Chapter Thirty-One
Tuesday
“What, you don’t like it?” Mal asked through the bars in the cell window.
“I mean. There is something romantic about a man who paints a portrait of you on his cell wall in his own blood…”
His expression lit up, making me wonder if he’d detected my sarcasm. That, or he knew I wasn’t completely joking. It was intense. But then, so was everything else about this place.
I studied the bloody wall directly opposite the door, noticing the numerous X’s painted to form a large number that took over most of my portrait. “One hundred and one. What does that mean?”
He turned to look at the portrait, his shoulders bouncing with his laughter. “Didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t? You painted it.”
He snapped his attention back on me, the glint in his eyes making me squirm. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I can’t puzzle you out, Mal.”
“I’m pretty simple, actually. Just your classic case of complex post-traumatic stress disorder, with a heavy side-serving of transcendental bullshit.”
I frowned. “Transcendental? As in supernatural?”
“Come on, Doc. Even a rational person like you who searches for logic in everything has to admit there’s something awfully fucky going on here. I may look the same age as you, but I think we both know I’m a lot older.”
As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My working theory was that Rook’s Treatment was to blame for most of it. Although that didn’t explain Lauren’s ghost or the visceral dreams. I’d written that off as symptoms from my Vicodin withdrawal.
“That was some dream, wasn’t it?” he drawled, snickering at the blush heating my cheeks.
It was like he could see right into my head.
“You’re so fucking cute when you’re all flustered and squirming for me. You took that scalpel so well. Your tight little pussy ate up every inch of it.” He flashed me a filthy grin from under his leather and steel muzzle. “If you liked that, just wait until I really get my hands on you.”
A fire ignited in my chest. The science behind dreams that felt connected with another person was often the Barnum effect—a psychological cognitive bias where one would think generic details applied to them.
This wasn’t that.
He’d given specific details of what happened in my dream. Confirming what I’d suspected since our last meeting.
Our dreams were connected.
My blush spread to the rest of my body. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tch.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re such a pathetic liar. Didn’t I tell you to lie better, if you’re to survive this place?”
The only response I could manage was a nod. I didn’t know what else to do or say. He’d rendered me speechless.
“Now, why are you really here, Doc?”
“I… I need you to tell me what happened next after the entry where Bunny dies.”
He cocked a brow, and his smirk crept back. “Let me get this straight. You don’t believe that any of my accounts happened, yet you pay me what I’m sure is an unsanctioned visit in the middle of the night because your fanfiction ended on a cliffhanger?”
“I just need to have the whole picture before I decide what’s real and what isn’t.”
I knew by the mischievous gleam in his gaze that this information would come at a price.
“Alright, Doc. I’ll tell you the rest of the story. But you’re going to have to do something for me in return.”