“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 echoes 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 a deep, guttural rasp. Outside of the club, with no music or interference, I can hear the smooth lilt of his Irish accent and the sensual cadence that slips over my skin like silk and smoke.
“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 his 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 throughtendon and muscle. That sounds messy.” He nudges the man’s shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, the guy pleads, “Please?—”
“Don’t.” Grayson delivers one gruff 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 meticulous. His high intelligence alone adds layers of complexity to his psyche, and then there’s the development of 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 sadistic psychopath has developed feelings for one woman.
Not just feelings. Love.
