Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

I try to reach for my back, but my arm won’t move. Tingles bite into my hand and I groan. I peel my eyes open to see my wrists cuffed to the door handle. Panic splinters my head as I yank at the restraint.

I fear we’ve been caught, until I realize Grayson is driving. As the grogginess wears off, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s night. Headlights illuminate the dirty windshield.

“Why am I handcuffed? Where did you get them?”

He keeps his gaze ahead. “We’re almost there. And the cuffs came with my new ensemble.” He’s still dressed in the cop uniform.

I twist in the seat to face him. “That’s not what I asked. Why am I restrained, and where is there?”

He reaches between the console and grabs a bottled water. “Drink this.”

With a frustrated sigh, I jerk at the cuffs until my wrist bleeds.

“Finished?” he asks.

“Fuck you!” But suddenly thirst grips my throat. I tip the bottle with my mouth and guzzle. When I pull away, he sets the water in the cup holder. “You said you’d release me at any point.”

“I never said that.” He glances over. “I said I would release you. And I will. But we have a long way to go first.”

“I’m not a hostage, Grayson.”

“No, you’re not a hostage. You’re a hostile victim of your own prison. Once you’re free of that, you can go. But not before you pass the test.”

The way he says test ices my blood. “I won’t run. I made a choice to be here.”

“You will try to run, regardless of your choice. Everyone runs from their truth. I can’t let that happen.”

I settle back in the seat. I evaluate my state and situation. My skin is tacky and itchy with dried sweat. I’m barefoot, my legs and feet covered in dusty mud. My pain is present, but not overbearing. We’re in a stolen car.

For all intents and purposes, I look and am behaving like a captive.

I’m a psychologist who needs to act like one and reason with her patient.

“How did you get the car?” I ask.

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nbsp; “Right place, right time,” he says evasively. At my impatient glare, he continues. “Newer models are designed to prevent theft. Just needed to find the right model to hotwire.”

For all I’ve learned of his psyche, I realize I know nothing of the man. “Is that a trade you picked up from your childhood? Your stepfather?”

He smiles. “Not every confined space belongs to you, London. You can stop trying to shrink me. You were never the one in control.”

Heat rises to my face. Acute anger that he may be right singes my nerves. “How long have you been plotting this?”

He grips the wheel with both hands. “At first, I accepted my time. I think you refer to it as the cool down period. But then you requested an interview.”

“So it’s my fault why we’re here?”

“No,” he says, his voice low and measured. “There’s no fault. That’s like trying to blame the sky for being blue. The color doesn’t exist; it’s a phenomena made up of layers of ozone and oxygen.

“We’re just layers of molecules, our brains hardwired to make up our personalities, our identity. It’s predestined. No amount of nurture or abuse could change either one of us.”

“That’s not fact, Grayson. That’s a longwinded debate that’s been argued for decades. That’s your opinion.”

“Is it?” He looks at me. “How many years and with how many subjects have you tried to rehabilitate?”

I hold his gaze, unable to answer.