I’m sitting in the meeting room, waiting for my appointment with the court-ordered psychologist. Mandatory. Not something my lawyers can get me out of.

Apparently, if they clear me, I’m free to go. But if they can’t, I get sent to high-security prison. Seems strange to me, but I’m not concerned.

I’ve manipulated people for so long and with such brutal efficiency I have no doubts I can wrap this geek around my little finger.

I’m fucking bored. I miss my cigars and my fancy booze. A bit of pussy wouldn’t go unappreciated either.

As yet, I’ve had no issues with other inmates. I see them sizing me up all the time. Dangerous animals checking out the fresh meat.

There’s a still purpose to the way I move. A lucid control. It’s essential to manipulating others.

Simply put, most people don’t know how to monitor and control their body language. I meet their surreptitious glances with easy calm. It’s this uncertainty that has them holding back, at least for now.

Sooner or later, someone’s going to ask for it. They’ll want to test me. That’s when I’ll fucking bring it.

By way of good behavior, I’m not chained up. No one is. A few inmates are talking to their wives or kids, eating stuff their families have brought and talking about home.

Usually, my meeting with a psych would have to be confidential, but it’s just a quick interview, something about it being court-ordered. All geekpants will have to do is check the box marked “sane,” and we’re done.

I don’t plan on giving them any reason to investigate my mind further.

I like it just how it is—dark, sharp, and powerful.

The two guards at the door shift as the buzzer sounds, and I look up to see who’s joining us. Maybe it’s my psych.

Silence seems to fall all around me, and my ears start ringing as she walks in. This can’t be some jail bird’s wife. She’s incredible—perfect pale skin, clear light-green eyes, and hair…like flame.

Fuck. Looking at her makes my cock hurt and my mind race. I press my hands to the table as she walks toward me.

She’s wearing a gray suit, with a tight skirt and her white blouse under a blazer. Very professional.

But her hair tumbles and flows around her, wild and untamed. I make sure I don’t react, despite my heart hammering against my breast bone. My palms may even be a little sweaty.

None of that is as important as maintaining a stance of calm.

She walks toward me, looking at a stack of papers she’s carrying. She’s probably legal aid or something. First-year law student.

She looks up, and those icy, pale eyes hit my own. She looks right into me, slowing down a little to organize her papers. I feel a grin spreading across my face as she slips into the seat across from me.

“Mr. Covington?” She looks up as she places her papers down on the table.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“I’m Alison Hughes. I’ll be your doctor, for the most part. I’m here to do your routine assessment for psychology and possible referral to psychiatry. If you object to my service or to the process, I am legally bound to offer you alternatives.”

“No, doll,” I whisper, forcing her to lean toward me. “No objections here.”

“Excellent! Let’s begin then. Do you have any violent or masochistic tendencies?”

I run my fingers across the table—not too close, not yet, but just to put the idea in her mind that I might touch her.

“What’s your favorite food?” I turn my head to the side a little, appraising her. “I don’t mean your favorite meal but your favorite thing to eat when you’re laying on the couch.”

Those gorgeous red lips curve up at the edges. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s smiling.

“I believe I asked you a question, Mr. Covington.”

“And I also asked one. Talking about me here is so…clinical. Too boring. Why don’t we just get to know each other like real people? Maybe over dinner?”

Her smile dies down, and the look she gives me is stern but somehow blank, like she’s not feeling anything. Fuck, it turns me on!

“Someone who feels the need to control and manipulate the interview to that extent may be higher up into the more dangerous disorders than I first thought. I’ve written an initial assessment, you see. This interview is a formality for legal reasons. You don’t seem upset or frightened to be in jail?”

“No. I’m not upset.”

“But why not? If you’re innocent, you would have anxiety over being here for not doing anything. If you’re guilty, then you would be upset over being caught. You truly feel nothing?”

My instincts warn me to step very carefully. Smarter than I thought, this one.

I lean forward and run a hand through my hair, smiling at her.

“Honey, the best thing I can tell you is, I’m not concerned. Things like this work themselves out. I know I haven’t done anything wrong—not by my own standards—therefore, I don’t have any guilt. It’s only a matter of waiting for the law and the evidence to catch up with me. Then I’ll be a free man.”

She stares deep into me, expression unchanged.

“What exactly are your standards then, Mr. Covington?”

I stare at her for a moment, quiet awe stealing over me. I lean forward, just a little, and move my hands toward hers.

She doesn’t move. She just keeps staring me down.

Oh yeah, I like this one. I want to play with it for a while. Maybe even keep it.

“What’s your favorite book, Alison?”

She sighs and goes through her papers.

“I can label you as uncooperative.”

“But I’m not.”

“Do you have a problem with me?”

“No.”

“Do you have a problem with being assessed mentally?”

“No. I’m a big believer in self-discovery, embracing your own demons, and all that. You have no idea!”

“Then, I would like for you to answer a couple of questions for me so I can at least file a decent assessment of you.”

“You mean, if you stamp me with the big red button that says ‘sane’, I won’t get to see you anymore?”

She smiles, marking something off with a pen. I hear her shoe clip against the floor and realize she’s stretching, relaxing.

Getting used to my company. Good.

“That may be so.”

“Then, I might have to act crazy for a while then. This has been the highlight of my stay here in Castle Crim.”

I notice a slight smile curl at the edges of her mouth before she goes back to her papers. One hand flicks at a tendril of hair spilling against her face.

So beautiful. So smart. Got to play this one carefully.

I’m getting there, though.

“So, Mr. Covington, do you have any violent tendencies?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Answer mine, and I’ll think about it.”

I grin at her. Tricky, tricky. Oh, I love a tricky one.

“Do I have violent tendencies? I don’t think so.”

Memory of blood splashing my face. How good it feels.

“I lose my cool occasionally.”

Pulling out a knife under Senator Dick’s face.

“I get upset. I’ve struck out, made mistakes. Seen red. Perhaps I could use help with my anger. But violent? No. I don’t think so.”

“Hmm…” She leans over with her pen and marks the book. Looking down at the page and not me, she speaks softly, “Vanilla and honey ice cream.”

“I’m sorry?”

She looks up, eyes lit by the cutest, cheekiest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Vanilla and honey ice cream. On the couch. My favorite.”

I let out a laugh. “Honey, you aren’t living. You need to try some chunky rocky road.”

She laughs with me. Excellent. Bonding.

And what a sound her laugh is.

The sounds of the room had become nonexistent to me, but suddenly I can hear someone chanting. Sounds like ‘little jack sprat’.

Are you kidding me?

I turn and look. This big fucking lummox is staring right at me.

He cut in front of me at breakfast this morning. He’s eyeballing me like a wild dog.

“What’s a matter there, ole Jack boy? I hear ya don’t like being called Jack. Why not? Little Jack?”

My chest goes cold and still. So does the big lummox. He’s starting to realize this is a mistake, and he’s not sure why.

I feel my lips turn up in a mirthless smile. I don’t feel myself move across the room. All I see is the big fucker and his dull, stupid eyes getting closer.

I smash him with both fists, and we roll across the floor. He tries to come out on top, but I force him over and straddle the fat fucker. I pound him with my fists until they’re bloody.

It must have happened so fast; no one else had moved. The guards drag me off him, leaving his face a bloody pulp.

As they manhandle me from the room, I see Alison watching. She hasn’t moved. She’s sitting quietly with her papers, watching me.

She glances down at a drop of blood that flew on one of her papers, and a slight smile curls across her face as I watch it soak into my name on her sheet.

She looks back up at me and watches me get dragged away.

The cold appraisal of her eyes seriously turns me on.