I stop just a few feet from her, looking down at the woman who tried to reject me.
"Because you were drowning, Madeline. And I’m the only one who knows how to make you breathe underwater."
"You..."
Her voice is a choked rasp, but I can hear the fury igniting beneath the drug's heavy fog. She uses the edge of the mattress to push herself further upright, her nails digging into the white silk.
"You tried to humiliate me," she hizzes, the words coming out jagged, but lethal.
"In front of Lucy. The only person I have left... and you told her. You made it sound like... like I chose it. Like I was like you."
Her eyes, still dilated and dark, flare with a sudden, pure hatred that nearly takes my breath away.
"I didn't choose it, Deimos!"
She screams, though the effort leaves her swaying. Her voice cracks, dissolving into sob.
"You forced me! You broke me, and then you laughed about it to the one person who still believed I was a good person."
I stop moving. The air in the room is electric with her rage. Hearing her scream it, seeing the sheer depth of her loathing for me, it doesn't repel me. It’s the friction I’ve been starving for. It’s better than her fear. This is the pathologist I fell for, the woman who will fight the inevitable even when she knows she’s already lost.
The dark hunger in my gut transforms. It’s no longer a clinical power play. It’s a physical, primal ache that demands the closest possible proximity.
I start to move toward the bed, my footsteps silent on the deep pile rug. I move with agonizing slowness, savoring the way her eyes track my every step.
"I didn't humiliate you, Madeline," I murmur, my voice low and thick.
"I simply showed her ‘The Arbiter’s’ final, perfect design."
She tries to back away, pressing herself against the headboard, but she is trapped. The only solid thing in her world is me.
"No... Deimos, no..." she whispers, her fury dissolving into a familiar, terrified plea.
I reach the edge of the bed. The scent of her soap and the faint, bitter tang of the sedative is intoxicating.
I lean down, placing my hands on either side of her, trapping her within the cage of my own body. The distance between us is shrinking, the friction of our opposing forces generating an incredible, dark energy.
I need to touch the skin that caused the scar on my neck. I need to feel the panic in her chest against my own. I need to know that this isn't just a blueprint on a monitor, but the violent, beautiful reality I built.
Her chest heaves with the effort of breathing, her lungs still heavy from the sedative, but she doesn't pull away. She can't. I am the only thing holding her up in this swirling, sterile void.
"Look at what you’ve done," she whispers, her voice breaking. She stares up at me, her eyes glistening with a mixture of betrayal and a terrifying, dawning realization.
"You’ve burned everything down, Deimos. You took my safety, my friend, my reputation... you took the woman I used to be and you dissected her until there was nothing left but this."
She reaches up, her fingers trembling as they brush against the cold fabric of my shirt, then stops. She doesn't push me away. She grips the lapels, pulling herself an inch closer.
"The worst part isn't even the killing," she confesses, her voice dropping to a haunted tremor.
"The worst part is... when I look at you, when I feel you this close... I don't feel just hate."
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. She recoils slightly, horrified by her own words, but her hands remain locked on my shirt.
"I despise myself for it," she gasps, a sob catching in her throat.
"I hate that I’m still breathing, that I’m still standing here, that even after everything you did to Bryan, to Jake, everything you did to me... a part of me wants to be here. A part of me is drawn to the darkness you carry."
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, pleading for me to deny it, to mock her, to hurt her, anything but acknowledge the truth.
