A thrilling buzz spikes my blood, heated and electrifying. It’s been even longer since a subject excited me.
Collecting my blazer from behind me, I pull my phone from the pocket and send Lacy a text:Cancel the rest of my appointments for today.
“So tell me, Grayson,” I officially begin our introduction, “why have you finally decided to see me?”
The stare-off continues, but I don’t really need an answer from him. What Warden Marks revealed about Grayson’s upcoming trial is enough for me to form an educated guess.
Grayson Sullivan is about to be convicted in another state—one that has the death penalty.
He wants me to save his life.
3
VISCERAL
GRAYSON
London Noble has quirks. Likes and dislikes. Fears. All the little intricate details that make up her personality. I love dissecting her.
She wears glasses instead of contacts. She braids her long dark hair, twirling it into a bun, instead of cutting it short. She doesn’t paint her nails. She always leaves one infuriating button undone on her blouse. She crosses her ankles instead of her legs.
That is, until we talk about my dark deeds, then I love watching her cross those long legs slowly, thighs squeezing tight.
She doesn’t like noise. She enjoys complication. Her smiles are rare. Her approval even harder to earn. She suffers back pain due to some injury, but pretends it doesn’t affect her. She’s petite. Practically a doll compared to my six-foot-two. Yet she allows no one to look down to her. She’s afraid of aging, becoming obsolete.
But the single most interesting thing about my psychologist is this: I make her curious.
Not in a professional sense—though I’m sure that’s how it started; a small flame sparked into existence—but the deep-seated, scary curious. The kind of curious that makes good girls bad.
I’d love to tangle her up in my web and feast.
“What do you see?” Her soft, slender fingers peek from around the edge of a card.
On the front, a black and red ink blot splashes against white.You, I think, but I tell her, “I see a butterfly.”
London lowers the card, her expression unreadable. At least, she strives for neutral, yet I glimpse the irritation beneath her mask. She’s desperate to crack me. Wiggle inside my head and crawl around.
A week together, and she still doesn’t get it. There’s nothing to be found. I’m not here for myself, to resolve my psychotic tendencies. To be rehabilitated with the hopes of mounting a defense.
I’m here for her.
“You like games?” she asks as she sets the stack of ink blots aside.
A smile curls my lips. I like playing games with her. “It depends on the game,” I say.
“Do you see our time together as a game?”
Questions. Always tedious questions with her. She turns every answer into one, trying to keep me out of her head. I adjust my feet, the rattle of my shackles loud in the still room. “This isn’t really our time, though, is it?”
Her delicate brows knit together. “You feel that I’m not committed to your treatment.”
“No,” I say, sitting forward, as much as my chains will allow. “I feel you’re very committed, just to the wrong thing. Do you believe rehabilitation is possible?”
Her dark eyes blink behind her glasses. “I won’t lie to you, Grayson. I have my uncertainties. But we won’t know if it’s apossibility for you unless you take our time together seriously.”
Interesting. “I like when you answer my questions.”
She attempts to hide a smile. Crosses her legs. I inhale a deep breath, trying to taste her excitement. “My answers won’t help you.”
