7. Axel
7
AXEL
T he chains around my wrists clink with each step. The guards flank me like they always do—two meatheads who think their badges make them invincible. Idiots.
My mind drifts back to Dr. Matthews. She is so beautiful. Willow is trying desperately to hide her reactions to my constant descriptive dialogue about everything I want to do to her, but I sense that after four weeks of sessions, she’s being worn down.
“Move it, Morrison.” The guard shoves my shoulder.
I flash him my sweetest smile. “Careful there, Jenkins. Wouldn’t want to bruise the merchandise before my session with the good doctor.”
Her scent still lingers in my memory—orange blossom and cherry. Sweet. Clean. Pure. For now. The thought of corrupting that purity makes my blood sing.
Twenty-two hours locked away, but these two hours with her make it worth every second. I’ve had my share of prison shrinks. They’re all the same. Clinical. Detached. But Willow? She’s got her own demons she wrestles. Even if she won’t admit it yet—I see it.
We reach the office door. Jenkins pats me down, rough and thorough.
“She’s different,” I say, just to watch him squirm. “Special.”
“Shut your mouth.” He yanks the chains.
Every time we have a session, it’s the same. Willow approaches me with her usual bullshit psychoanalysis questions, and I tell her in graphic detail what I want to do to her. Willow has the same obvious tells—crossing and uncrossing her legs when she’s aroused. Staring at my lips or tattoos when she thinks I’m not aware, and sometimes, I’ve even caught her licking her lips in response to particularly dirty scenarios I cook up for her.
The door opens. My pulse quickens from anticipation. Time to peel back another layer of Dr. Matthews’ carefully constructed walls. Time to watch her pretend she’s not attracted to the monster in chains.
Once I’m secured in my seat, restrained before her, she sits across from me. She’s poised over her notebook like a shield. Her blonde hair catches the fluorescent light, creating a halo effect that makes me want to laugh at the irony.
“How have you been since our last session, Mr. Morrison?”
Willow tries so hard to ignore the electricity crackling between us. I lean back, causing the plastic chair to creak under my weight.
“Back to formalities? After everything I share with you each time we have a session?” I click my tongue. “That hurts, Doc. At least call me Axel.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous tell.
“I’d like to focus on your progress. Have you been practicing the coping mechanisms we discussed?”
“Coping mechanisms? Do you mean like what you did after our last session? Alone?”
Her cheeks flush that delicious shade of pink. It was a good guess. She clears her throat, scribbling something in her notebook.
“Mr. Morrison, if you’re not willing to engage productively?—”
“Oh, I’m willing to engage, but let’s not pretend you’re only interested in my mental health. We both know better.”
She straightens. “Your deflection through inappropriate comments suggests resistance to therapeutic progress.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Even her clinical jargon sounds forced and desperate. “Keep hiding behind your textbook terms, but your body language is louder than your words.”
Her pen stops moving. For just a moment, her mask slips. I glimpse the hunger beneath. Then it’s gone, buried under layers of deception.
“Perhaps we should discuss why you feel the need to sexualize our patient-and-doctor relationship.”
“Perhaps we should discuss why you’re pretending you don’t want me.”
“Have your violent compulsions been manageable since our last session?” she asks.
I lean back, letting the question hang in the air. The illumination casts shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw.
“Interesting choice of words. Manageable. ” I roll the word around my tongue. “Like they’re something to be controlled, contained, but what if I told you they’ve changed?”
She blinks, pen hovering over paper. “Changed how?”
“They used to be like static in my head.” I tilt my head to the side. “But now? They’ve got a focus. A target. When I close my eyes in that cell, I don’t see random violence anymore. I see specific scenarios.” I wet my lips. “Would you like me to describe them?”
“That’s not—” She clears her throat. “Let’s stay focused on managing these thoughts.”
“But I’m managing them. I’m channeling them. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I tilt my head. “Or should I go back to fantasizing about ripping random guards apart with my teeth?”
Her knuckles whiten around her pen. “Redirecting violent impulses and making them sexual toward your psychologist isn’t progress, Mr. Morrison.”
“No?” I smile. “Then why is your pulse racing?”
She presses her lips together. We both know I’m right.
“The compulsions are still there,” I continue. “But they’re more... intimate. Less about destruction and more about...” I pause, watching her squirm. “Possession. Surely that in itself is progress.”
“We need to maintain boundaries.”
I smirk. “Of course, whatever you say, doctor. Should I go back to describing how the demons in my head tell me how to dismember my victims instead?”
“Please focus on the questions I ask.” She smooths her skirt, drawing my attention to her legs. “Do you still hear these voices frequently?”
“Sometimes at night.” I let my gaze trail up her body. “When I’m alone in my cell, thinking about everything I want to do.”
She swallows hard. “And what do these voices tell you?”
“They tell me to look deeper and find out what others hide.” I hold her gaze. “Like how you’re hiding, pretending you’re not fascinated by what’s inside my head. What’s inside my heart.”
“Your previous doctor noted signs of paranoid delusions?—”
“Not delusions, little pixie.” I smile, slow and deliberate. “I see you. The real you. The one who stays up late reading case files, wondering what makes psychopaths tick. Wondering what it would feel like to?—”
“Stop, that’s not—” She cuts herself off, flustered.
“Not what? Professional? Neither is the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Her pen scratches against the paper. “You’re deflecting from the therapy.”
“Or maybe this is the real therapy. You and me, being honest about what we want.”
She clears her throat, squaring those delicate shoulders. “Mr. Morrison, if you can’t take these sessions seriously, I’ll have to cut them short.”
I can’t help but smirk. Such a brave little thing, trying to establish control. Fine, I’ll play along for now.
“My apologies, doctor. Please continue with your questions.” I settle back, the chains jingling as I adjust my posture.
“Tell me about your childhood.” She glances down at her notes.
“Daddy was a drunk. Mommy was a punching bag.” I keep my voice casual. “Until I fixed the problem.”
Her pen pauses. “Fixed?”
“You know what I did. It’s all there in your file.” I nod toward the papers on her desk. “Did you read that part before bed last night? Did it keep you up?”
A slight flush creeps up her neck. “Let’s focus on how you felt afterward.”
“Free.” The word comes out like a caress. “For the first time in my life, I felt powerful.”
She swallows hard, and the movement sends images flashing through my mind—her writhing beneath me, those blue eyes clouded as I wrap my hands around her throat. The things I could teach her about power...
“And the subsequent incidents?” Her voice brings me back to the present.
“You mean the others?” I state, loving how she tenses. “Each one was special. Different. But none of them...” I pause, letting my gaze trail over her face. “None of them were quite what I was looking for.”
She fumbles with a necklace around her neck, and I track the movement. God, the marks I would leave there.
“What were you looking for?”
“Someone who understands.” I hold her gaze. “Someone who sees the beauty in darkness.”
Her pupils dilate. Just slightly. But enough.
She flips through my file, pretending to read notes she’s probably memorized by now. Such delicate fingers. I imagine them trailing across my skin, leaving marks of their own. Would she fight? Or would she melt into my touch, finally letting that darkness inside her break free?
Willow thinks she can hide behind her credentials, but I see right through them. She’s like a butterfly caught in my web—the more she struggles, the more entangled she becomes.
The guards outside think these chains keep everyone safe. They don’t realize my mind is the most dangerous weapon in this building. Her mind is going to be such a delicious playground. I’ll take my time unwrapping each layer of propriety, peeling back her defenses until she’s raw and exposed—until she begs for the very things that terrify her now.
I’m going to enjoy this game. Drawing her in slowly makes her question everything she knows about herself. Every session will be another thread in my web, another step toward her inevitable descent into depravity. When she finally breaks—when that carefully constructed facade crumbles—I’ll catch her.