Cruel (A Necrosis of the Mind Duet 1)

“I won’t,” I say, stopping her.

She turns her back to me and gazes out over the black water. “I don’t fear death. There are worse things than death. I fear you’re that worse thing, Alex.”

Her words spear me, and I once again loathe that I can feel pain she delivers so effortlessly, where she feels none. “I have failed, I admit that.” I sidle up to her, getting as close as I can without touching. “But I won’t fail with you.”

“You’re delusional.” She uncrosses her arms and spins my way. “What happens if you do cure me? You just let me go? Give me a Band-Aid and a lollipop and send me off on my way?”

My mouth parts, but I stop myself from delivering a canned response. The truth is, I know what I desire to happen. I’ve thought about it obsessively since I first glimpsed her promising data. Yet, I know this uncaring woman before me is not ready to hear my indulgent and, admittedly, selfish reasons.

She shakes her head. “Right. You haven’t thought that far ahead. So fixated on the solution, the afterward never crossed your scientist brain. Well, I’ll tell you one thing that will happen, Dr. Chambers—” she pushes closer “—I will despise you. If I develop even one ounce of compassion, it won’t be for you. I will hate you with every breath in my body.”

I lift my chin, resolute. “Hate is a strong emotion, so visceral in its intent. If I succeed in bringing you to life, your hating me is a risk I’m willing to take. Having your hate is more desired than having you feel nothing for me at all.”

Her expression shifts, a flash of confusion in her drawn eyebrows, before she puts space between us. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You’ll fail.”

“I had a colleague once,” I say, my voice weary. “He played it safe. Earned praise from superiors, impressed investors. I used to envy him. He always succeeded, never seemed to fail. At least, that’s how it appeared at first. The truth was, he never took any risks.”

When she says nothing, I force my glasses on and move before her. “To do something only for the praise, to not dare to do the dangerous and frightening thing that goes against expectations, that is a weak and cowardly way to go through life.”

She tilts her head, scrutinizing me. “That still makes you a failure in the end.”

I nod once, hard. “To achieve true greatness, one must fail again and again. Only through our failure do we strive to recognize that which is truly remarkable. Mediocrity is a death sentence to our genius.”

“And your unwilling subjects suffer a death sentence due to your pride.” She closes the distance between us, her body so close my desire to touch her is agony. “That doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you a murderer.”

Her invasive scent and vitriol lash at me, assaulting my senses and mind all at once, and I either have to touch her or get far away to end the torment.

“You’re wrong. This has nothing to do with my pride,” I say, choosing to move to the water’s edge, to take a breath not laced with her scent. Her ignorant assessment resurrects the memory of Mary I’ve tried to keep buried. The press releases crucifying her as a monster. Psycho Doctor, was what they dubbed my sister. “I’m none of those things.”

“Then prove it,” she says. “Let me go.”

But I’m not talking to her. It’s the voices of the past whispering cruelties now. “She wasn’t like that… I’m not like that.”

“Alex, what the hell are you talking about? Who?”

“Let’s go,” I say, latching on to her wrist. “We need to leave.”

Blakely refuses, however. She digs her heels into the rocky earth and pulls me to a stop. “Why are you doing any of this then?”

My grip tightens, my fingers acutely aware of her pulse, of the feel of her warm skin.

“I want the truth, Alex. Now.”

I meet her eyes—the pure green vibrant even at night. Then I glance at where my hand grips her arm. I release her. Uttering a curse, I spear my fingers into my hair. “You can’t persuade me,” I tell her honestly. “No debate, no argument made will change the outcome, Blakely. I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to just simply stop.”

The second I made the choice to abduct the first subject, my fate was sealed. Everything that followed throughout the course of the experiment is a result of that first decision. I made it knowing I was ending my career, my life.

“All great discoveries take sacrifice,” I mutter beneath my breath.

I expect Blakely to question m

e, to try to unearth the cracks and find my weakness. That’s what she’s searching for as she analyzes me, her watchful eyes following too closely. I’ve given her enough pieces of the puzzle to form a crude picture—all she has to do is connect that last piece.

My defenses flare as she approaches. “Your sister hurt her patients,” she says. “I remember the news about that serial killer, how he chose his victims. He exposed her crimes when he killed her, and you hope to not only cure psychopaths, you want to restore her reputation.”

My whole body tenses. “Psychosurgery was my sister’s specialty.”

Blakely shakes her head, as if trying to understand, then the horror of realization washes over her soft features. “She lobotomized her patients.”