huge, luxurious apartment. It feels empty. Nothing like a home.
Valerio is standing by a black stone bar. He’s wearing grey sweatpants. That’s it.
I’ve spent weeks analyzing him in three-piece suits. He’s lean, his muscles corded and hard, biceps heavy. And his hands are bare. I’ve never seen both of his hands without gloves. They’re large.
He doesn’t greet me or even look surprised.
“Whiskey?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I take the glass he offers. My fingers brush his for a fraction of a second, and the air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I sit on the far end of the sofa.
“I came to check on you. After the session… I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay,” he grunts. He’s staring at the city, his bare hand rasping against the dark stubble of his jaw.
“I’m sorry for pushing you.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t you. It’s not you that pushed me too far, Charlotte. It’s my stupid urge to see a sliver of your cunt that did.”
I nearly choke at the crudeness of his words. The whiskey sears my throat.
“Why do you think your urges suddenly rose up?” I ask. Professionalism is a joke when I’m wearing lace underwire and staring at a killer’s bare chest.
He shrugs. “The noise stopped. You’re the only thing that’s been loud enough to drown out the rest.”
A question burns in my throat. It’s not my place to ask. It’s nothing but pure jealousy. I don’t care. “Am I the only one you feel those urges toward?”
“Only you,” he spits. He sounds like he hates the words as they leave his mouth.
I sag into the leather. It’s a win. A dark, pathetic win. This man isn’t capable of love, but a small part of me hopes that maybe he is.
“Do you want to feel touch? Real touch, Valerio?”
He scowls, looking at me like I’ve asked him to speak in tongues.
“I want to touch you,” I confess, trying to voice the request in a way that doesn’t trigger him. “Key word is want. You aren’t forcing anything. I’m consenting. I want to give you this. I promise I showered. I know the filth is a trigger, but—”
“That’s the issue,” he snaps. “I hate the thought of anyone touching me. I see them as filthy, leaking, disgusting things. But I’d let you piss in my mouth, and I don’t know why.”
I try not to show how much I like that and wait patiently for his answer. He gives a stiff, jerky nod that makes my heart soar.
I slide across the sofa. I don’t stop until my thigh is inches from his. I reach out, waiting for him to flinch. He doesn’t—but he does go rigid.
I wrap my fingers around his bare hand.
Valerio lets out a sound that isn’t a breath—it’s a broken, animal hitch in his chest.
I move my hand up his arm, my thumb tracing his bicep. He’s shaking. His nervous system is being overloaded for the first time in its existence. He closes his eyes, his head falling back.
“Charlotte,” he whispers.
I move my hand to his shoulder, my nails lightly dragging over the skin. He winces, then leans into it. His grey sweatpants tent at his groin as he processes the sensation.
He’s a psychopath. He’s a monster. But under my hand, he’s just a man who has been cold for three decades.
And I’m the only thing in the world that’s warm.