Grayson jabs the point of the knife deeper. “Come on, you’re smarter than that. Would a cop use a switchblade?” The guy says nothing. “How’s our friend doing?” Grayson asks me.
I let my gaze rove downward. “A little wilted.” His once-erect penis now flops flaccidly over his open jeans. Grayson has stolen his power, his control—his virility.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the guy claims.
Pressing closer to his back, Grayson says in a low tone, “Neither did she. Guess trouble just knows where to look.” Then to me: “Where is the jugular? Here or here?” He repositions the point of the blade. “Or is this the carotid?”
He winks at me, and I’m like a smitten schoolgirl. Sharing an inside joke with her crush. It’s exhilarating.
“I get them confused,” Grayson continues. “How deep do you have to cut to sever the carotid? Have to slice through tendon and muscle. That sounds messy.” He nudges the man’s shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”
Squeezing his eyes closed, the guy pleads, “Please—”
“Don’t.” Grayson delivers one word to silence his attempt. “You don’t want to go there yet. It’s far too early.”
A few paces down the alley, Grayson glances at me, an unspoken question in his eyes. He wants me to pick the kill site.
This is too spontaneous. How many times have patients told me that rash decisions were their downfall? I’m not sure if this is another test, if Grayson still doubts my transformation…
“There,” I say, pointing to a darkened warehouse.
Grayson nods his agreement, and a smidgen of relief settles over me.
“It’s not that I don’t like the alley you chose,” Grayson says to our captive. “It’s a good location. Nice and secluded on a dark night. It’s just that I would’ve chosen differently.”
Kill sites are Grayson’s specialty. Over the years, he’s perfected his methods. Selecting places that allow him plenty of time to torture his victims. I diagnosed Grayson with a particular psychopathy: sadistic symphorophilia. He experiences gratification from staging disasters.
Yet there’s so much more beneath his disorder. The man is methodical. His high intelligence alone adds layers of complexity to his psyche…and then there’s the development of a disempathetic type.
I’ve rebuked its claim in academia and all through my professional career, and yet I can’t deny my own yearning to accept the impossible—that a psychopathic criminal has developed feelings for one woman.
Not just feelings. Love.
That all-consuming, elusive emotion the world revolves around.
It’s possible I’m as delusional as the women who write to serial killers in prison. Believing they’re the special one—the one who has penetrated some protective layer of their hardened heart.
No, I’m not that delusional. Not anymore. There is some unique chemistry between Grayson and I that can’t be summed up with blanket terminology or compared to love. It defies reason. And as I watch him guide our victim into the abandoned warehouse, I admit, I even fear him.
For the average mentally healthy person, the emotion of love can make them do the unthinkable. What is Grayson capable of?
He pushes the man down on the cement floor, then looks at me. That sinister spark in his eyes. It’s like foreplay, the anticipation building, and I sense something in him that wasn’t there before.
He fears me, too.
Grayson forces the man to remove the tacky metallic shirt and, once he has the man’s wrists and ankles Zip-tied behind his back, Grayson unloads the rest of the tools on his person. Another knife tucked in his boot. A sculpting wire in his back pocket. A slim roll of masking tape. I filed-down key. I raise an eyebrow.
After he tapes the man’s mouth, he approaches me slowly, stealthily. He removes my blond wig, letting it drop to the floor, then steps close to run his fingers through the escaped wisps of my brown tresses.
“There you are,” he says. He trails his fingers over my shoulder and up my neck, his breathing becoming labored. “I never knew how enjoyable touching could be.”
I take his hand from my neck, bringing both his arms before me. I undo the buttons of his cuffs and roll back the sleeves of his dark-gray button-up, exposing the scars and tattoos that cover his forearms.
“There you are,” I whisper.
As I drag my palms along his arms, feeling every beveled and smooth scar, Grayson towers over me, a formidable force pressing against my senses. His touch, his scent, the suggestive allure in his intense eyes… I’ve always been his captive.
Nothing and no one could’ve prevented our collision. Just like now, as he closes his strong arms around me, his hand trapping the nape of my neck, and crushes his mouth to mine.