Chapter 10 Knight Moves #2
Orion’s expression tenses, a shadow drifting across his face.
“Dr. Calloway,” he says quietly. “Emma.” He draws in a controlled breath.
“No, it wasn’t like that between us. We were close, and…
eventually, there might’ve been something more.
But we were partners. Our research was what mattered.
” His voice dips, a subtle tremor just beneath the rough edge.
“I trusted her. She was brilliant. I got most of the credit, of course—unfortunately, that’s how most fields work—but Emma was every bit as dedicated as I was.
” A nostalgic smile pulls at his mouth. “Probably more so.”
A current of grief flows through his admission.
While Orion may lack the ability to varnish his thoughts, and his confession could be involuntary—it could also be calculated.
Yet his regret feels too honest, too raw.
The pain I sometimes glimpse through his cracks lingers, like a wave refusing to recede, eroding his stone walls.
After his reaction when I touched on this subject before, I dug deeper into his past. Orion has no social media presence.
He keeps himself hidden. The sparse history I was able to uncover during my initial dive didn’t reveal everything.
Both parents, lost tragically during his college years.
A close childhood friend taken by illness.
A former mentor whose life ended abruptly.
And Emma—his research partner—gone before their endeavors were realized.
Orion Night’s existence has been an endless litany of loss.
Drawing in a slow breath, I lean back in my seat, deciding not to push him further on this today.
He breaks the connection further when he turns away, surveying my office. The walnut bookcases lining the walls. The neutral linen furniture. The one arched window with a partial view of the ocean. A stack of framed, forged credentials lined against a stone wall.
“I haven’t had time to decorate,” I say in answer to his inquisitive stare.
“So you do enjoy chess,” he comments, eyeing the marble chessboard on a side table.
“It’s the truth. Have you considered utilizing contraceptives, like a condom, to inspire intimacy?”
A subtle lift touches his lips, his expression amused. “It’s not just about physical touch. Sex is a distraction.” To emphasize his point, his gaze descends to the slit along my thigh once more.
“On average, how often do sexually intrusive thoughts occur during the day?”
“Thirty-seven.”
I measure my breathing. “You’ve counted.”
“I count everything.” He rests his hands on his thighs. His fingers tap in time to my firing pulse. “But that was before you. Now, it’s between sixty and sixty-seven. On average.”
My heartbeat hammers in my neck. His tapping speeds. “Why do you think that is?”
“I spend less time in my observatory,” he says, honest. “When I’m there, very little disrupts my focus.”
I nod meaningfully. “We need to explore the nature of your—”
“You’re going to ask what kind of forbidden thoughts I have,” he interrupts, halts tapping. “Whether they’re taboo, like incest or bestiality.”
I clear my hair from my forehead. “Memorizing a medical journal doesn’t mean you understand what to do with that information.”
“Agreed.” He adjusts his position. “But I think we can cut through the bullshit and get right to where you explain how driving me crazy will help.”
I keep my tone neutral. “You avoided my question.”
His nostrils flare. “Deviant sexual nature,” he says candidly. “My intrusive thoughts are of a sexually violent nature in particular.”
I swallow, and I feel his observant gaze trail the curve of my throat with the action. His left hand clenches into a fist, triggering a visceral response within me.
“It’s a unique cluster of symptoms,” I say, blocking my thoughts from the dirt trying to creep between the cracks. “Touch aversion in combination with fear of contamination and germs—”
“Mysophobia—”
“And sexual obsessions.” I pull in a breath. My vision flickers. “We have a lot of ground to explore before we develop any therapeutic approach.”
I stand and stride toward my desk, needing a moment to gather myself.
“Hmm,” Orion hums, far too amused. “I thought exposure therapy was the therapeutic approach. How did you put it? To touch…intimately?”
A chord of fear thrums my heart. I saw it in his eyes when he noticed the bruises, the way the marks aroused that buried deviant within him.
A tactic meant to stir his hunger—not send him over the edge.
Nothing in his previous evaluations, nor the crime scenes, even hinted at sexual sadism disorder.
Rousing his monster means picking at the scabs of my trauma.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
One. Two. Three.
Get a fucking grip.
I release a slow breath. “Given the mind’s unparalleled ability to protect its host, touch aversion may be an unconscious way of preventing harm. We first need to understand—”
“I don’t follow.”
I shuffle a stack of manila folders, giving myself an extra few seconds before I pull his file.
“Often, those who experience sexual obsessions are so fearful of acting on their intrusive thoughts, they create even more obsessions as a distraction. It’s textbook harm OCD.
If you’re fearful of causing harm, it’s completely rational to develop an aversion to touch.
” I clutch the folder to my chest and turn toward him.
“If you can’t touch a person, then logically, you can’t hurt them. ”
His smile is so cutting, it could wound. “That’s a lot of psychobabble to say you think I’m dangerous.”
“That’s not what I said.” I brace my palm to the edge of the desk.
Orion sits forward, linking his gloved hands together. “But once you get inside my head, combing around with your little shrink comb, your assessment will state I’m high-risk.”
“You continue to ride a motorcycle despite the serious, life-altering accident you suffered,” I say. “That is a dangerous risk.”
“Statistics state otherwise.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s something else.”
The tension in the air gathers around us, the space between strained with the heavy pause. The demand for me to expound is delivered with the smoldering look he sends me.
“Despite the altercation between you and Dr. Prescott, my main concern isn’t that you could be a danger to others.” I select my words carefully, treading the rocky waters between us. “But that you may be a danger to yourself.”
A gust of wind rattles the windowpane. My belly flutters with the disruption, but I don’t flinch, watching Orion intently for the slightest tell.
He gives nothing away, his unyielding gaze fixed on mine.
I clear my hair from my vision. “Do you ever feel the impulse to jump?” I ask him. “That sudden, intrusive urge when you’re somewhere high, like your observatory? It’s referred to as the call of the void.”
He tilts his head, the movement deliberate. “That’s normal for most people.”
“Yes. But do you ever act on it?” I press.
Something flares behind his eyes. Heated, challenging. “I don’t have suicidal ruminations,” he states, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wry, humorless smile.
“The sudden urge to jump rarely is,” I say, sensing his resistance.
I need to back off this topic. “People with harm OCD experience intense, violent thoughts. Unwanted flashes of doing something terrible. Hurting someone. Hurting themselves. The more horrific the thought, the more paralyzing. It’s never acted on, but the fear alone makes you feel a loss of control. ”
His jaw tightens, tendons flexing along his throat.
“That’s also common,” he concedes. “Straddling the line between life and death—literal, metaphorical—reminds us that we have free will. It grants us a certain power in choosing to take the leap and jump, rather than falling. Knowing we can answer the call—” he pauses, a ghost of a smile curling his mouth “—but choosing not to.”
Held captive by the intensity of his stare, I measure my breathing. “Then explain it to me, Orion. Why take such risks?”
“It’s simple,” he says. “I need the danger, the rush. When I’m on my bike and the heart races, the mind quiets. There’s no space for obsessive thoughts. To even think.”
My pulse quickens in response to his words. “The endorphin rush offers a distraction,” I reason, nodding slowly. “How often do you use this tactic?”
“Every chance I get.”
“You’re addicted to the rush.”
“I’m addicted to you.”
I grip the folder tighter to my chest. “These impulsive statements intended to deflect won’t help here.”
“Not deflecting.” He pushes back into the cushion of the sofa. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’ve said this to me already.”
“And I’ll say it every time it crosses my mind. You’re so goddamn beautiful, I can’t think straight. I’m obsessed, and fuck…” His voice lowers to a coarse grate. “Ever since the courtyard, my head’s been a mess, Dr. Holbrook.”
I swallow hard. “So this is your retaliation against me, for how uncomfortable I made you feel.” I search his gaze for the truth.
“Not at all,” he says, yet there’s a taut thread woven beneath his amused tone.
“Okay, then.” I nod once. “You can’t say things like that to me while in session.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You have to try.”
Our gazes stay locked, silence ringing too loudly in my ears. “If you’re under my care, you can’t even look at me like that, Dr. Night.”
A fierce intensity darkens his eyes. “Maybe your care isn’t what I want to be under.”
Heat flushes my body. “We need to work on exercises that help you filter what leaves your mouth,” I say, steeling my voice against my flaring nerves.
“They’re just thoughts. Just words. You said I won’t act on them.” The way he’s watching me, gauging me, like this is a test I can’t fail. My spine knots with tension.
I smooth a palm down my skirt. “No, but I’m not sure I can handle sixty-seven instances of your unfiltered thoughts.”