I shove him away, evading his reach as I hurry toward the bathroom, grabbing my torn underwear as I pass. I splash cool water on my face, avoiding the mirror. If I look at myself, I’ll be forced to face those haunted memories, and I’m far too vulnerable to confront them right now.
When I regain some composure, I cautiously step back into the therapy room, where Grayson is shackled to the floor once again. Everything feels eerily undisturbed, as if I hallucinated all the sordid things that transpired over the past half hour.
But then Grayson’s pale gaze lifts to mine, a knowing smirk lingering on his lips. “Same time tomorrow, doc?”
I tug at my blouse and smooth the fabric, uselessly trying to erase all traces of him—of us. His touch is branded into my skin.
Without a word, I exit the room and summon the officer, reminding myself that it’s done. This isover. I’ve made mistakes before, yet I have never fallen for a patient.
And no matter how strong the connection between us, I refuse to fall for Grayson—for a killer.
12
TOMB
GRAYSON
General population, otherwise known as gen pop to those inside, has its benefits in prison. It’s less restrictive, and therefore a con can acquire certain hard-to-get items if willing to pay the price.
Accessing these perks is a bit trickier when confined in enhanced security, but not impossible. Everything boils down to supply and demand. Items people take for granted on the outside have far more value within these walls. Out there, if you need a certain prescription, you go to a doctor. In here, you have to pay off the right guard.
With less than forty-eight hours until my transfer, time is my enemy. Being locked in this cell is like being sealed inside a tomb. I’m already dead to the outside world.
And just as a dead man has no need for possessions, I’ve made arrangements. My cell is an empty, a blank slate, ready for a new occupant. Everything has been thrown out in preparation for my transition to New Castle—all except for London’s puzzle.
The photos, the research, the evidence of my obsession…all gone. It’s locked inside me. Locked, locked. And only one other holds the key.
I stare down at the completed portrait of London, every curved jigsaw piece fitted together flawlessly, the seams of her beautiful face a delicate maze I’ve mapped over and over.
I trace the beveled edges, recalling the sweet, intoxicating taste of her, like honey and lilac on my tongue. The soft feel of her curves, her body delicate, trembling, coming undone beneath my touch. The way her breath caught, the way she fought against me—so fucking sexy, perfect. Mine.
When the pieces finally snap together, it’s like feeling her surrender, a satisfaction so consuming, I’ll never experience it again.
We’re a perfect match.
Once you’ve had a hit of that perfection—that utterly seductive rush of gratification—it becomes impossible to live without. She’s a necessity, like air for my lungs, feeding my addiction. And just as I can’t silence my compulsions, her absence stirs a restless hunger, the thought of not having her unbearable, a madness that twists and claws inside my mind.
I pace my cell, a caged animal waiting for the gate to open.
We’re being tested.
She can’t contain what’s been unleashed, and I can’t return to who I was before. That man only knew one way to survive: alone. Isolation is a survival instinct.
Yet with her, I no longer crave solitude to suffer my penance. I’ve found the one thing that can set me completely free, and I’ll fucking kill for it.
The heavy footfalls of boots hitting concrete spike my adrenaline as the guard approaches my cell. I want this too badly.
“Delivery from gen pop,” the guard says as he shoves a package into the slot. He holds it there on his side, his gaze narrowed on me. “This wasn’t cheap, Sullivan.”
I stand a distance away from the door. “I’ll double the payment and wire it to your account.”
He chuckles. “Guess you can’t spend it when you’re dead.” He sends the package through.
I grab the small paper bag and hold it behind my back, feeling the contents.
“If you ask me, it’s a waste of money. Could’ve just got it from the infirmary.” He continues to mumble to himself as he walks off.
As soon as the lights dim, I open the paper bag. A small baggie within holds three large white pills. I read the imprint with a smile. Penicillin.
