Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

hologist who’s had the benefit of years of education into the mind, I understand people on a level that most don’t. As a whole, people are selfish and tiresome. I simply prefer to analyze them rather than pursue an intimate relationship.”

He laces his hands together on his lap, his gaze hard on me. “That’s either the most truthful response, or the most evasive. Which, either way, reveals your fear.”

A cold splash against the back of my neck freezes all movement. “My fear. Are you going to diagnose me, Dr. Sullivan?”

He sits back, breaking eye contact. “Haven’t you already diagnosed yourself by now?”

“That’s a logical assumption.” And a wrong one. I’ve never analyzed myself. Not even in college, when every psych student was dissecting their own brain. Back then, I had a theory that before one is able to diagnose another, one has to first exercise their mental demons.

A very difficult task. I soon realized it was easier to co-exist with my demons rather than expel them. Once I accepted that, it was easy enough to move ahead, to succeed even. And I succeeded. Right to the top of my class.

“A logical assumption,” Grayson repeats. “Is it a logical assumption, then, that you’re a pathological liar?”

He wants to bait me. Get a reaction. I straighten my back, trying to ignore the pain in my lumbar. Grayson’s eyebrows draw together. Not enough to denote concern, but just slightly to reveal he notices my discomfort.

“Do you feel I’ve lied to you?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself. Especially about your fears.”

I keep my tone low and unemotional. “That’s a severe assessment. Even so, we all lie to ourselves to some extent. It’s the way our mind protects us. If we realized just how insignificant we are, well—” I laugh “—then we might lose the will to live.”

“Lose the will to live. That’s interesting.” He inches closer, staring at me as if he’s puzzling me out. He likes puzzles.

I press back farther into the chair. Touch my forehead, willing the sudden ache away. “Have you given much thought to the outcome of the trial?” I hedge.

“What are you trying to protect yourself from?”

“What?”

“You said lying to yourself is a defense mechanism. I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What do you need protection from?”

I grasp the arms of my chair and pull myself up to stand. “I’m not playing your head games, Grayson. Indulgent time is over.”

“Who hurt you?” He rises from his seat so quickly, I react, retreating as his chains snap taut.

My gaze goes to my desk, to where the hidden panic button is positioned beneath its edge. Grayson tracks my line of sight, then he looks at me. “Go ahead. Press it,” he dares.

I lift my chin, controlling my breathing. “If I do, then this will be our last session.”

Dejection fills his eyes before he’s able to mask his expression. I remind myself that it’s not true emotion; he’s a manipulator.

He proves this when he steps back and rubs his neck. “I would miss our time together, Dr. Noble. You are helping me.”

Want to know when you’re being lied to? Look for the manipulator’s tell: a tug of the ear, a touch of the hair. Rubbing the neck. Only with Grayson, I’m undecided if he’s lying about my helping him or whether he’ll miss us—miss me.

“You want me to believe that you didn’t just do that on purpose?”

He attempts a confused countenance, but he can’t hold it for long. His smile stretches wide, that dimple carving his cheek. My legs quiver under his spell. “Maybe I want you to question which part of all this is true.”

“Mission accomplished. If you purposely set out to manipulate these sessions, then I have to believe you wish to die. I ask you again, is this a game? Your last hurrah before your execution? Are you intentionally wasting my time because yours is up?”

His hands curl into fists. His physical restraint rattles the chains, his tensed muscles evident beneath his jumpsuit. I feel a tremor of anger rolling off him. It’s the first real reaction I’ve witnessed; a true emotion.

I threaten him.

“You are not a game,” he says through clenched teeth.

I suck in a fortifying breath. “I have deception training. You may be skilled in the art of deceit, but I’m skilled in detecting it, Grayson. I want the truth.”