Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”

The way he says this…the phrasing—experience the truth, rather than simply wanting me to know it—it’s deliberate. My skin tingles.

“Did you enjoy making your victims suffer? Did you enjoy their torture, their deaths?” My words are just as selective. I need to understand if he’s a sadist or if it’s a facade. With his defenses lowered, I’ll get a clear read.

“I did,” he admits. “I enjoyed it. Not one bit of guilt.”

I free a tense breath. “You can’t feel guilt or regret if you derive pleasure from others’ suffering and pain. So is it pleasurable? Are you aroused when your victims suffer? Do you achieve sexual gratification and release?”

His expression morphs into one of pure ecstasy as his eyes glaze over, like he’s recalling his memories. And when he finds me past the haze, those vivid blue eyes zeroing in on me, I feel it in my core—his intensity a pulsing ache that forces my thighs together. “It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he says, “and I don’t have any of yours.”

“Is that an admission?” I force the subject.

He nods once, a confirmation. “I was born this way. I’ve spent years trying to figure out the why. Then I got bored, and then I was tired. What matters now is how I choose to channel my…sadistic nature. If that’s what you want to label it.”

I lift my head, jaw set. “I do label it as that. You’re also delusional if you believe you’re channeling your sadism for the better. That you’re a hero, using your disorder to punish the guilty. That’s not how it works, Grayson. You do not get to be the judge, jury, and executioner.”

“And yet I am,” he says, sinking down into the chair. “It’s just a simple choice to accept who we are. You can relate. You channel your sickness through your patients.”

An arctic splash of fear snatches the air from my lungs.

“It’s why I’m here,” he continues. “Why you chose me over the drooler in the waiting room. You made a choice. One that benefits you. Just admit it. Admit that you were born as free as me so we can move past this meaninglessness and find out what we’re really capable of.”

I step back, putting more distance between us so I can take a breath not laced with his scent. “What do you want?” A simple question, but the answer will determine everything.

His steely gaze latches on to me. “I want to live. And I want you.”

Time suspends. It’s the honesty I read in his eyes that keeps me locked in this torturous moment. I’m aware that I’m becoming a part of his disorder; I’m the only outside source he has to form a connection—but I refuse to shut it down. I can use it. Ethical? No. Not at all. But there’s no one else like Grayson. I won’t get this opportunity again.

I toss my hair, clearing my vision of my bangs, and pull my glasses off. “In your circumstance, you can only have one pursuit. Since you value choices so much, I suggest you choose wisely.” I break the connection further by turning toward the writing desk and grabbing my notebook. “Symphorophilia. Do you know this term?”

“Paraphilia is sexual deviation.” He smirks, his stare expectant. “I did my homework before our first meeting. Labeling me a deviant is nothing new.”

I cock an eyebrow. “But your particular deviation is,” I counter. “There’s no empirical research on the topic of symphorophilia.” Which is partly why I won’t stop the sessions. A documentation on a confirmed subject would be a first of its kind, and the only research to feature a serial killer. My other reasons are my own p

ersonal motivation.

“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.

I lick my lips and flip my notebook open. “The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. That is too simple, however. Your particular psychopathy is sadistic symphorophilia. We’re going to delve deeper, discover why you turned to psychodrama theatrics instead of setting fires or staging traffic wrecks. And your victimology… Your victim selection process is key.”

Most psychopaths are relieved when they finally have an explanation, some measure of understanding as to why they are the way they are, even if they revolt against reform.

Not Grayson. The downturned edges of his mouth and drawn eyebrows denote his dissatisfaction.

“You don’t agree with my diagnosis?”

His even breaths are audible in the quiet space between us. “Every lock has a key.”

I frown. “It was figurative.”

His mouth presses into a firm line. Giving nothing away. I decide that’s acceptance enough, and end the session by crossing the room and opening the door to prompt the officer.

I hover by the hallway as Grayson is unshackled from the floor restraint and secured to be transferred back to Cotsworth. It’s a tedious and loud process that grates my nerves every time the chains clatter and locks click.

When he’s ready, the corrections officer escorts him forward to meet the other armed officers in the waiting room. As Grayson passes, his hand grazes mine. Just a light brush that could be perceived as an accident, but the directness of the touch, the point of contact, heats my skin. The stroke of his finger along the side of my palm is powerful enough to seize all my senses.

It was no accident.