Chapter 2
Chapter two
A Meeting with a Serial Killer
Listening Companion:
Penderecki—Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima
The hallway stretched ahead of me, maybe thirty feet long, ending at a blank wall. I expected Rook’s cell to sit just before the dead end, to the left or the right.
The music shifted as I walked.
The soft elegance of Clair de Lune dispersed into a song that made my stomach drop.
I recognized it instantly—Penderecki. Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima. Written as a passionate expression of grief for the devastation the bomb left behind.
And the sound wasn’t melody so much as pressure. Shrill strings tearing against each other. Fifty-two instruments clawing and collapsing. Cries stretched so thin they barely registered as human.
The song scraped along my nerves, high and merciless, vibrating through bone instead of ear, not meant to be listened to so much as endured.
And Rook’s seductive scent became stronger too, thickening as I walked, layering over itself, filling the narrow corridor until I was breathing him in with every inhale.
Pine, smoke, and underneath that. . .dense, animalistic musk.
It was the kind of smell that bypassed the brain entirely and spoke directly to the spine. Yet, it shouldn’t have smelled so damn good.
The scent clung to the air like something brewed, not worn—thick and heady, pine resin melted down with smoked honey and skin-warm musk.
Each breath felt heavier than the last.
Syrupy.
Narcotic.
As if the corridor itself were dosing me.
Rook’s scent slid past reason, softened my edges, and dulled all my instincts to pull back.
It was danger refined into a drug.
It was red flags softened into warm honey and fed to me slowly, until wanting replaced warning.
Heat prickled across my skin, starting at my throat and spreading downward.
My breasts felt heavy, swollen. The lace of my bra suddenly became too rough against nipples that had begun to harden without my permission.
I pressed my thighs together as I walked, trying to ignore the heat building between them.
Why aren’t my suppressants working?
I'd read about the biological response omegas experienced when exposed to compatible Alpha pheromones. Pupil dilation. Elevated heart rate. Increased blood flow to erogenous zones. The body's preparation for mating, triggered entirely by scent.
But that was supposed to happen to other omegas. Unsuppressed ones. Ones who hadn't spent twelve years chemically castrating their own biology.
I'd walked past Alphas my entire adult life and felt nothing. My suppressants had been a fortress, impenetrable, reliable. Now those walls were crumbling, and I didn't understand why.
Another wave of Rook’s scent hit me.
Stronger this time.
My step faltered.
No.
I caught myself against the wall, pressed my palm flat against the burgundy paint, and for a moment I just stood there, breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Each inhale made it worse.
Oh God.
I could feel it now—slick gathering, dampening my underwear, my body producing lubrication for a coupling I hadn't consented to.
Please. Not now.
I'd never experienced slick before. I'd only read about it, the way Omegas in heat produced this slippery, thick, natural lubricant to ease penetration, to prepare their bodies for knotting.
I'm not in heat. I can't be in heat. My suppressants. . .
But my pills clearly weren't working. That much was obvious. The question was why?
Against all logic, I forced myself to keep walking.
With every step, Rook's scent intensified.
My breasts ached for his touch.
He’s a serial killer for God’s sake. Calm down.
My inner walls clenched around emptiness.
Hungry for filling.
For stretching.
For a cock’s knot I'd only ever read about in medical journals.
Mmmm.
I blinked.
No. Don’t even think about it.
The bundle of nerves between my thighs throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
Another step.
Another wave of scent.
My thighs were slippery now.
A mating scent.
Think. Analyze this.
The intensity of my response suggested one of two possibilities. Either my suppressants had catastrophically failed, or Rook was producing pheromones at levels far beyond normal Alpha range.
Good God.
Some Alphas were like apex predators. Their biology cranked up to eleven. The literature called them Prime Alphas.
Trembling, I got close to the end of the hallway.
And then I saw Rook’s cell on the right, and the space didn't look like a cell at all.
Violent, yet gorgeous canvases lined the walls. Splashes of crimson and blue. Faces twisted in ecstasy or agony.
On the other side, there was a bookshelf crammed with texts—Freud, Jung, and Nietzsche. And there, on the middle shelf, my own book with its spine cracked from use. The Broken Court: Inside the Mind of the Trickster by Dr. Willow Lark.
He'd read it so many times the cover was dog-eared.
A chess set sat on a small table, mid-game.
And in the center of it all, with his back to me, was the Trickster himself.
He was painting.
I parted my lips.
The first thing I saw was his tattoo. It covered his entire muscular back—a massive skull rendered in vivid purple, the ink so detailed it seemed alive. It was caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, mouth stretched absurdly wide. And the eyes looked right at me.
Against all will, I licked my lips at the carved muscle beneath the ink, the definition of his shoulders and lats, the way his body tapered to a narrow waist.
More tattoos covered his arms—playing cards scattered across his skin. An ace of spades on one shoulder. A queen of hearts on the opposite arm. Suits and numbers winding down to his wrists like armor.
His hair was a riot of wild long curls.
A fresh wave of arousal crashed through me, so intense my vision blurred at the edges.
No. No, no, no.
My nipples were so hard they hurt.
The slick between my thighs had soaked through my underwear now—I could feel it on my inner thighs, cool against my flushed skin, a betrayal I couldn't hide.
My clit pulsed with every heartbeat, swollen and aching, desperate for pressure.
This wasn't attraction.
This was biology—my body recognizing a predator and, instead of running, spreading its legs in surrender.
With his back still to me, Rook stopped painting and inhaled slowly through his nose.
I shivered.
His scent changed—grew thicker, headier, almost edible.
His body was responding to me, his pheromones ramping up to match mine, creating a feedback loop that made my knees threaten to buckle.
"Dr. Lark." He didn’t turn around, and his voice was honey poured over broken glass. "You're early."
I forced my voice to remain steady. "I'm punctual."
"You're early by four minutes." He turned around, and the canvas came into view.
I stopped breathing.
On the canvas was me.
He'd painted me in a shimmering purple dress. My braids were loose and wild, honey blonde against my brown skin, and he'd rendered every strand with obsessive precision.
My eyes were closed, my head tipped back, my lips parted in an expression that looked like pleasure.
Surrender.
A woman in the grip of heat.
Lost to sensation.
And there, on my left wrist. . .a scar. The one I'd gotten at sixteen from a bicycle accident. The one I kept hidden under long sleeves and careful angles.
The one that had never appeared in any photograph.
A cold shiver ran through me.
I looked at his face and immediately understood that the photographs had never been enough. They’d all been mugshots, surveillance stills, and other grainy images reproduced in case files.
In person, he was devastatingly beautiful. High cheekbones cut sharp. A strong nose slightly crooked. His mouth was full and expressive.
Dark green eyes locked onto mine—too bright, too focused, and ringed with lashes that had no business being that long on a psychopath like him.
A pale scar cut through one eyebrow, giving his face a permanent edge.
Rook spoke, “How do you like my painting, Dr. Lark?”
I blinked. “How do you know about my scar?"
"I know everything about you. . .Willow." Rook set down his brush. Purple paint stained his fingers. "I've had two years to learn."
I tried to recover and go back to the mode of clinical detachment I'd built my career on. "You requested this interview to—"
"To meet you. Finally." He left the canvas and moved closer to the glass, and his scent intensified, and God, the slick was dripping from my pussy, sliding down my inner thigh in a hot, wet trail, and I couldn't stop it.
He inhaled and then groaned. "D-do you know why I surrendered, Dr. Lark? You wrote an entire book theorizing about it. You got close, but you got one thing wrong."
"Enlighten me."
"You wrote that I was incapable of genuine attachment. That my surrender was purely strategic—repositioning, you called it. Elegant theory." He tilted his head, studying me with those dark green eyes. "But I wasn't incapable of attachment. I was simply waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For the right Omega. For you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Heat pooled low in my belly, foreign and terrifying.
Even though the glass was between us, I took a step back.
"I've read your book seventeen times," he continued.
"Every page. Every footnote. Every line you wrote about me.
" He pressed his palms flat against the glass, and I could see the ace of hearts tattooed across his inner wrists.
"No one has ever seen me the way you did.
Not the psychiatrists, not the profilers, not the endless parade of experts.
You understood. The real me. And you put it on paper for the world to read. "
"I tried to be as professional as possible and take my time researching—"
"Research? No, Dr. Lark. It's called obsession." His eyes locked onto mine. "You think I don't recognize it?”
“I am not. . .obsessed.”
“I know obsession well.” He studied me. “I am obsessed with you.”
I took another step back.
He smiled, and it reminded me of the skull on his back—absurdly wide, demented and gorgeous all at the same time. “I saw your author photo, Willow. The one on the back cover. And for the first time in my life, my body responded."
My breath caught. "What do you mean, responded?"
"Alphas are supposed to go into rut by sixteen.
It's biological inevitability—the aggressive, possessive haze that drives us to claim and breed with Omegas.
" He leaned closer to the glass, and even through the barrier, his scent was overwhelming.
"I never did. Not once. Thirty-four years old, confirmed Alpha by every test, and my biology simply.
. .refused to activate. The doctors called it a miracle. I called it patience and then. . ."
I widened my eyes.
"And then I saw your photograph." That delirious smile remained. "And I went into rut so hard I destroyed my cell. Broke three guards' arms before they could sedate me. All because I saw your face and my body finally understood what it had been waiting for."
I shook my head. "I don’t think that’s biologically possible. That sort of response has never been documented—”
"Forget books. I am telling you facts. I started dreaming of you after that. Your voice. Your scent—a scent I'd never smelled, but somehow knew." He inhaled slowly and nodded. "Yes. I got it right.”
My bottom lip quivered. “That’s not possible either.”
“My biology recognized you before my mind did. And now you're here, and you smell exactly the way I dreamed. Sweet, warm, and mine."
My skin flushed.
My pulse pounded.
Another gush of slick left my pussy.
Another clench of emptiness.
Another throb of need so intense it bordered on pain.
I have to get out of here. Why did I stay so long?
"I can’t wait to taste you tonight." He pressed his face close to the glass, stuck out his obscenely long tongue, and gave the glass a long lick.
A tidal wave of hot desire crashed into me.
My knees buckled.
I barely caught myself on the wall and began panting.
Waves of heat rolled through me. Sweat beaded at my temples. And the wetness between my thighs was not only sliding down my leg but it was now visible, shameful, and I could smell it, and surely he could smell it too.
Rook inhaled sharply and groaned.
His pupils blew wide. His green eyes went black. And he made a sound I'd only read about in clinical literature—a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the glass.
Through the floor.
Through my bones.
Oh god.
It settled between my legs and pulled.
I moaned.
Out loud.
I couldn't stop it.
"Yes. There you are, my Beloved."
“I’m not your. . .beloved.”
A dark chuckle left him that was more menacing than anything I’d ever heard. “Soon.”
I shivered. “Soon what?”
“Soon you’ll see.” He reached into his waistband and pulled out a guard's walkie-talkie. Black plastic, standard issue. There was blood on it—fresh, still wet, glistening under the light.
When and how did he get that?
He raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, and his eyes never left mine as he spoke into the device, "The others are already in position."
I blinked.
His voice went calm. "Begin extraction."
What?
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the lights went out.
OH MY GOD!!
Darkness swallowed the space.
I couldn't see my own hands, couldn't see the hallway or the door, couldn't see anything except the afterimage of his smile burned into my retinas.
Next, emergency lighting flooded the corridor in red.
Rook stood perfectly still on his side of the glass, bathed in crimson light, watching me with patient hunger.
Get out of here! Now!
I started rushing away.
Rook’s voice followed me. "Run if you want! It won't matter! Every door leads back to me now!"
Next, a mechanical groan echoed through the facility.
The sound of locks disengaging.
Not just Rook’s cell, but the entire wing. Every door in Block D opening at once.
No. No. No.
Alarms shrieked.
Off in the distance, guards shouted and patients cackled.
I picked up my speed. My heels hit the floor and I kicked them off without thinking—survival instinct overriding vanity, overriding everything. My bare feet slapped against the polished floor as I sprinted back.
Find the warden!