4. Axel
4
AXEL
T he guards’ footsteps echo down the corridor, their boots squeaking against the polished floor. Another day, another shrink to break. Pretty sure Dr. Lanson quit because she was so freaked out when I detailed exactly how I’d like to murder her with a chainsaw, slowly hacking off each of her limbs. I flex my wrists against the cold metal of the handcuffs, savoring the bite of steel against my skin.
“Morrison, behave yourself with the new doctor.” Officer Rodriguez tightens his grip on my arm. “No funny business.”
I flash him my most innocent smile. “When have I ever caused trouble?”
The question makes him flinch. Good. They should all flinch.
Through the mesh-reinforced windows, sunlight streams into the hallway, casting prison-bar shadows across the floor. Such a beautiful day to mess with someone’s mind. The file they’re carrying has my name—thick with papers documenting my greatest hits. I wonder if the new doctor has read every page, studied every crime scene photo, and tried to piece together what makes me tick.
“Here we are.” Rodriguez stops at the doctor’s office door. “Dr. Matthews is waiting inside.”
Dr. Matthews—even her name sounds soft and breakable. I’ve heard whispers about her from the guards—she’s fresh out of school, eager to help, and probably thinks she can fix broken men like me. They’re always so optimistic at first.
The door swings open, and I catch my first glimpse of her. She’s... exquisite. Delicate features, golden hair, and curves that her modest outfit can’t hide. The moment she looks up, her eyes arrest me—bright blue, filled with intelligence and familiarity. There’s a slight tremor in her hands as she arranges her papers, which catches my attention—anxiety radiates from her.
“Good morning, Mr. Morrison.” Her voice stays steady despite her nerves. “Please, have a seat.”
The guards shove me into the plastic chair and secure me to it, but they’re not who my attention is focused on. My entire being zeroes in on her—this delicate creature who dares to be alone in a room with me. The scent of her perfume hits my nostrils, orange blossom and cherry, which makes my cock twitch.
Fuck. What is this?
“These are fixed extra tight, doctor. You don’t want to risk it with this one.” Rodriguez rattles my cuffs.
I keep my gaze fixed on Dr. Matthews, drinking in every detail. A flush creeps up her neck as she meets my eyes. The way she swallows, her throat working against her anxiety—it’s making me hard. Usually, I only get this kind of rush from violence, from watching life drain from someone’s eyes.
“That will be all, officers.”
“Of course, doctor. We’ll be right outside and will do our regular fifteen-minute security checks,” Rodriguez says, eyes narrowing as he glares at me. “Any funny business, don’t hesitate to press your panic button.”
The door clicks shut, and the doctor sinks into her chair opposite me with enough distance to give her a false sense of security. We’re alone. My pulse pounds, not with the usual urge to destroy but with infatuation. I want to bend her over that desk and make her scream my name. The intensity of it startles me. I’ve fucked plenty of women, men too, but it’s always been about power, about breaking them. This is different. This is hunger.
“So,” she clears her throat, crossing her legs. The movement draws my attention to the hint of thigh visible beneath her skirt. “I’ve reviewed your file extensively.”
“Have you?” I ask. “And what conclusions have you drawn about me, baby?”
She blinks at the nickname, her pupils dilating. “I—I prefer if you address me as Dr. Matthews.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. Blood rushes south as I imagine all the ways I could make her lose her carefully constructed facade.
This is new territory. Usually, my victims bore me until I split them open, watching their insides spill out. But her? I want to take my time and corrupt her slowly until she’s begging for it.
I lean back in the chair, letting my cuffs rattle. For the first time in years, the constant mutter of violence in my head has turned silent. There’s no urge to wrap my hands around her throat, to watch the light fade from those blue eyes, or to carve her up and leave her entrails spread all over this office. My body thrums with a different kind of hunger.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. Morrison?” She uncaps her pen.
“Please, call me Axel.” I study the way her throat moves when she swallows. “And I’m feeling unusually calm.”
“Calm?” Her eyebrow arches. “Can you elaborate on that?”
“Usually, my mind’s full of noise. Violent thoughts. Urges.” I roll my shoulders. “But right now? Everything’s quiet.”
“And why do you think that is?”
I lean forward as much as my restraints allow. “Maybe it’s your presence, Dr. Matthews. You have a soothing effect.”
Pink floods her cheeks. She shifts in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“Let’s focus on your treatment plan.” She shuffles her papers. “Have you been taking your medications?”
“Yes, though they’ve never worked quite as well as you.”
“Mr. Morrison?—”
“Axel,” I correct her again.
“We need to maintain boundaries.”
“Of course.” I give her my most charming smile. “I’m being honest about my mental state. Isn’t that what you want?”
She makes a note on her pad. “And these violent urges you mentioned—how long have they been present?”
“Since I was twelve. But right now?” I let my gaze trail over her face, down her neck. “I don’t want to hurt you at all, little pixie. My appetite runs in a different direction.”
The nickname slips out naturally as I study her. She can’t be more than five-foot-three, all delicate features and nervous energy—a tiny blonde fairy facing down a monster oblivious to the danger. The contrast between us is almost comical; my six-foot-four frame could snap her in half without effort. Yet here she sits, this fragile creature, thinking she can analyze the darkness inside me.
Little pixie .
Perfect for someone so small yet brave enough to flutter into my web.
Her cheeks flush a pretty red, but she maintains eye contact. She is professional, which makes me want to break through that control even more.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘different direction,’ Axel?”
“You’re supposed to help me understand my impulses, right?” I tilt my head to the side. “Usually, when I’m alone with someone, all I can think about is violence. The different ways I could hurt them and make them bleed.”
She makes a note on her pad, her pen scratching against paper. “And now?”
“Now?” I inhale deeply, catching another whiff of her perfume. “Now I’m thinking about how soft your skin would feel under my hands. Grabbing your hair. How pretty you’d look spread out on your desk. The sounds you’d make with my cock buried deep inside you.”
Her pen freezes mid-stroke. The flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her blouse, but she doesn’t look away.
“That’s... inappropriate.” Her voice wavers. “Why do you think you’re having these thoughts instead of violent ones?”
“Maybe because you’re different.” I tilt my head. “Most people regard me with fear or disgust. But you? You’re curious. Fascinated. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I’m here to help you, nothing more.” Her pulse jumps in her throat, betraying her.
“Then help me understand why you’re the first to give me peace. The first one I’ve wanted to fuck instead of kill.”
Her chest rises and falls faster now. It’s almost cute how hard she tries to control the situation.
“Let’s analyze these feelings clinically.” She smooths her skirt. “When did this shift from violent urges to sexual ones begin?”
“The moment I saw you.” I clench my cuffed hands. “Something about you just clicked.”
“And before me, did you experience similar reactions to other medical professionals?”
A laugh escapes my throat. “No, doctor. They were all potential victims. But you? You make me want to corrupt rather than destroy.”
She scribbles something in her notepad. “These impulses you’re describing—would you categorize them as intrusive thoughts?”
“They’re not intrusive if I welcome them.”
“Mr. Morrison?—”
“Axel.”
“Axel,” she says, clearing her throat. “We need to maintain appropriate boundaries. I’m here as your doctor to help you work through your violent tendencies.”
“And I’m being honest about those tendencies.” I sit up straighter, making the chains rattle. “Right now, the only violence in my head involves throwing you against that wall and fucking you until you scream my name, begging for more.”
“Do you often use sexual aggression to deflect from therapeutic discussion?” she continues, attempting to steer the conversation back to something more appropriate.
“Never. It’s just blood and death.” I note how her pulse races in her throat. “You’re the first one who’s made me want something different.”
“I see.” She straightens her papers. “And how does this change of impulse make you feel?”
“Hungry.” I let my gaze trail down her body. “But also quieter. Focused. The demons telling me to kill are silent when I look at you.”
Every time I shift in my seat, her eyes follow the movement. When I flex my hands against the cuffs, I see her eyes dilate.
“These urges you’re describing,” she says, her gaze dropping to the tattoos on my neck before snapping back up. “How do they differ from your typical violent impulses?”
“They’re less chaotic.” I lift and drop my shoulders, watching her eyes track the motion. “Usually, it’s mayhem in my head. But with you? Everything narrows down to one clear fixation.”
She licks her lips, probably not even aware she’s doing it. Her pen hovers over the notepad, forgotten. “And this clarity—does it feel therapeutic?”
“Want me to show you exactly how it feels?” I ask.
Her eyes drift to my mouth before she catches herself. I note the hunger in her expression.
She wants me.
“Let’s keep this clinical,” she says. “You mentioned the voices are quiet. Is this the first time that’s happened?”
“First time without violence being involved.” I watch her pupils dilate. “Usually, they only shut up when I’m killing. But right now? All I hear is the sound of your breathing getting faster.”
She shifts in her chair, and her eyes dart between my tattoos and my face like she’s trying to piece together the puzzle of me. I see right through her analytical approach. There’s a need burning behind that professional veneer, and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes her.