Chapter 26
TILL DEATH
GRAYSON
After forty-six hours in the cage, London loses the fight.
The mind is a fucked-up place.
I push Stop on the recorder, and log the timestamp in my notes. The first half was spent in defiance, cursing me, blaming me, creatively detailing the ways I should die—I enjoyed that part.
She doesn’t realize how talented she is. I smile to myself as I jot down her assumption about the drugs. Not a bad idea. Maybe next time.
Her last four hours were her most trying, and her most revealing. Even a strong-willed woman like Dr. Noble can’t keep her demons locked away forever. I watch her on the monitor now, arms cradling her body as she sleeps.
Denial is a strenuous mental exercise. You have to be utterly, completely delusional not to bend when confronted by veracity in its barest form.
London doesn’t suffer from idiosyncratic beliefs; she isn’t delusional.
Mastering the art of lying was her survival mechanism, a way to protect herself and enable her pursuit of greatness despite her past.
I just had to pull at her thread until the spool unraveled, exposing the truth. Pleased with the analogy, my hand flies across the journal page. I want to remember this moment. It will be important later.
Can I claim I knew all the answers before I first entered her therapy room? No, not at all. Not like I typically do. Mounting extensive research on a subject before introductions. But with her—she was different, so goddamn special. There was only a feeling.
Something I discredited as bullshit my whole life. I work with facts and evidence, not gut instinct or intuition. I trust what great minds before me have tested and studied and produced concrete evidence of.
But like I said, she’s different. I sensed our kindred connection, and it became a compulsion to tease our relationship apart, dissect it and layer the pieces together in a way I could analyze and understand.
I went against my nature by relying on instinct in this one instance. Trusting this strange new sensation that heats my blood whenever I think of her. Love—if that’s what it truly is—decided we were a match, and she’s offered proof. Finally.
I flip the page, resting the ballpoint to the journal as I click back on the footage. Hair in beautiful tangles over her face, she whispers it over and over, rocking against the floor: “He’s not my father.”
I move closer to her image on the screen, an anxious thrill flaring over my nerves. This moment is too visceral to be an act. The admission too specific, precise.
Her truth matches my own.
It’s what called out to me, why we belong together.
We are the stolen children raised by monsters.
“I want out.” London’s voice is barely audible, so I increase the volume. “Let me out of this fucking trap.”
She’s so close, but she doesn’t understand everything fully yet. This isn’t her trap. The burial, the cage…it was all in preparation for her trap. She can’t go in until she’s ready, her mind open to accept our reality—to accept us.
But she’s close.
I exit out of the footage and return to the live feed. I roll my shoulders, working out my tense muscles, then stand and stretch. My body is just as taxed as London’s. She hasn’t gone through this alone. I’ve been with her. And when she enters the trap, I’ll be with her still.
I glance through the window, excited for her to see our masterpiece.
Before her, countless hours have been spent in this room designing, crafting. Modeling. It’s my home away from home, and when it’s gone, I might feel bad—but I’ll rebuild. Bigger, better, more intricate.
With her.
I roll up my sleeves and reach behind my back, fingers tracing the inked equations etched between my shoulder blades. Then I unfold the plans—the ones I sketched from the designs tattooed into my skin.
The blueprints for her trap were born nine months ago, conceived within the confines of a six-by-eight cell. Now, after modifications tailored to the upgraded specs, her trap is nearly complete.
I poured every last bit of myself into this creation. It’s my heart and soul, if such a thing truly exists. Built entirely for her, driven by some foreign emotion that plagued me, consumed me, until forced to relent.
There’s a fine line between passion and obsession—and I crossed that line the moment I saw her.
But I haven’t heeded my own warnings. Over the course of our twisted entanglement, I’ve become dependent on her success. How much strain can the mind endure? Even when you know the disaster is looming, you can’t look away. We’re all a little sick like that.
This trap will test us all.
I imagined this moment at sunset. Something about the twilight compliments the scene, with a dusting of twinkling stars scattered across a dim sky, the chirr of crickets in the backdrop.
Of course, we’ll have our very own orchestra of screams and pulleys, a soundtrack for the perfectly choreographed ballet.
London’s dance.
Hooking the last key, I give it a flick to watch it spin. The setting sun glints off the shiny silver.
Once I’m satisfied that every detail is in place, I turn the laptop around and enable the mic. “It’s time to wake up, love.”
London stirs awake, her head snapping up as she recalls her surroundings. “You sick bastard. Let me out of here—”
Still so much fight left in her. Good. Having her completely broken won’t work.
I lean closer to the screen. “Are you ready?”
She lifts her hand, middle finger delivered in defiance. A smile curves my lips. I suppose that’s answer enough.
As I head toward her room, I twirl my key ring with one hand, hold her present in my other, my steps hurried, impatient.
I’m like a kid in a candy store—or however that saying goes.
At least, I assume this is how a normal, healthy kid would feel awaiting his special treat.
I have little to compare this feeling to, as dread was my dominant emotion during my youth.
I flip on the switch, flooding the room in light. London squints at me as I near the cage. “It’s only been a couple of days,” I say, dragging my gaze over her disheveled appearance. “You look like hell, baby.”
But her glare lacks that defiant spark I’ve come to adore. “I’m sick, Grayson. I need a doctor.”
I unlock the cage door with a disappointed groan. I thought by now we’d be past the lies. “We’ve already established your sickness, London. What you have, there’s no cure.” I brace my forearm on the bar, blocking the opening. “I’m the closest thing to a doctor you’re ever going to get.”
She stands on shaky legs, her arms hugging her waist. “I have a fever, you asshole. I need a—”
“I have antibiotics.” I step inside and hang the dress on a bar. London notices the black satin gown for the first time. “I have medicine for just about any ailment. Come on, it’s getting late. We need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”
Her gaze doesn’t stray from the dress. “What the hell is that.”
“Your dinner gown. You are hungry, I assume.”
She clenches her hands into fists at her sides. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”
“London, I’ve been extremely patient. Let’s go.”
She arches a delicate eyebrow. “Make me.”
I scrub a hand over my face. Fuck, the way I’m tempted to do just that. My groin throbs painfully, hunger clawing like a demon beneath my skin.
Technically, the dress isn’t a requirement for her trap, but London uses her expensive suits and tight little pencil skirts as armor, a disguise. I want her stripped of her defenses, out of her comfort zone.
Besides, I took meticulous care selecting her attire for tonight. The black satin will cling to her curves, and the deep-purple slip beneath matches the tinted beads woven through the pearl shawl, reminding me of her lilac scent.
I yank the dress from the hanger and unzip the back. “Take off your clothes.”
She steps backward. “No.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Another two days in the cage, then?”
A derisive laugh tumbles out. “You don't have that kind of time.” She crosses her arms. “I might be feverish, but I’m still your doctor. I can see it in your jumpy muscles, your anxious movements and labored breathing. Whatever awaits me outside of this cage is far worse than what I suffered inside it.” She studies me closely.
“And people are looking for me. They’re getting close, aren’t they? ”
Tossing the dress to the floor, I close in. “If you don’t undress, I’ll do it for you—and I’ll make sure to enjoy every second.”
Her features harden. “You were kidnapped as a child,” she fires back, retreating another step. “That’s why you always refused to talk about your parents during sessions.”
I halt in front of her. “Mind games are for later, doctor.”
She tries to move, but I lunge forward, giving her just enough room to turn before my arms seize her waist from behind. Her strength is depleted—she fights weakly as I wrestle her to the floor, flipping her onto her back and pinning her wrists beneath my knees.
“I was hoping we could work in a little foreplay before dinner.” I grab the collar of her T-shirt and tear it down the center, revealing her beautiful body beneath.
“You’re sick—”
“We’ve already established that.” I shift just slightly so I can reach her sweatpants.
She takes advantage and wiggles a hand free. Before I can recover her arm, she brandishes something silver clutched tightly in her fist.
“You can dine with the devil, you evil bastard.” She plunges a fork into my abdomen.
“Motherfuck—” Sharp pain radiates through my stomach. And yet, I can’t help but laugh at the twisted irony as I grip the utensil buried in my flesh.
“Do you stab all the men who lock you in a cage?”
“Fuck you—” She uses her knees to shove me off. Then she crawls toward the door, getting to her feet when she clears the cell.
I roll onto my back and brace myself, gritting my teeth as I yank the fork free. My hand comes away with blood, my shirt absorbing the red. Pressing my palm to the throbbing wound, I assess the damage to the side of my abdomen.
Painful—but not fatal.
I’m tracking her down the hallway when I hear her scream. It doesn’t take long to locate her, sprawled across the floor, her foot caught on a tripwire.
I grab the waistband of her pants and lift her off the wire. Flipping her onto her back, I straddle her thighs. “I’m going to assume you meant to miss vital organs.”
She spits in my face, and I love the way the motion makes her tits bounce.
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting her. Then I wrap my hands around her slender throat and bear down on top of her. “Sweet dreams, London.”
Her desperate gasps pulse against my palms as her nails rake at my hands. Blood vessels burst in her eyes, her struggle becoming weaker.
When her arms drop, I loosen my grip, slanting my mouth over hers to taste her last shallow pleas before darkness claims her.