Chapter 6
SIX
EMILY
My heart pounds so hard I hear it echo off the walls, beating in time with his sick laughter. I let him touch me. I let my body betray me. Worse than that, my pussy pulses, needy and aching for him. Not because I want him.
I don’t want him.
I don’t want to fuck the monster who makes my skin crawl.
But the way his fingers moved over me, the way he held me while I broke in his hands, is nothing like the way anyone else has ever touched me. It was careful and unhurried, like he knows exactly where I will break.
I hate him for knowing. I hate him for making my body respond when every part of my mind screams no.
The lights snap back on. The door buzzes.
The sound jerks me free.
The moment it unlocks, I stumble out and slam it shut behind me. My hand trembles as I press it flat against the metal. Through the small square window, I look back inside.
He is still sitting at the table.
Watching me.
Something in his eyes has changed. His hair falls the same way, dark strands brushing his face as he laughs softly, but the laugh is wrong now. Quieter. Sharper. Like it belongs to someone else wearing his skin.
He looks different.
Is it possible he switches like that? That something inside him splits cleanly in half? Or is my mind twisting what it sees because I cannot accept what just happened?
My reflection in the glass steals my attention. My shirt hangs open, buttons undone, black lace bra exposed. Panic flares in my chest, and I take a step back to fix it just as footsteps come closer down the hall.
My fingers are shaking as I erase every sign that Zayne Mercer had his hands on me.
My glasses sit crooked on my nose. My hair is tangled, wild. He did this to me. He pulled apart the version of myself I keep hidden and left it on display.
The guards reach me. One asks if I am okay, his voice cautious. The other peers through the window, cuffs already loose in his grip, ready in case Mercer moves.
The lights cut out again.
This time, when the door opens, I run.
I run deeper into the hallway, shoes slipping against the floor as I move, breath tearing from my chest until the reception desk finally comes into view.
I stop there, pressing my back to the wall.
My lungs burn. I try to slow my breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I count. Three. Four. Five. The numbers do nothing. My thoughts race faster than my pulse, spiraling out of reach.
Detective Mara sees me.
She crosses the room quickly, her hand settling on my shoulder. The contact makes me flinch.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “What happened?”
I swallow hard and straighten, forcing my body back into place. “The lights went off. I got scared. That’s all.”
The lie slides out too easily.
She studies my face, her eyes searching. “There were some power outbursts,” she says. “You shouldn’t worry. The door locks automatically when it happens. No one can get out.”
I clear my throat. “I was in the room with him.”
Her gaze sharpens. She takes me in, from my uneven breathing to the way my hands curl into fists at my sides. “Did he do anything?”
“No.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “No.” This time, I force it steadily. “I just got scared. That’s all.”
“You can tell me,” she says. Her hand finds my shoulder again, gentle but insistent.
I step away.
“I’ll send you the reports tonight,” I say.
She hesitates, then nods. “We got the results from the victim you found in the woods. The coroner says she’s been there for weeks. The rain and cold preserved the body.”
“So it’s him,” I ask. “Right before he was arrested.”
“Without a doubt.”
I nod and smooth my hair back into place, then walk past her toward the reception desk. I can still feel her watching me from the corner of my vision.
One of the nurses stands behind the desk, flipping through folders.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile.
She frowns at the computer screen, tapping the keyboard with growing frustration. The screen stays dark. She sighs and starts scribbling notes on a pad instead. When she finally looks up, her expression softens.
“Can I help you, Dr. Beckett?”
“Yes. I want to schedule therapy for Mr. Mercer, along with the treatments he needs, before we continue questioning.”
She reaches for a pen. “Go ahead.”
“He’ll undergo electroshock therapy early in the morning, before breakfast,” I say. “The device is to be used three times. The treatment needs to be documented.”
She nods as she writes. “Anything else?”
“Yes. After that, he’s not to receive any medication until after he speaks with me. We’ll meet tomorrow at five in the afternoon.”
“Got it.”
I exhale slowly. “Thank you.”
I turn and head down the hallway that leads to the offices.
I take the right turn and stop at door seven. Inside, the office still smells faintly of dust and old paper. It used to belong to the psychiatrist who took leave the week I arrived.
I cross to the desk just as the phone buzzes.
Rourke.
I close my eyes and roll them back.
Of course, it’s him.
I pick up the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Do you have an update on the case?” he asks.
“I do,” I say. “And you’re not on it.” My voice sharpens. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out you were suspended? I don’t report to you anymore.”
Silence answers me just before the line goes dead.
“Fuck,” I mutter, setting the phone down before leaning my palms against the desk.
I close my eyes, but all I see are Mercer’s hands on me. The weight of his grip. The way his palm enclosed my breast, how he dragged my nipple between his teeth, and pulled a shiver from somewhere deep inside me.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
I shrug off my white coat and hang it on the hook near the bookshelf. Then I slip into my black coat, pulling the belt tight and tying the knot with more force than necessary.
I grab my purse and return to the desk for the phone. I need to go home. I need a shower. I need to scrub his touch from my skin, even if it does nothing for my thoughts.
Why does the body crave what poisons the mind? Why does the heart side with flesh instead of reason? Maybe it’s because every thought of him steals a little more of my clarity. Because he followed me for years without ever stepping into my path.
Ten years to study me.
Ten years to plan how to dismantle me piece by piece.
And I had three days.
Three days to realize he already had what he wanted.
I don’t have ten years to plot against him. I have a month to fix his mind before he does this again. Before he hurts someone else. Yet now, the thought of stopping him doesn’t land the way it should.
He spent years learning from me. I spent years studying monsters like him. And I still don’t understand him.
He is cold. Calculated. Unpredictable. A psychopath who knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And despite everything I know, everything I’ve learned, I don’t know how to stop him.
I do know this. Once someone like him decides what he wants, nothing stands in their way. Not walls. Not locks. Not iron bars.
I leave the office and move down the hallway, straight for the exit.
I need to get out of here.
Nine at night. The files Rourke gave me lie spread across my bed, pages overlapping in careless stacks. The dim light barely reaches them, shadows swallowing most of the text. I can hardly make out what’s written, but I don’t move to fix it. My eyes burn anyway.
Daisy fell asleep curled at the foot of her bed in the living room, full from the oversized portion of food I gave her earlier.
I should be asleep, too.
I’m wrapped in a white towel, still damp from the shower. Water clings to my skin, my hair dripping onto my shoulders and soaking into the towel. I open the small closet beside the bed and stare inside, scanning for something soft, something that will let me disappear into sleep.
The night is silent.
Just Daisy and me.
Still, the feeling won’t leave. That prickle at the back of my neck. Like someone is watching.
The window stands open, a cold breeze slipping inside and brushing against my bare skin. Goosebumps rise along my arms.
I pull the towel tighter around myself, but it doesn’t help.
This is my second shower today, and his touch is still there. Like it’s burned into me, like he left a mark I can’t scrub away, no matter how hot the water gets.
I bite my lip and reach for a folded shirt.
The door slams shut.
A sharp gasp tears out of me before the floor creaks.
Wood is groaning under someone’s weight.
My heart stutters, then races. My body locks in place, breath caught halfway in my chest.
I can’t move.
I’m frozen.
Someone is behind me. I can feel him. I feel his breath against my neck. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, telling myself this is just my imagination.
It has to be.
Then a hand brushes the edge of mine, barely there at first, before sliding fully into my palm. Fingers wrap around mine.
Is this real?
“Shh,” a voice whispers as his other hand pulls the towel away, leaving me naked.
The towel slips from my body and lands on the floor.
“I came to finish what I started.” The voice said, freezing me in space.
He can’t be here. This can’t be happening.
“This isn’t real,” I manage to say, blinking, trying to turn and see him. He only chuckles.
“It’s just a dream, Freckles,” he says, guiding my hand from my belly button downward, slowly, until my fingers reach my lower lips.
I swallow hard as my fingertips brush the edge of my sensitive skin.
He spreads my legs with his knee and lets me lean back against him. His fingers press over mine, guiding them lower, pressing them to my clit. He moves them in slow circles. Controlling every motion.
“This is all you, Freckles,” he whispers against my ear. “You’ll finger yourself until your knees betray you.”
I have no answers.
He is locked up.
They would have called me if he escaped.
I can dream, right? This has to be a dream.