Chapter 8
GRAVITY
LONDON
The laws which govern our society are not so unlike the ones which govern our universe, except for one critical distinction: our laws can be broken.
When it comes to our justice system, how do we decide who deserves mercy and who doesn’t? How do we choose which rules to uphold when a life hangs in the balance?
Morality shifts with time, it’s fluid, evolving.
What we consider a sin today might be a virtue tomorrow.
Our moral compass realigns with each generation, rendering past judgments obsolete, absurd even.
Centuries from now, our definitions of right and wrong might be as baseless as once believing the world was flat.
Yet we dig in our moral heels, resisting change.
Change is terrifying.
An internal countdown ticks within me, marking the days until Grayson’s trial. With less than a month to prepare my findings, a creeping dread has started to coil around my chest with the fear that, despite any of my efforts, I won’t be able to save him.
Some laws can be broken—and some cannot.
And Grayson’s fate feels as unbreakable as gravity itself—a force pulling two objects toward each other by a law neither can defy, destined for an inevitable collision.
No external force is powerful enough to alter his trajectory.
Not even me.
“London?”
Lacy’s concerned voice jars me out of my thoughts, and I look up from my phone.
“Warden Marks is already en route from the facility,” she says, sounding as exhausted as I feel. She lowers the desk phone to the cradle. “I’m sorry.”
I drop my cell into my handbag with a sigh. “You’ll have to tell him in person, then. You can handle him.” I give her a tight, reassuring smile. “Just tell him I had an emergency with a patient that I couldn’t neglect.”
I glance away from Lacy’s doubtful expression. I’m not usually one to avoid an uncomfortable situation, but I know I’ll cave the moment I see him. And despite Sadie’s advice to delve deeper with my patient, I feel continuing Grayson’s sessions is the wrong course.
I can’t go deeper.
I’m already drowning in him.
Until recently, I’ve been able to bury my past without any fear of it slithering into my professional life, and I know Grayson is the catalyst for why that’s suddenly happening. I don’t want to confront my fears; I want them to go back to their dark corner and rot.
I can complete everything I need for trial by reviewing our recorded sessions. I’ll prepare my conclusion, then I’ll move on from this case and patient, locking it all away in the dark corner of my mind where it belongs.
Once I’ve made a decision, I’m firm in my resolve.
“All right, I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell Lacy, turning to leave. I need to be out of here before they arrive.
“Oh, wait. One more thing.” She holds up a finger. “A Detective Foster has left numerous messages. Do you want to return his call?”
I don’t recognize the name. “No. If he calls again, tell him he can contact me through email with his request.” I receive many solicitations from investigators and law officials, and I simply can’t respond to them all.
“Will do,” Lacy says, her smile bright. “Try to enjoy your day off, London.”
I square my shoulders as I head toward the elevator, my determination building with each sure step. When I press the Down button, relief washes through me—until the silver doors slide open.
And my eyes meet his.
It’s only a moment, one suspended heartbeat, but the instant our eyes connect, my conviction falls away. I’m fleeing. Running. And Grayson’s knowing blue eyes see right through me, calling me out.
Warden Marks is speaking, but I can’t focus on a single word. Because as awareness slowly returns, I realize the thermal Grayson usually wears is missing.
Beneath the sleeves of his jumpsuit, intricate black-and-gray designs mark his bare arms. At first glance, the tattoos are beautiful—but the brutal truth of them shines faintly through the ink, the scars evident despite his attempt to mask them.
I wear the same mask.
As though Grayson anticipated this moment, he deliberately dropped the barrier, reeling me back in to thwart my escape.
When gravity makes itself known, there’s no fighting the pull, no avoiding the inevitable collision.
“Dr. Noble, are you leaving?”
I blink, giving myself a few seconds to focus my attention on Warden Marks. “Not today,” I say.
The confused draw of his eyebrows is his only response before I turn and start toward my office. I should listen to the blaring alarm speeding my pulse, but god, he makes me reckless.
I disappear into my office bathroom while Officer Michaels shackles Grayson in the therapy room. Standing at the sink, hands gripped to the pristine basin, I wait for the sounds of chains and locks to cease.
I give myself enough time to put my guard into place, then I lift my chin as I enter the room, nodding to the officer as he exits. The hollow click of the office door latching shut tenses my back, the sound loud and final, sealing me inside.
Passing the recorder, I lean against the edge of my desk, using it to keep him at a distance and for support. As an extra precaution, I remove my glasses and set them aside, allowing my vision to blur and soften Grayson. I can’t react to what I can’t clearly see.
“No camera,” Grayson comments.
I clear my throat, brace my grip on the desk. “When I conduct a psychoanalytical evaluation, I prefer not to record,” I tell him. “I find that when practicing free association, patients respond better if they’re not being monitored as closely.”
Grayson watches me intently, his predatory gaze tracking each subtle movement. He’s waiting, anticipating my reaction to his exposed arms. I didn’t give him enough earlier, too absorbed in my own emotional turmoil.
I could wait for him to initiate the discussion, to reveal why he chose today to expose his scars to me, or I could start our session right in the deep end.
I’m drowning.
“Why the sudden shift in approach?” he asks, forcing me to meet his cool gaze. “Was I not cooperating, doc?”
I wet my lips, steadying breath. “Free association just gives me more insight, another tool to help me connect with you. It’s about discovery. Not meant to treat, but to learn.”
“Does this learning thing work both ways.” He cocks his head. “Because there’s so much I’d love to learn about you, London. How you feel beneath me. How your hair feels tangled around my fist—”
“Stop.”
My plea is barely audible, but he does. A challenge sparks in his eyes as he eases back into the chair, his arms on full display, an arrogant grin pulling at his mouth.
Earlier, I was wrong to assume he hid his scars out of shame. Grayson’s intelligence has always been my biggest obstacle. My mistake was in thinking I could outsmart him, trick him into revealing his past. He hasn’t offered me a single glimpse into himself.
He’s been the one gathering intel on me.
That ends now.
“Yes, you’re going to learn about me during this process, too,” I tell him honestly. “This technique opens us both up to each other.”
His gaze darkens as it moves over me. “We don’t need these evasive methods. Anything you want to know, just ask. I’ll tell you.”
“Fine.” I push off the desk and pull my chair forward, across the black safety line. “This takes trust, Grayson. Trust between patient and doctor. I’m trusting you not to harm me, physically or emotionally, and you can trust me not to harm you.”
He goes completely still. Not a muscle twitch, not a single facial tic to indicate my close proximity affects him. Then, slowly, subtly, his hand curls into a fist on the armrest.
“I can smell your body lotion.” His eyes close as he inhales deeply. “Lilacs.” A devilish grin tips the edge of his mouth. “I had one of my fans send me some fresh blooms to put in my cell.” As he says this, his accent deepens, bleeding into his words as he loses a measure of his control.
Ignoring his baiting remark, I remain calm. “You seem defensive today.”
His smile falls. “That’s not a question.”
“We’re practicing free association. I’m able to voice my thoughts just as you are, without having to guard them.”
He glances at the camera again. “Are you worried about what you might say?”
I look down at my crossed ankles, feeling slightly more vulnerable without my glasses. “Actually, I am.” When I glance up, his demeanor is markedly different. More intense, dropping his performance as a result to my honesty.
“We can start with a simple word association,” I say. “I’ll say a word, and you’ll say the first thing that comes to mind. The point is not to take too long or to think too hard about your responses. Can I trust that you’ll do that?”
“You can trust that I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
I swallow forcefully, keeping my gaze fixed on him. “All right, let’s begin simple. Animal.”
“Pig.”
“Fish.”
He glances at the hallway. “Tank.”
“Flowers.”
“Lilacs.”
“Hand.”
“String.”
“Back.”
“Pain.”
I pause. “You’re associating every word with me.”
He hikes a dark eyebrow. “Am I doing it wrong?”
My lips twitch, and I press them together. “No,” I say. “Not if that’s truly your responses. Our goal is for you to transfer your feelings and desires onto me. It’s called transference. Unless you’re purposely selecting words you think will make me uncomfortable.”
“You asked for honesty. Don’t doubt that I’m giving you anything less.”
Trapped in the gravity of his gaze, I nod once. “Okay. Let’s start again. Money.”
“Career.”
“Hunger.”
“Ravenous.”
I cross my legs, noting the way his eyes track my movement. “Wrong.”
“Right.”
“Death.”
“Penalty.”
“Love.”
“Sickness.”
“Woman.”
He pauses here. “You.”
“Sex.”
His nostrils flare. “Fuck.”
“Sin.”
“Salvation.”
“Happiness.”
He lunges forward.