It’s only a moment, one suspended heartbeat, but the instant our eyes connect, my conviction falls away. I’m fleeing. Running. And Grayson’s knowing blue eyes see right through me, calling me out.
Warden Marks is speaking, but I can’t focus on a single word. Because as awareness slowly returns, I realize the thermal Grayson usually wears is missing.
Beneath the sleeves of his jumpsuit, intricate black-and-gray designs mark his bare arms. At first glance, the tattoos are beautiful—but the brutal truth of them shines faintly through the ink, the scars evident despite his attempt to mask them.
I wear the same mask.
As though Grayson anticipated this moment, he deliberately dropped the barrier, reeling me back in to thwart my escape.
When gravity makes itself known, there’s no fighting the pull, no avoiding the inevitable collision.
“Dr. Noble, are you leaving?”
I blink, giving myself a few seconds to focus my attention on Warden Marks. “Not today,” I say.
The confused draw of his eyebrows is his only response before I turn and start toward my office. I should listen to the blaring alarm speeding my pulse, but god, he makes me reckless.
I disappear into my office bathroom while Officer Michaels shackles Grayson in the therapy room. Standing at the sink, hands gripped to the pristine basin, I wait for the sounds of chains and locks to cease.
I give myself enough time to put my guard into place, then I lift my chin as I enter the room, nodding to the officer as he exits. The hollowclickof the office door latching shut tenses my back, the sound loud and final, sealing me inside.
Passing the recorder, I lean against the edge of my desk, using it to keep him at a distance and for support. As an extra precaution, I remove my glasses and set them aside, allowing my vision to blur and soften Grayson. I can’t react to what I can’t clearly see.
“No camera,” Grayson comments.
I clear my throat, brace my grip on the desk. “When I conduct a psychoanalytical evaluation, I prefer not to record,” I tell him. “I find that when practicing free association, patients respond better if they’re not being monitored as closely.”
Grayson watches me intently, his predatory gaze tracking each subtle movement. He’s waiting, anticipating my reaction to his exposed arms. I didn’t give him enough earlier, too absorbed in my own emotional turmoil.
I could wait for him to initiate the discussion, to reveal why he chose today to expose his scars to me, or I could start our session right in the deep end.
I’m drowning.
“Why the sudden shift in approach?” he asks, forcing me to meet his cool gaze. “Was I not cooperating, doc?”
I wet my lips, steadying breath. “Free association just givesme more insight, another tool to help me connect with you. It’s about discovery. Not meant to treat, but to learn.”
“Does this learning thing work both ways.” He cocks his head. “Because there’s so much I’d love to learn about you, London. How you feel beneath me. How your hair feels tangled around my fist?—”
“Stop.”
My plea is barely audible, but he does. A challenge sparks in his eyes as he eases back into the chair, his arms on full display, an arrogant grin pulling at his mouth.
Earlier, I was wrong to assume he hid his scars out of shame. Grayson’s intelligence has always been my biggest obstacle. My mistake was in thinking I could outsmart him, trick him into revealing his past. He hasn’t offered me a single glimpse into himself.
He’s been the one gathering intel on me.
That ends now.
“Yes, you’re going to learn about me during this process, too,” I tell him honestly. “This technique opens us both up to each other.”
His gaze darkens as it moves over me. “We don’t need these evasive methods. Anything you want to know, just ask. I’ll tell you.”
“Fine.” I push off the desk and pull my chair forward, across the black safety line. “This takes trust, Grayson. Trust between patient and doctor. I’m trusting you not to harm me, physically or emotionally, and you can trust me not to harm you.”
He goes completely still. Not a muscle twitch, not a single facial tic to indicate my close proximity affects him. Then, slowly, subtly, his hand curls into a fist on the armrest.
“I can smell your body lotion.” His eyes close as he inhales deeply. “Lilacs.” A devilish grin tips the edge of his mouth. “I had one of my fans send me some fresh blooms to put in mycell.” As he says this, his accent deepens, bleeding into his words as he loses a measure of his control.
