CHAPTER 9 - Deimos #2
I push my hips closer to her body, pinning her against the edge of a cold steel table.
“Do you feel that?”
I ask quietly, my lips inches from hers.
“What that look of yours does to me? How it ruins every bit of my control?”
Her breath catches, a soft broken sound that fuels the fire in my blood.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Ever.”
I whisper, the promise feeling like a vow in this temple of the dead. I lower the gun slowly, the weight of the steel suddenly feeling insignificant compared to the weight of her gaze.
“But I need you, Madeline.”
My voice drops further, turning into something almost rough, a raw confession that I never intended to make.
“I can’t fucking breathe without you.”
There it is. I've already said more than I wanted. The words hang there between us. Cold air. Silent witnesses lying next to us, their stories ended, while ours is just beginning its most dangerous chapter.
Her gaze searches my face, trying to understand.
Trying to decide if this is another test or the most terrifying truth she's ever heard. Her breathing has changed. Slower. Heavier. She doesn’t look away.
And I can see it now. The same magnetic pull I felt the moment we were dancing together.
The dark thread connecting my darkness to hers.
The conflict tearing through her. Fear telling her to run. Logic telling her this is insane. But something darker, something ancient and hungry, is pulling her closer instead. Her throat moves as she swallows, her skin pale and luminous in the dim light.
Then slowly, with a deliberate grace that makes my heart stall, she lowers herself to her knees. The cold floor of the morgue beneath her. Rows of silent corpses surrounding us like a macabre audience. Her eyes lift back up to meet mine. Waiting. Fuck.
She isn’t submissive. I see it immediately.
Her spine stays straight, her pride intact even in this position.
Her hands rest stiffly against her thighs, fingers curled, as if she’s still deciding whether to clench them into fists.
Her breathing is uneven. Not a panic. Not exactly.
Something else. Her eyes never leave mine. Defiant. Confused. Angry.
“You could have walked out,” I say quietly, the words barely a breath in the vast, cold room.
She came down here. She stayed. She opened every drawer, exposing the reality of my world. Her gaze flickers toward the door for a fraction of a second before returning to me.
The conflict on her face is almost violent. Every rational, scientific part of her is screaming that this is wrong. That I’m dangerous. A monster. A shadow that should have stayed in the dark.
Still, she remains exactly where she is. On her knees. In front of me. She exhales sharply through her nose, frustration flickering across her face like a lighting.
“You put a gun to my throat,” she rasps.
I crouch slightly, bringing myself closer to her level.
“Madeline,” I say calmly, the name feeling like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“I would have never shot you.”
Her eyes narrow, searching for a lie, but all she finds is the chilling, absolute truth of my obsession.
“I know it’s hard for you to admit this,” I continue, my voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration. I reach out, brushing my thumb across her lower lip. It's soft, trembling, and a stark contrast to the cold steel I usually hold.
“But you enjoy the chase. The fear. The feeling that I’m the one holding your life in my hands.”
“That’s crazy.”
But her quiet voice betrays her. Too quiet. Too uncertain. My gaze drifts lower for a moment, tracing the rapid pulse in her neck, before returning to the storm in her eyes.
“And yet you’re still here.”
I let my hand slide softly through her platinum hair, the strands like silk against my skin, as I tuck a loose lock behind her ear.
Her breathing deepens. Her fingers flex against her thighs, digging into the fabric. I watch the war unfolding behind her eyes. The battle between sanity and this dark, irresistible pull. Fucking beautiful.
When she finally speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“This is wrong.”
I hold her gaze, pinning her with the sheer weight of my presence.
“Yes.”
I push her chin up gently, forcing her to look at me, ensuring there is nowhere else for her to hide. No logic to retreat to.
“Do you want this Madeline?”
For the first time since we met, I can’t quite read her expression. The shadows are playing tricks on me. She might punch me in my face. Or she might… I stop the thought there.
She doesn’t answer. And I won’t force her. Not now. I want her to choose this ruin.
Instead, I straighten slowly, leaving her exactly where she is. Still kneeling. My hands move to the belt of my pants, the leather cracking in the silence. I see the exact moment realization hits her. Her eyes follow every movement. Curious. Hesitant. Hungry.
I push the zipper down. Then the waistband. The fabric slides lower over my hips. The look in her eyes shifts again, disbelief warring with a fascination she can't suppress. Like she still doesn’t believe I’ll actually do it. Right here. In her sanctuary of death.
My hand brushes against the fabric of my boxers. I grip myself through it, a low groan escaping my throat as I watch her reaction. Her big, icy blue eyes drop to my lap. She looks almost hypnotized, her lips parting just enough for me to hear her shallow breaths.
She could leave. Right now. She could stand up, walk out of those doors, and never look back.
Instead she stays.
And that alone makes me fucking harder than any kill ever has. My head falls back as I drag my hand slowly over the fabric, my thumb tracing the length of me while I keep my eyes locked on hers.
“Is my little pathologist getting wet watching the city’s most wanted killer touch himself in front of her?”
I murmur, my voice dripping with a dark, predatory lust.
“Tell me, Mali… do you want to see how this story ends?”
Her posture shifts slightly. Not away. Just enough to ease the tension building in her body. Not uncomfortable. Interested. Dirty girl.
A crooked smile pulls at my mouth. My hips move slowly into my hand. She bites her lower lip slightly, never taking her eyes off me. She's trying to see how much I'll restrain myself. I see the way she's trying to push the smile away, and my patience snaps.
My hand shoots forward, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, forcing her head back to meet my gaze.
“You’re fucking killing me with that look,” I groan, the sound torn from the deepest part of my chest.
“If you want something…”
I lean closer, my lips brushing against hers.
“Take it.”
My fingers tighten in her hair as I watch her. Almost every corpse in here is a piece of my work. Work that she studied. I see the moment the war inside her reaches its breaking point. And now, the artist and the critic are finally done talking.
Desire. Pure, dark, and irreversible.
Her gaze drops slowly once again. Not in submission. Decision. Her hand shifts slightly against her thighs, fingers curling before she slowly lifts one of them. For a second she hesitates, her hand hovering in the frigid air like she’s giving herself one last chance to stop.
Then her eyes flick back up to mine, burning with a mix of hatred and hunger.
“You’re a fucking sociopath,” she whispers.
The corner of my mouth pulls into a dangerous smile. The way she said it… so fucking intimate. I would let this woman call me the worst names in existence, and I would still smile about it like a damn maniac.
“I’ve been called worse.”
Her hand moves. Slowly. Carefully. Testing the air like she still doesn’t quite believe this is happening. But she doesn’t stop. And the moment her fingers free me from my boxers, the sensation is so sharp it's almost painful. My head drops back with a low, ragged breath.
“Fuck….”
I guide her head closer, my hand steady in her hair while my eyes lock onto hers.
“Good girl,” I breathe out, the words ghosting over her.
She’s kneeling between rows of corpses, touching me like she belongs here in this graveyard. Like she belongs to me. And she does.
Her gaze suddenly snaps to the security camera perched in the corner, a flicker of logic trying to claw its way back into her brain. I answer before the question even leaves her lips.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say quietly, sliding my thumb briefly along her jawline, forcing her to focus back on the only thing that matters. Me.
“I already took care of them. Bryan won’t see anything unusual. Tonight, the only record of this will be in your head”
My own gaze scans the room, a smirk forming at the sheer, macabre beauty of it all.
“The only souls watching us are the ones you so obediently pushed out on the metal trays. The corpses you studied. My work.”
I lean down, my voice a velvet promise.
“They will watch you as you take me. A quiet, cold presence to witness your fall.”
Her eyes almost roll, and for a quick moment, I catch a glimpse of disgust. It only makes my smile wider.
“I’ll put that attitude of yours to use. By the end of this night, you’ll learn exactly why you should never interfere with my observations or work with the detectives.”
I tilt my head, looking down at her. Something dark has taken over, a desperate need to be understood by the only person capable of seeing the real me. I’m not sure how making me feel this good helps her understand my soul, but we’ll see about that later.
I need her. Now.
She slowly wraps her hands around my cock, unconsciously licking her lower lip as she takes a long, lingering look. Amused. Shocked, maybe. I’ll make it fit. She was made for me.
She starts to stroke slowly, her eyes locked on mine, before leaning in and kissing the tip. That single agonizingly soft movement almost brings me to my knees too. She’s teasing me. On purpose. She knows exactly what she's doing, using my own hunger against me.
A deep, guttural groan rips from my throat as I stare down at her. My eyes are darkening.