Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m no longer on the clock, doc.”

I stay silent and wait him out. There should be a pressing urgency to this discussion, as we’re running out of time. But there’s a strange calmness surrounding us.

“I don’t fear death,” he finally says. “Not in the way most people do. I was of the mindset that once they killed me, my life, my purpose…it would be done. Finished. There’s nothing to fear in that. I almost welcomed it, the chance to rest the relentless compulsions.” His gaze follows me, predatory and invasive. “And then there was you.”

“I fail to see how I have anything at all to do with it.”

He cocks his head. “You can’t fear losing what you never knew existed. You changed everything, London. Now I can’t simply cease—because I want you too badly. I want what we could mean together.”

“That’s delusional. Even if you live—”

“If?”

I swallow. “Grayson, we’ll never be together. You’re a serial killer behind bars. For life.” The echo of my voice carries, reflecting the truth of that statement back to me. “Besides, as I’ve stated before, you’re experiencing transference. Your feelings for me aren’t real.”

“Because I’m incapable of feeling.”

“Yes. You’re a manipulator. You manipulate emotions, and you’re confusing the two.”

He bounds off the cot. “Disempathetic,” he pronounces slowly. “I’ve done my research. Why didn’t you cite it in your evaluation? Why haven’t you mentioned it once when it’s fucking clear as crystal?”

I mock laugh. “Disempathetic type is a myth. It’s the dream of wives and girlfriends of psychopaths everywhere—a way to cope. Convincing themselves that the men they love actually love them in return.”

His face hardens. “Admit that it’s possible for me.”

“I will not ever.”

His stare becomes calculated as he watches my features. Reading on my face what I won’t voice. “Then what about you, Dr. Noble? If you feel nothing for me, why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

But then that’s another lie.

His crooked smile reveals that wicked dimple in his cheek. “I do. You’ve come to find out if I’m going to tell the world your secret.”

I wet my lips. “I’m tired of this dance, Grayson.”

He moves closer, places his hands on the bars. “Tell me the truth of what happened, and no one will ever know.”

I can feel his excitement. The way his pale gaze shines with anticipation. He’s eager to witness me relive the past, to experience my kill through me.

“How did you find out?” he asks.

I press my hand to my forehead, squeeze my eyes closed, mentally willing the pain in my head away. “I’d be a fool to trust you.”

“But that’s part of therapy,” he says. “Trust. Patient and doctor. Trusting each other.”

A weak laugh falls from my lips. The details are insignificant. I recite them off like I’m reading from a grocery list. Removing any trace of emotion from my voice that he can glean pleasure from.

“I went into the basement and there was a girl,” I say. “She was my age, too dehydrated to cry, trembling and covered in angry, red lashes, her skin blistered and bruised.” I look up at him, embracing the memory. “She was beautiful.”

“I tried to set her free,” I whisper. “I knew it was the right thing to do. But I didn’t have the key. I never thought of calling the police, or running to a neighbor…”

“Because your father was the sheriff,” he provides.

“That, and I didn’t want anyone to know. No one would’ve believed me, anyway. Probably.” I shake my head. “I didn’t really believe it until I saw her. By then, it was too late to go back.”