That all-consuming, elusive emotion.
It’s possible I’m as delusional as the women who write to serial killers in prison. Believing they’re the special one—theone 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 concrete 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 duct tape. A 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 touch 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 wrap 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 forcepressing against my senses. His touch, his scent, the intense allure in his 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 cupping 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 he seats me atop the unit. Grayson’s hands roam roughly 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 ofnot enough.
This is the danger—ourdanger. Not the threat outside this warehouse, the FBI and police officials closing in on us. Not the judgmental world that would turn a blind eye to its own 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 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 parting my legs, as he prowls my body like a feral animal. Every erogenous zone comes alive with the promise 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 rises tohis feet. 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, his accent thick, roughened with desire, as he rounds his prey 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. Yet the one thing he knows intuitively is if his victim is guilty of a heinous crime.
That’s important to him. It means authorities won’t be inspired to solve their murder. There are more deserving victims who warrant the time and effort.
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 tarp to the center. He then reaches into the guy’s back pocket to retrieve his wallet. “Larry Fleming—” he glances down at him “—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 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. 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, Graysonpulls Larry upright. He drops closer to his ear. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
