“You are not a game,” he says, his jaw clenched around each word.
I inhale a fortifying breath. “I have deception training. You may be skilled in the art of deception, but I’m skilled in detecting it, Grayson. I want the truth.”
“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”
The way he says this…the phrasing—experiencethe truth, rather than simply wanting me to know it—it’s deliberate. A shiver crawls along my skin.
“Did you enjoy making your victims suffer?” I demand. “Did you relish in their torture, their deaths?” My words are just as deliberate. I want to know the depth of his sadistic nature. With his defenses lowered, he might just let me in.
“I did,” he admits. “I enjoyed it. Not one bit of guilt.”
I free a tense breath. “You can’t feel guilt or regret if you derive pleasure from others’ suffering and pain,” I say, probing deeper. “So is it for pleasure, are you aroused when you make your victims suffer? Do you achieve sexual gratification and release?”
His expression softens into one of pure ecstasy, eyes glazing over as if he’s reliving a memory. He finds me through that haze, those vivid blue eyes locking on to mine. I feel it deep in my core—an intense ache, building into a needy throb until I’m forced to squeeze my thighs together.
Like he’s scenting his prey, Grayson wets his lips. “It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he says, tone low, gruff, “but I don’t have any of yours.”
“Is that an admission?” I force the subject.
He nods once in confirmation. “I was born this way. I’ve spent years trying to figure out thewhy. Then I got bored, andthen I was restless. What matters now is how I choose to channel my sadistic nature.” He shrugs, rattling the chains. “If that’s what you want to label it.”
I lift my chin, jaw set. “That is the label, Grayson. But you’re also delusional if you believe you’re channeling your sadism for the better by punishing those you deem guilty. That’s not how it works. You don’t get to be the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“And yet, I am,” he says, sinking down into his chair. “It’s just a simple choice to accept who we are. You can relate. You channel your sickness through your patients.”
A sudden, icy fear seizes my breath.
“It’s why I’m here,” he continues, undeterred. “It’s why you chose me over the drooler in the waiting room. You made a choice, one that benefits you. Just admit it, London. Admit you were born as free as I was so we can move past all this bullshit monotony and find out what we’re really capable of.”
I step back, putting more distance between us, trying to fill my lungs with a breath not laced with his appealing scent. “What do you want,” I say in a demanding tone.
Such a simple question, yet the answer could determine everything.
“I want to live.” His steely gaze solders to mine. “And I want you.”
Time seems to suspend, holding me breathless in this moment. The honesty I read in those intense eyes traps me, an internal battle raging.
As the only outside source Grayson has to form a connection with, I realize I’m becoming part of his delusion—but I can use this connection.
Is it ethical? No. Not even close. But there’s no one else like Grayson. I won’t get this opportunity again.
I remove my glasses and clear my vision of my hair. “In your circumstance, you can have only one pursuit,” I say,finding his eyes. “Since you value choices, I suggest you choose wisely.”
A crooked smile tips his mouth. “Then I choose for you to wear that skirt every session.”
I bite my lip, refusing to smile as I move toward the writing desk and grab my notebook. “Symphorophilia. Do you know this term?”
“I know paraphilia means sexual deviation.” He smirks, his stare expectant. “Labeling me a deviant is nothing new.”
I arch an eyebrow. “But your particular deviation is,” I counter. “There’s no empirical research on the topic of symphorophilia.” Which is partly the reason I won’t stop the sessions. Research to feature a serial killer would be the first of its kind. My other reasons are my own personal motivation.
“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.
I lick my lips, parting the notebook to a marked page. “The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. Your particular psychopathy, sadistic symphorophilia, is more complicated. To explore it, we’re going to delve deeper, discover why you turned to psychodrama theatrics instead of setting fires or staging traffic wrecks. I personally think your victimology might be the key.”
Most psychopaths feel relieved once they finally have a diagnosis—an explanation for why they are the way they are—even if they rebel against reform.
Not Grayson.
