Chapter 11
NEXUS
LONDON
The first eyes I remember looking into were kind. Eyes I trusted. Eyes that promised safety, and protection, and a love that would never betray me.
Only later did I learn that eyes could lie—that the most trusting eyes can be full of deception. That their beauty could mask dark secrets, tenderness concealing the deepest cruelty.
As I meet Grayson’s pale blue gaze across my therapy room, I feel that same treacherous pull, the desire to be lured into their beauty, to surrender to their raw honesty.
There are no eyes more captivating, or deceptive, than those of a killer.
“The man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic,” Grayson says, disrupting my thoughts. “Would you consider yourself a fanatic, or simply passionate, Dr. Noble?”
I straighten in my seat, taking small, measured breaths to ease the pressure in my lower back. Ever since my confrontation with the detective yesterday evening, I’ve been in a full-blown flare-up.
I adjust my glasses and say, “Is there a reason you’re quoting Voltaire to me, Grayson?”
A striking smile spreads across his lips, touching those glacial-blue eyes. “You impress me, London.”
My pulse quickens, and I drop his gaze. “My college philosophy professor was obsessed with Voltaire,” I say.
“So it’s not that impressive. But I wonder if you deliberately left out the distinction between enthusiasm and fanaticism, that an enthusiast holds strong beliefs, whereas a fanatic enforces them through violence.
” I glance up, noting the tension along his jaw.
“Unless you disagree with Voltaire’s warning there. ”
The air charges around us as dark amusement sparks behind his eyes. “This isn’t a classic literature lecture. I asked you a question.”
My lips press together before I answer. “I’m passionate about what I do. Obviously.”
He inclines his head. “Don’t give me a canned response.”
“Then I’m not sure what you want.”
His nostrils flare, irritation flickers across his face. “We’re not yet ready for what I want,” he says, voice dropping low. “Let’s start with what I don’t. No practiced responses, no psycho-nonsense. Give me your honesty.”
I release an extended breath, feeling the exhaustion of our sessions. It’s the patient who’s supposed to break, not the doctor. And yet, his walls stand just as erect as the day he first entered this room.
I scoop his folder from the floor and set it in my lap. “You want a direct conversation.”
“Yes.”
“Because you have no inhibitions about speaking your mind, you demand the same of me.”
“Yes.”
Pulling in a fortifying breath, I lift my chin. “How freeing it must be to say exactly what you want without a single care. Tell me, Grayson, how does that feel?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a sinful smile. “Liberating.”
My tongue sweeps across my lips, stalling. I’ve allowed him to get under my skin, and he’s relishing in it.
“Is that considered crazy?” he asks, easing back in the chair, chains rattling against the floor. “Does it upset the pleasant complacency of all those boring fucks we don’t actually give a shit about?”
I select my words carefully. “The freedom to do and say whatever one pleases has always unsettled others,” I say honestly, quickly adding, “but that’s why society tends to hide their innermost thoughts.
An empathetic person tries not to harm or disturb those around them.
In order to blend, for lack of a better word, we must…
” I trail off, unable to finish my thought.
“We, doctor?” Grayson leans forward. “I’m dying for you to tell me what we must do.”
I brush my bangs from my forehead and situate my glasses, regaining control. “Master our passions.”
His stare intensifies, that disarming gaze hardening as though he’s dissecting me. “Is that how you’ve done it, London?”
An icy splash of fear chills my veins. “I’m sorry. Done what?”
“Blended,” he replies smugly. “Have you mastered your passions, or are you just deluding yourself?”
I close the folder, standing abruptly. “This session has gotten off track. We’re done for today.”
“But we only have one session left.”
The raw hurt in his voice sounds so sincere, it makes me halt, and I turn toward him. “I’ve already completed your evaluation. You don’t require another session.” I yank the paperwork from the folder and flinch. “Dammit,” I hiss out. “Paper cut.”
Bright red beads instantly at the tip of my finger.
In the seconds it takes me to assess the cut, Grayson moves, capturing my hand and hauling me toward him. His grip a vise around my hand, he simultaneously prevents my escapes and forces blood to the surface.
His predatory gaze locks onto mine, a dark hunger stirring in his gaze as he slowly takes my finger into his mouth.
I cease to breathe, a fire burning through my flesh, as his lips close around my finger. His tongue expertly moves against me, sending an intense pulse of heat between my thighs, knocking my legs weak.
“Please stop.” My words are barely a whisper, but it’s enough.
He pauses, his heated gaze still soldered to mine, before he releases first my finger, then my hand. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as he draws the chain off the floor, sliding it across his palm, where he clutches the lock.
“I’m afraid when it comes to you, London,” he says, his accent thick, voice rough with barely leashed restraint, “I’ll never master that kind of control.”
I step back, putting space between us. “It doesn’t matter, Grayson. This is over.”
Anger ignites in his pale eyes. “Your lies don’t work on me. You feel everything I do.”
I shake my head, retreating another step. “You can’t feel anything. You’re not capable.” My pulse spikes with adrenaline, the hypocrisy bitter on my tongue.
The panic button beneath my writing desk is just feet away. The moment he stands, I sprint toward it. Chains clank behind me, sending a flood of relief though my system, thinking I’m safely out of reach—until his hands seize my waist, and I’m thrust down against the desk.
His chest crushes my back as he holds me pinned to the surface.
His hand covers my mouth to muffle my cry.
Panic flaring, I reach for the button, and his other hand seals around mine, wrenching my wrist back before slamming my palm flat on the wood.
My heart pounds violently, breaths hot against his rough palm.
He drops his mouth close to my ear. “We’re not leaving here until you admit the truth one fucking time.” His demand is a low rasp as his lips brush my ear, his deep tone vibrating against my back.
My vision blurs as reactive tears sting my eyes. I struggle for a breath, my glasses pressed to my face, then stop breathing all at once when he places a thin metal prong in my line of sight.
As the realization hits me, I mentally curse myself. I seal my eyes closed, shame swallowing me as I recall his hand sliding up my thigh, his other clasped to my waist—grabbing my belt.
He removes his hand from my mouth only to grip my jaw, still holding me restrained against the desk. “You’d have never been so careless unless you wanted this to happen,” he accuses. “Now, tell the truth, London.”
Chest tight, I gasp in a breath, my nails clawing at the desk. “You took advantage of me.”
He releases a low chuckle. “That is amusing,” he says, before he tightens his hold, the cuff around his wrist biting into my flesh as the cool metal links rub along my backside. “You’re really forcing me to do this the hard way.”
Fear spikes my adrenals. “I’ll scream,” I threaten.
With a groan, Grayson hauls the chain over my head and secures it around my neck, knocking my glasses off and forcing my back harder against his chest. “Not before I crush your windpipe.”
He chokes up on the chain, the links pinching my throat. I claw at the metal, trying to dig my nails beneath, scraping for a breath. The chain falls slack against the desk, allowing me an unobstructed breath.
Only as the fear of being strangled vanishes, a new one grips me as Grayson wrenches my skirt up my legs. My body freezes against the desk, the weight of his body bearing down heavy on top of mine.
His rough fingers dragging over my thigh, he pushes his face into my hair and inhales deeply.
“Fuck, your scent torments me.” His low groan stirs an unwanted heat where he presses too hard and intimately against my backside.
“All your talk of control and blending… You’re a deviant, London.
I know where you live, that dark corner where you hide. ”
I whimper and shake my head against him. “You’re wrong, Grayson. You’ve built this up in your mind—”
He kicks my feet apart, spreading my legs wide beneath him, as his fingers splay along my inner thigh to silence me. I clench against the fierce throb ignited between my thighs.
“No more lies,” he whispers coarsely against my ear. His fingers sink into my hair and tug my head back. “You’re a bad girl, London. Tempting me, fucking with my head. You knew exactly what you were doing to me this whole time, and now you want to play the victim.”
I curl my fingers around the edge of the desk, a tremble violently attacking my body. “Please, Grayson…” If I just stall him long enough for the guard to check in—
His fingers brush against the most sensitive part of me, stealing my reason.
“Oh, baby, save the begging for when I’m making you a filthy mess.” Then he’s tracing over my thong. Agonizingly slow, he slides his finger beneath the string, pulling the thin material away from my ass.
As he glides his finger back and forth along the string, the rough drag of his knuckle against my skin arouses a pulse of pleasure deep in my core. The friction is torturous, and I squirm against him.
A low groan vibrates from deep within him as he gives the string a hard tug, drawing the material tight against my clit. I buck beneath him on reflex.