London

The balmy night air sticks to my skin, causing my silk blouse to cling to my chest. I stagger my steps, making sure I appear the helpless, intoxicated victim. The closer the heavy footfalls sound, the more my heart rate ramps.

The man behind me is not a victim.

He chose his fate the second he followed me out of the club.

During one of our first sessions, Grayson said his victims were akin to predators stalking the woods in search of prey. If they fell into the hunter’s trap, they were in the wrong place to begin with.

For us, this moment is predestined. It was never a question of if we would hunt together but when.

Grayson understood our dynamic—what we would mean together—before I could even conceive my own truth.

We’re an inevitability.

Once I shed every lie, severed every anchor weighing me down, it was like being reborn. I walked through the embers of one life to another; a new start. A new woman—one who no longer fears the dark corners of her mind.

Rather, the time I spent apart from Grayson only solidified my resolve. Strengthening the bond between us, knowing with each sign I gave him, he was waiting. Waiting for me to fully accept my new reality. Waiting for the FBI to look the other way. Waiting for the perfect moment, when every mechanism he set into motion aligned, bringing us together.

A skillfully planned and manipulated moment of chance.

Always a step ahead, my patient has this world twisted around his finger…and we’re all just trying not to be left behind.

Like the man gaining on me now, he’s desperate not to be left behind, dominated by a world that no longer belongs solely to the male gender. Anger seethed in his eyes as he scoped out his choice victim in the nightclub. Maybe he’s unaware of why he’s so hostile toward women; maybe he despises his mother. Maybe he recently suffered a stressor that sent him over the edge—a wife or girlfriend left him. Humiliated him. Perhaps these slights have happened to him all his life…and now he’s ready to set it right with me.

No matter what his reasoning, his justification, he won’t be given a second chance. Grayson no longer manufactures redemption just as I no longer suggest rehabilitation.

Rehabilitation for the truly deviant and disturbed is not possible.

I feel the man’s presence looming, a dark shadow growing and swallowing the light. And when the blackness descends over me, he’s there to claim his prize. His arm bands around my waist in a tight vise.

“Shh,” he coos as he places a sweaty hand over my mouth. “We’re just going to have a little fun, baby. Didn’t think you’d put me on frustrate like that and just walk away, did you? Get me all hot”—he rubs his crotch against my ass—“then leave. You know what happens to little cock teases?”

His sour alcohol breath twists my stomach. I shake my head against his hold, maintaining my helpless disposition. Giving him the guise of being in control. Although I’m not sure he needs the reassurance. This isn’t his first time.

There’s no hitch in his voice. No tremble or stutter to convey the usual nerves that accompany a first-time attack. He’s aroused, with no inhibition or worry that he might not be able to perform due to inexperience or his alcohol consumption. Rather, he appears confident. He knows he has enough time.

“Cock teases get punished,” he says. His arm is suddenly gone from around my waist, and I hear the snap of a weapon—a knife. His elbow digs into my back. He smashes my body against the brick building. “Now, I want your palms planted against the wall. You got me?”

I whimper against his hand in affirmation.

“Good. Make this real nice and easy, and I won’t have to mark up that pretty face.”

He moves back, allowing my hands to reach for the brick. The sound of his zipper lowering rebounds off the building.

“Make all the noise you want,” he says around a grunt as he tears a condom wrapper open, “but if you scream, I’m going to make it hurt so much worse.”

My nails dig at the brick. He plans to make it hurt regardless. This is the control he craves. Rape is never about sex. It’s about stealing ownership. Dominating the victim. Asserting ones power over another.

And knowing I ultimately have the power…?

I’m humming. My excitement buzzes beneath my skin, thrilling.

He gets as far as fisting the hem of my skirt before he stills. I feel the tremble then, the hesitancy. The loss of his power.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow your filthy hands to mar this beautiful creature.”

Grayson’s voice is deep and steady. Outside the club, with no loud music or interference, I can hear the lilt of his Irish accent and the subtle, sensual bass notes that slip over my skin like the silkiest material.

“Turn around, baby,” Grayson says, and I spin slowly to face my attacker.

The man who threatened to punish me appears much more docile now. His arms hang limply by his sides, a crumpled condom wrapper clenched in one hand, a knife in the other. Grayson relieves the man of his weapon, then presses another blade to his neck—a switchblade. The fact that Grayson carries a weapon with him shouldn’t surprise me.

By the heated look in Grayson’s eyes, he’s wondering if it excites me. Yes. Yes, it does.

“What are you…undercover?” the man spits. “This is entrapment.”

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.

An unstoppable force.

His hands seek lower to grasp beneath my arms, then he lifts me above him. I’m a doll in his hands. Fragile and breakable. He keeps me suspended as he backs me against a shipping container. My calves hit the steel edge as I’m seated atop the unit. Grayson’s hands move to my thighs, hiking up my skirt an inch, before he finally breaks the kiss.

A pained expression creases his features. He doesn’t have to say a word, because I’m feeling the same constriction in my chest. The unbearable affliction of not enough.

This is the danger—our danger. Not the threat outside this warehouse; the FBI and police officials closing in on us. Not the judgmental world that would bow to hypocrisy to see us dead for our evils. No, nothing beyond these walls is powerful enough to really threaten either of us.

The danger lies in whether or not we’ll survive each other.

The overbearing desire to consume and consume and consume until we’re sated…but we’ll never be sated. We’re an endless abyss, demanding replete gratification, our disease our enemy. We’re afflicted with an insatiable hunger.

“My sick matches your sick,” I whisper to him.

Burning recognition ignites in the depths of his eyes. He lunges, wild and mad, seizing my wrists. He crawls over me, his knee spreading my legs, as he prowls my body like a feral animal. Every erogenous zone comes alive with the pledge of his cruel touch.

A sharp clatter draws Grayson’s attention, and he releases a low growl. He nips my lower lip, a promise simmering in the dark pools beneath his contacts. Then he releases me and stands. He situates the bulge in his denim before he turns to address the rapist in our presence.

“You know, I wanted to drag this out,” Grayson says as he rounds the man trying to squirm toward the roll door. He drags the guy back to the center by his ankle. “This was supposed to be a reunion present for my girl. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment for a while…watching her get the chance to play…”

Grayson is not a spontaneous killer. Everything he does has been planned out in meticulous detail beforehand. He rarely has any physical contact with his victims. The one thing he does know more than intuitively is if the victim is guilty of a heinous crime.

That’s important to him. It means authorities won’t be inspired to vindicate the victim. There are more deserving victims who warrant the time and effort—not pedophiles. Or corrupt doctors who torture their patients. Or rapists.

Is this all for me? Is his sudden shift in method a way to fuse our two techniques together? Or is it really proof he requires. I killed for him once, but it was Grayson’s hand that pulled the lever. Not mine.

“But,” Grayson adds, groaning as he drags a clear plastic tarp to the center. He then reaches into the man’s back pocket, alleviating him of his wallet. “But, Larry Fleming—” he glances down at the man “—really? That’s unfortunate. Well, Larry, I’m sure I could do a quick search on you. Find all sorts of other unfortunate things, like the fact you’ve probably been convicted before.”

Larry stammers as he gets to his knees. He’s muttering against the masking tape. Grayson yanks it off, his blade pressed to Larry’s neck so quick the man swallows his cry of pain.

In a shaky voice, Larry says, “I was falsely accused, and I still served my time!”

Grayson rolls his shoulders back. He grabs Larry’s phone he placed out of his reach from one of the crates, silent fury radiating from his body. He drops the phone to the tarp and smashes it. With a forceful yank on the guy’s collar, Grayson pulls Larry upright. He drops closer to his ear. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Larry doesn’t answer.

The click of the switchblade reverberates around the warehouse, then the blade is once again at Larry’s throat. Larry stutters out a “Y-yes.”

Grayson looks at me. “Spread your legs, London. Just like you used to in your therapy room. Nice and slow…but leave them parted.”

A thrill seizes my chest. “You noticed that?”

He nods leisurely. “I noticed everything.”

I uncross my ankles and make like I’m going to cross my legs, but instead, I relax back onto my hands, inching my thighs open. Grayson’s gaze drops to the apex between my thighs. I can feel the heated, tangible press of his stare as he licks his lips.

“So fucking sexy,” Grayson says. “Isn’t she sexy?”

Larry nods.

“Touch yourself,” Grayson says to me.

An immediate ache blooms in my core at his command. As I slip my hand beneath my black skirt, I see only Grayson. The man who challenged my sanity and brought me back from the brink. I’m alive—truly alive—only when I’m with him.

Grayson’s chest rises and falls as he watches me, matching my own heavy breaths. The intensity in his eyes pulls at the ache in my back, the throb so deep and hot I can’t help but rock my hips against the hard container.

He grabs ahold of Larry’s hair and tugs his head back. “Beware,” Grayson says, his voice a low threat. “She’s a temptress. Seduction is one of her skills. Just look at her… Don’t you want her? Don’t you crave her?”

Larry remains silent. The bulge in his pants speaks to his arousal despite his lack of voice.

Grayson sighs, long and breathy. “The truth is, Larry. You’re not worthy. She could snap your mind like a twig without breaking a sweat, then have you groveling at her feet, begging her to do it again, before you slit your own throat just to make the torment end.”

Moonlight bleeds in from a dirty window, catching the blade as Grayson flicks it back and forth, back and forth, silver glinting.

“Maybe neither of us are worthy,” Grayson continues, “but you’re absolutely fucking beneath her.”

The blade slips down to Larry’s throat. Larry is shaking now. A muddle of curses and prayers fall from his mouth, melding together incoherently. And Grayson’s intense stare is aimed on me.

Just as I selected a key to end a man’s life before, Grayson is waiting for me to decide. Either way, Larry cannot leave here alive. He knows who we are. He knows too much. He will die by one of our hands.

Or by both.

I ease off the unit and move toward Grayson, summoned to him like light to a black hole. Only I’m a volunteer—his gravitational pull captured me willingly.

He towers above, face drawn in sharp angles and contrasting beauty, as I place myself directly opposite my lover, my fiend. With our victim between us, I lay my hand over Grayson’s and, holding his unwavering gaze, drag the blade across the rapist’s throat.

It’s not an easy kill. It takes strength. My grip on Grayson’s hand is steady and firm as I force the blade deep, slicing through cartilage. Memories of steel hitting bone assault me. The vibration ricochets through the blade as it cuts through muscle and tendon…and suddenly I’m back in that dark basement. My father’s hand covering mine as he takes a life.

Understanding dawns. Grayson never does anything impulsively. The victim selection; the hasty kill; the warehouse. All my choices, but always by his design.

Where I was molded into a killer against my will, Grayson is liberating me of that experience. Reinventing it; making it ours.

I’m engrossed, drugged. There’s a moment of shocked uncertainty that graces the victim’s expression before blood beads in a dark-red line across his neck. It then streams down his throat, a thick river coating his chest with a shiny red lacquer. His wet gurgle echoes around the enclosed space.

Warmth spreads over the back of my hand. The wet heat of blood. Copper mists the air, the scent of murder an aphrodisiac.

I’m watching our victim, but Grayson is watching me. I can feel his eyes boring through me, taking in every movement, every response.

Grayson releases the body, and it crumples to the tarp. He lets our victim fall unceremoniously without an afterthought. My gaze flicks up to meet Grayson’s as a hungry pang ricochets through my body. The ache builds, ravenous, demanding to be filled. As Grayson steps around the pool of blood, his penetrating gaze drilling me, that ache pushes deeper, arching my back.

He stalks me like a hunter, like he’s starving, and drops the blade before he captures my hips and hauls me up into his arms. I’m so close already. Trembling, on the brink, barely able to hold onto his shoulders as he moves us toward the container.

His movements are primal. Need dictating. He lays me down on the steel surface and pushes my skirt up, his fingers leaving a trail of red in their wake. My skirt and panties are tugged down my thighs in one swift action.

He doesn’t ask—he doesn’t need to; the question of whether I’m aroused by our kill is answered as he tastes me, my body giving him proof where words fail. We’re beyond simple communication. Our desire only answered in raw, carnal flesh and blood.

As soon as he drops between my thighs, his mouth surrounding me, I spike with unadulterated need. A sharp pulse spears the ache deeper, a pain so pleasurable I grit my teeth as every muscle contracts, my core clenching to be fulfilled.

Grayson looks up from between my legs as he devours, watching the wave crest over me. I break with a single flick of his tongue, too stimulated to stop the crash. But I’m not sated. Far from it. The external orgasm only heightens my need to feel him inside me.

“I need you.” It comes as a breathy plea, but Grayson is already in motion to claim what’s his.

He braces a hand on the container as his other reaches for the closure of his jeans. I glimpse his hard length as he lowers the zipper, my sex throbbing with renewed want at the erotic sight.

“You taste like sin,” he says as he hovers above. Then he hooks an arm beneath my lower back, decidedly placing me at the perfect angle.

No holding back. Grayson enters me in one forceful thrust, sealing his mouth over mine to swallow my cry. I latch on to his neck, clinging to him as he fills the void. My thighs quiver from the impact, my breasts ache to feel the abrasive rub of his chest.

He grips my hips and slams inside me again, harder, his kiss stealing oxygen from my lungs. I work at his buttons, desperate to remove all barriers between us, just as he pushes my blouse up to reveal me fully.

I yank at the collar, breaking the kiss as I finally shove the shirt over his shoulders. Then I place my palm against his bare chest. The feel of the rough, slanted scars—the number of his kills—sends an arousing tremor rocketing through my body as he buries himself deep.

That frantic desperation returns, insatiable. The frenzy consumes us—more, closer, not enough. Never enough. Once his shirt is stripped from his arms, I fight to get closer, my chest seeking that vital friction. His groan ricochets through me as he grabs my backside and wrenches me hard against him, lifting me off the steel.

Legs locked around his trim waist, I undulate my hips, riding him as he braces against the only solid surface to keep us from falling. It feels dirty, and raw, and like fucking perfection.

His fingers snake into my hair to gain a firm grasp as he meets each rock of my hips. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re fucking breaking me.”

My body responds to his claim, clenching around his cock, my nails raking down his back. “More,” I demand.

He hauls me away from the container and anchors his arm around my back, slamming inside me with hard, carnal thrusts that detonate my control. I muffle my moans against his neck, my teeth finding purchase in his skin, loving the way his pulse speeds against my tongue. The metallic trace of blood fills my mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s his or mine—if I broke his skin or bit my lip—but it sends me over the edge.

We’re like vampires sucking each other dry; liquid fire sears our blood as we bleed each other, draining our veins. The pain is the only answer to quench the need that pleasure can’t sate.

Grayson’s back flattens against a support beam, his thrusts coming wild and unrestrained. My hand goes to his neck as I search for that racing heartbeat, to get as close to him as possible. His eyes flare. “Do it,” he challenges.

I wrap my fingers tighter, and he sinks to the floor, settling me atop him. I grind and fuck him with abandon as his pulse quickens against my palm.

Power.

The thrill of taking a life—of owning it—feeling it literally slip through your fingers…

His growl vibrates through my whole body as his cock hardens and pulsates along my walls. I release his throat, freeing his orgasm and mine. I ride the blissful wave of ecstasy as I rock into him.

His heavy breaths fan my face, his features creased in the most beautiful display of agony and pleasure. We’re hedonists—and we’re unashamed.

He’s braced against the beam and cold, hard floor like he’s immune to the elements—like he’s used to them. Grayson spent a year in prison, but it’s more…goes deeper than that.

I touch him. Starting at his fingers, the very tips of his nails. I touch his rough hands, the contrast of smooth and abraded scars, the tattoos covering his arms. I feel the muscles beneath his flesh, still contracting as his breathing evens out.

My hands slip along his shoulders and onto his chest, mapping the leanly defined muscles there, the scars carved so deep. I work my way over his body, and he lets me, a wonder in his gaze that spears me.

“Has anyone ever touched you this intimately?” I ask.

His neck muscles tighten with a hard swallow, and I feel the intensity of it under my palm as I roam up his neck. “Never,” he says, his voice thick.

“I want to know every part of your body,” I say, my fingers coming to rest below his mouth. I sweep my finger across his bottom lip, loving the softness, the hunger that surges within me to kiss him.

I move in slowly, capturing his mouth and tasting him lovingly, as if we’re sharing a secret—sharing an insight into each other no one else can access.

As I pull back, I feel the press of his strong hand over my chest, my heart. “It’s beating faster than mine,” he acknowledges. “Does that mean you’re in love with me?”

“Do you need the declaration?”

“Yes,” he says honestly.

“I’m in love with you, Grayson. I’m not incapable of love…I’ve just never been inspired before now. And I don’t want to be separated from you again.”

He ponders my answer for a moment, never taking his hand away. Then: “Do you still question whether I’m capable of loving you?”

I glance at the massacre we created together, and he forces my face back to him. So he can see the answer in my eyes. I take his hand in mine, removing his grip from my jaw. Our hands are still smeared with traces of blood.

“No,” I say, barely above a whisper.

His gaze narrows in question. “But there’s some doubt.”

“Only because of my insight, Grayson. Because of what the mind dictates. But I believe you love me. In your own way. That you will try to protect me.”

“Am I capable of hurting you just the same?”

I can’t hesitate here. “Yes.”

With a deep inhale, he accepts this. We’re not like any other couples, arguing to make a point. Some things have to be accepted, especially if we’re unable to change the outcome.

He catches me studying his eyes and, delicately, he removes the lenses, revealing the vibrant blue of his irises. My chest tightens.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits.

I lay my hand over his chest, feeling the furious pulse of his beating heart. “I know that, too.”

Love and obsession are so closely linked, the emotions evoked by obsession easily mistaken for love. And when obsession rules your world, you become a slave to its demands.

Grayson has no experience with emotions on the extreme spectrum. His response could be volatile. The mind and body take mercy on each other, one numbing the other when physical or mental pain becomes too much.

Grayson suddenly experiencing an extreme emotional breakthrough is akin to a burn victim suddenly regaining sensation in nerve endings. Only instead of a merciful death, the mind would shatter.

I close my eyes against the thought, and Grayson pulls me tighter to him, bringing me back. “I haven’t hunted a single victim since I left you that morning.”

His admission catches me off-guard. I drag his arms around me, shielding myself from the chilly air. “But the murder in Brunswick? Minneapolis? The reports said—”

“Seems I have a copycat.”

He says it flippantly, but lethal agitation brims beneath his cool exterior. Most serial killers aren’t flattered by an imitator. Rather, it’s an insult.

“Do you know—?”

“No.” He shakes his head lightly. “Not yet. But I will.”

Of course, if Grayson knew who the imitator was, they’d already be eliminated.

“This could further complicate things, or…” I again look at our victim, only now in a new light. The rapist could serve a bigger purpose. “We need to dispose of the body.”

“I need to,” Grayson emphasizes. “You need to return to your life.”

But I’m already thinking beyond that. My gaze snags every detail of the warehouse, and I realize it’s not just a vacant building. It was once a mechanic garage. “This place has far more potential.”

“I love the look on your face right now,” Grayson says as he feathers my hair over my shoulder delicately. “Like someone is about to suffer.”

I find his eyes, enlightened. “Is this what it feels like when you design your traps? When everything slides into place and you know it will work.”

“That depends. What do you feel?” His question burns with honesty. He truly desires to know, to experience what I’m feeling.

“It feels holy—like an epiphany.”

“Epiphany,” he repeats, a calm expression softening the sharp lines of his features. That rare dimple carves his cheek. “You were my epiphany.”

I fall into him then. Completely. Lost in the blue of his eyes, the softness of his lips, and the red staining our hands. A beautiful and brutal epiphany that could save us, or damn us further, blooms to life right here in the darkness that spawned us.