Chapter 10 Lock Me Up And Throw Away The Key
Lock Me Up And Throw Away The Key
Emily's Search History: Signs of countertransference in trauma specialists
Emily
I’m insane.
Completely, utterly, clinically insane.
It’s the only plausible explanation for why I’m sitting on the sofa next to my stalker—who, by the way, is wearing a creepy mask that makes him look like a bloody mannequin.
After it became clear he wasn’t going anywhere, I gave up on the idea of going back to sleep. And I certainly wasn’t going to… do what he suggested.
There’s something oddly familiar about him as we sit here, barely inches apart. Close enough that if I shifted even slightly, we’d be touching.
His body is ridiculous. When he sat down, his shirt rode up just enough to give me a glimpse of his abs—six pack, maybe eight. Sculpted like a fucking Greek statue.
It makes me self-conscious. More so than usual.
He looks like actual perfection, and I’ve got thick thighs, saggy tits, and cheeks that puff out when I smile.
What the hell could he possibly want from me?
I haven’t even seen his face, but from his body alone I already know—he could have any woman he wants.
So why, in God’s name, am I not running for the hills right now?
I’m a therapist. It’s literally my job to analyse the human psyche. To understand people. Their motives. Their patterns.
And yet mine? Make absolutely no logical sense.
Hence… insane.
“Are you not uncomfortable?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence that stretches around us.
He tilts his head, the motion oddly inquisitive—though with that blank, mannequin-like mask, the effect is downright eerie.
“In the mask,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “Not really. I designed it to be breathable.”
Of course he did. Of course he designed his own fucking stalker mask.
“Do you do this with many women? Break into their homes, leave severed fingers, romance novels, little gifts?”
There’s a low, distorted chuckle. “Worried I’ve got eyes for someone else?”
“More like concerned for their wellbeing,” I retort.
He shakes his head. “You’re the only one for me, Angel.”
“Why me?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He shifts, turning his body towards mine, one arm thrown casually over the back of the sofa as he leans in. Close. Too close.
“Why you?” he echoes, muttering something under his breath I can’t quite catch. Then, louder, “You, Emily Morgan, are the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. And I want to bury my cock in every single one of your holes until you forget other men even exist.”
My breath catches. “So you just want to fuck me?” I whisper, heart pounding.
His hands come up to cup my face—gentle, reverent. The contrast to his words is dizzying.
“Angel. You are the light to my dark. Everything about you fascinates me. Your laugh is the best sound in the world. The strength you wear like armour, the way you hold yourself together even when you’re crumbling—it’s awe-inspiring.
I want to know everything. What makes you laugh.
What makes you cry. What you love, what you hate.
I want to make you smile every day for the rest of your life. ”
I swallow hard, throat tight, breath caught somewhere between terror and… something else.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur.
He pulls back slightly, and the loss of his touch sends a strange wave of disappointment through me.
“You will,” he says softly.
“What’s your name?” I ask, switching tack.
“Pass.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chelmsford.”
I blink, surprised he actually answered that.
“How old are you?”
He hesitates. “Thirty.”
I’m older.
Why does that matter, Emily?
“Do you have a job?”
For a moment, I expect him to shut down again.
“I… am an artist. Of sorts.”
“An artist?”
He confirms but doesn’t elaborate.
We lapse into silence, though this time it feels oddly comforting. It shouldn’t. Nothing about this is normal. But there’s something settling about him being here. I feel safe.
Which is… completely ludicrous.
This man held a knife to my throat. He cut me.
Good lord, lock me up and throw away the key.
He starts asking me questions, gentle ones, and we end up talking for a long time. He offers crumbs of himself—never too much, but enough to keep me curious.
I study him as exhaustion begins to creep in.
He looks comfortable, like he belongs here. His leather jacket clings to him just right, and the rips in his black jeans only accentuate his thick, muscular thighs.
My breathing slows, and eventually I feel myself drifting, darkness curling around me.
When I wake, sunlight spills through the blinds. A blanket—one that wasn’t there before—is draped over me.
I blink, momentarily disoriented.
Last night.
I dreamed that, surely?
I almost manage to convince myself I imagined the whole thing… until I spot a handwritten note on the coffee table.
I enjoyed talking with you last night, Angel. I noticed you were low on food, so I stocked up for you. I miss you already. Talk soon, my love.
That note rattles around in my brain as I get ready for the day. When I open my cupboards to make breakfast, I find he wasn’t lying—every shelf is stocked with my favourite foods. The fridge, too.
After eating, I head out the door with my head held high. I feel more confident than I have in a long time.
At work, I see my usual clients, the day passing in a blur of routine appointments.
Then he walks in.
Eli.
And for some reason, I feel guilty for lusting after him. Not just the usual discomfort of fancying a patient—this is different. This is guilt because of him. My own stalker. What would he think if he knew how badly I crave this man’s touch?
“Doctor Morgan,” Eli greets, that easy grin spreading across his face.
“Eli. How are you today?” I reply, my smile unexpectedly genuine.
“Good, thanks.”
He settles onto the sofa, the leather creaking under his weight.
“So,” I begin, “at the end of our last session, you mentioned that you’d relapsed. Would you be comfortable talking about that today?”
He nods, though I catch a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—that’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
Over the next hour, he tells me about the woman he’s currently stalking. Someone who reminds him of his first.
As he speaks, something ugly stirs in my chest. Jealousy.
I feel jealous that I’m not the one he’s stalking.
I’ve officially lost the plot.
Maybe I should take the practice up on the free therapy they offer staff. God knows I need it.
But that would mean admitting… admitting that I like it.
And there’s no way in hell I could confess that to another professional.
So instead, I sit and listen to one stalker talk about his obsessions.
While I obsess over mine.