Chapter 8 #2
On reflex, my breath seizes. Caught between fear and anticipation, I’m unable to move, to breathe, as he stops just short of touching me.
Grayson hovers close enough that I can see the silver spun through the blue of his eyes, feel the heat of his skin.
Close enough that his scent assaults me—sandalwood and a current of something darker, headier, him.
“There’s no such thing,” he says, his words low, coarse, matching the hard set of his jaw. “Stop asking the questions of a psychologist and get your answers, London.”
A tremble grips me as I try to hold still, not backing down from him. And yet, every atom in my body is fighting to either run or get closer.
Touch him.
My lungs burn until I’m forced to release a shaky breath. Grayson inhales sharply, as if stealing my breath for himself, igniting something primal and thrilling within me.
“An answer for an answer,” I finally say.
This pulls a striking smile from him, and his tongue coasts over his bottom lip, resting in the corner of his mouth as his gaze slowly flicks over my features. The way he’s looking at me, a dare banked behind his intense gaze, an unbearable heat descends between my thighs.
“An answer for an answer,” he affirms before he pushes away, settling back into his chair without ever having touched me.
I squeeze my thighs together, unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed by this fact, but knowing I can’t let him scent either reaction on me.
Gathering my bearings, I lace my hands together on my lap and ask, “Where are you from, Grayson?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Delaware.”
I arch an eyebrow.
Another charming smile crosses his mouth, and his dimple makes an appearance. “Originally, Kells. Northern Ireland.”
“What brought you to the States?”
He shakes his head. “My turn. Where are you from, London?”
Resistance flares with a dull ache in my back, but I answer him. “Hollows, Mississippi.”
“That’s not a real place.”
“It’s as real as it gets,” I counter.
“Is it some farming community,” he asks, “or is it known for something…else.”
I dig my elbows into my thighs, grounding myself. “Tell me about your scars.”
My question achieves what I want, shifting his focus from my past to his. “Which ones?”
On impulse, I glance at his forearm.
The chain clinks as he lifts his hand and trails his fingertips over his inked skin. He watches me, observing the way I follow his movements. “Some were a gift, and some were a punishment. My stepfather had a particular way of distinguishing both.”
This is the first time he’s mentioned a parent. “Your stepfather was abusive,” I prompt him.
An amused smile lights his face. “You don’t like following your own rules.”
I let a tight smile frame my lips. “You’re right, it’s your turn. Ask away.”
He bites down on his bottom lip as he considers me. My breathing becomes a measure too deep, too loud, too revealing in the still room.
“The pain in your back,” he says. “Tell me what happened to you.”
I flick my bangs from my forehead with a head shake, then I present the practiced answer I crafted years ago. “I was involved in a car accident when I was a teenager, and as a result, my back was fractured in several places. My lumbar suffered the most damage. I never fully recovered.”
Disappointment creases his eyes. “That’s not all.”
“That’s all, Grayson. That’s all there is.”
“Why do you cover up the tattoo on your hand? Tell me about it,” he demands.
“But it’s my turn.”
“No,” he says, his tone a dark boom. “I want to know why you got the ink, London. Tell me—”
“You’re out of line,” I interrupt.
“You didn’t give me an honest answer before. I want to know this.”
I drag in a quick breath, my agitation growing. “I got it when I was young—”
“Around the time of your accident?”
I hesitate. “Yes, and like many young adults, I did so impulsively. I conceal it now out of professionalism.”
“Why not just have it removed?”
My heart pounds inside my chest, the rapid pulse at my temples triggering pain through my skull. I rub the back of my neck. “I don't know why, Grayson,” I admit wearily, offering him the only answer I have.
As if searching for a crack in my defense, his penetrating gaze probes me before he finally relents, giving a slight nod.
I straighten my spine. “Are all of your scars from your stepfather?” I ask. “What about your mother?”
“No,” he says, lifting his chin. “Not all of them.”
When I tap my fingers on my thigh and tilt my head expectantly, he groans. “It’s only fair that you indulge me since I indulged you.”
His jaw works, a muscle jumping along the side, as something devious heats his eyes. “Careful,” he says, voice dropping dangerously low. “I might read too much into how badly you want to indulge me.”
An ache flutters deep in my core at his insinuation, and I’m forced to break eye contact. “Grayson, please answer the question.”
He makes an amused sound as he shifts in his seat, then says, “My mother liked to watch, Dr. Noble, but we’re not talking about it today. You’re not ready.”
This draws my attention back to him, and I frown. “The very definition of my job is being prepared to talk you through it, Grayson.”
“Hmm,” he hums, eyes lowering to my thighs before roving back up. “When it comes time, I’ll be the one to talk you through it, doctor.”
Heat flushes through my skin, my pulse thrashes wildly in my veins as I control my features.
“But not today,” he says. With a heavy breath, he touches an extensive scar on his forearm, the planes of his face hardening.
“There are a number I’ve carved myself,” he confesses, and I wait for him to offer more.
“The pain I inflict on myself serves as a punishment for when I become aroused while watching their suffering.”
Their suffering. His victims. My patient has eliminated any doubt over whether he’s a sadist. I’m concentrating too hard on my breathing, craving the bite of my string in my flesh.
“You look shaken, London.”
My mouth parts, but I can’t find the words to express what I’m feeling. Revulsion. Sickened—this would be normal, and yet, something else entirely wrong crackles through my bloodstream.
Curious. Enthralled
I press my fingertips to my forehead, taking a moment to center myself and break our connection. “Not shaken, just processing. It’s rare that I encounter this level of candor. I appreciate that you’re able to trust me.”
As my gaze returns to his, the atmosphere thickens with the intensity of his stare as he continues to rub his hand over his scars.
“You know I don’t feel shame,” he says. “I could be weak like Bundy or BTK and inflict my sickness on the innocent. Instead, I’ve learned how to control my impulses and direct them toward the wicked.
I’ve even learned how to manage my desires, self-mutilating rather than losing myself in the liberation of taking from others. ”
“Liberation?” I question before I can stop myself.
The corner of his mouth hitches. “Freedom to lose oneself,” he says, the smooth cadence of his voice sliding over me.
“Bundy and his kind suffered for that liberation. They feasted and then purged. Indulge and repent—” he sends me a wink “—it’s a vicious cycle, far more vicious than the one I’ve adopted. ”
The force of his words rock me under, yet I want more. I want to shut the blinds and block out the judgment of the world, to remain in this stolen moment where shame doesn’t exist.
When encountering the gravity of a black hole—a force so powerful not even light can escape—you don’t stand a chance against the darkness. Whatever meager light I’ve managed to find in this bleak world, he’ll surely devour if I stay on this collision course.
“Now, my turn,” he says, stretching his arms along the armrests. “How did you get your name? London is unusual for a small town girl.”
“I’m told my mother named me after…” I trail off clumsily. “She named me after her favorite soap opera.”
His brow creases. “You’re told,” he says, stressing my blunder.
Grayson doesn’t miss anything, catching every slip of the tongue and inflection. My turn to deflect him, I purposely glance at the clock.
“So we’re agreed, then,” he says, bringing my attention back to him. “No discussion of mothers, doc.”
“Not today,” I serve his words back to him as I uncross my legs.
“I agree it’s a difficult topic.” One I can’t offer any of my own insight on, as I have no memory of mine.
Just a few blurry pictures my father saved and the dead garden she left behind.
“Most of my patients spend years unpacking that subject. We don’t have that kind of time. ”
The mention of his dwindling time tenses his jaw. “What do we have time for?”
“Not much else today, I’m afraid.”
As I start to stand, he eases forward. “We’re a lot alike,” he says, effectively stalling me.
I recline back and say, “How so?”
He glances at the camera. “For one, we both like to record our sessions.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t compare the two, Grayson. It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it, though. I’m curious what you use all those recordings for.” His gaze sharpens on me. “Titillation?”
“The session’s over. We’re done,” I tell him, my tone adamant.
“Do you touch yourself while you watch them?”
I stand.
“Did you watch my videos?”
Halted, I risk a glance his way. “Yes, I did.”
He looks up at me, a sinful smirk curling his lips. “All of them?”
Shame squirms hot in my belly, tainting what felt sacred just moments ago. Professionally speaking, one or two of Grayson’s recorded torture sessions would’ve been enough for research purposes. Yet the desire to explore this forbidden connection between us was too tempting to resist.
“Yes,” I answer simply, honestly. “As a professional, I have an obligation to conduct thorough research into my patient.”
He licks his lips, a dark flame igniting behind the vivid blue of his eyes. A challenge burns there, a desperation to expose my lie and scratch those forbidden desires to my surface.
“Which one is your favorite?” he asks.