Think.
The only question I would demand from my father iswhy.
And yet, I already know that answer, don’t I? I’ve studied and analyzed his type of pathology over the years. The girl—my sister, Mia—was older than me. She was the same age as the girls buried in our backyard. She fit his victimology…and me?
I simply got in his way.
The real question is: Why did he keep me alive?
“Because he didn’t love me,” I reason aloud. “Not in the way a parent loves their child. He was grooming me. I was a project. And when I failed him, I became just another disobedient girl who needed to be punished.”
Grayson’s hold tightens on my legs, an anchor, grounding me in the present.
And I let him.
“He was always going to kill me,” I whisper, knowing it with absolute certainty now. My father—the only father I’ve ever known—was merely waiting for me to come of age.
“If you hadn’t killed him first,” Grayson says, capturing my gaze, slowly easing the dress above my knees. “But you did, London. You became what you had to.”
The fervor in his touch deepens, engulfing me in flames. His palms glide over my thighs, skin against skin, stirring a primal craving within me that feels dangerously close to love. I want Grayson in spite of—or even because of—the things he does to me that nobody else would dare.
“I wasn’t born this way.” I turn my head away, my fingers desperately searching for a string.
“We weren’t born the day we took our first breath,” he says, his lips tenderly pressing against my skin. “We were born the moment we stole it.”
I close my eyes, absorbing the raw, painful truth of his words. “We’re monsters.” My eyes open, and I meet his gaze, breathless and torn. “And if this is love, it’s a monstrous thing that will devour us.”
“It might, or it could strip away all uncertainty and pain,” he says. “Love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain—one we’ve never had access to. But does that actually make us fiends?” He nuzzles my thighs, his lips sliding the fabric higher, heat branding my skin. “Do we love each other, or are we merely mad for each other? I know I’m mad—utterly, obsessively mad for you. Obsession is a far more evocative emotion than love.”
Drawn into the gravity of his words, I tremble beneath his touch, my fingers curling into my palms until my nails break skin.
“This is right, London,” he says, relentless. “We were born without remorse or guilt, designed to take life. The shame you carry, the guilt, it’s not real. You’ve conditioned yourself to feelemotions that don’t exist for us. Your mind has detached from certain aspects of reality, concealing what you truly are.”
“A killer,” I whisper, dredging up the memory of the first time he forced me to say it. An ache pulses my temples, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “No—” I shake my head in denial. “You’re sick…I’m sick. We need help.”
His deep laugh vibrates against my legs. “I am sick. So fucking love sick over you. All love is a sickness. People manipulate each other constantly, couples employing deceptive tactics, trying to mold one another into better versions of themselves, all in the name of love. We’re just more honest about it. We don’t have to sugarcoat the process.”
I shake my head again. “I was fine before you happened to me.”
He presses a kiss against my thigh before he stands, looming over me. “You weren’t fine, London. You were drowning.”
As he moves toward the end of the table, I strain once again to free myself from the thick thread binding me. I have to stay mentally strong, but I’m not sure of anything anymore—not even myself.
Grayson returns holding a folder. He drops it onto the table, the contents spilling across the white tablecloth. “I couldn’t access patient files, not without risking exposure.” He plucks a page from the scattered pile. “But I managed to pull these from the Internet. I hope they’ll suffice.”
He lays the page on my lap, the headline stark and impossible to deny.
“Convicted serial killer of three hangs himself in mental institution,” he reads aloud. Another page lands atop the first. “Arsonist murderer found dead in cell.” Then another. “Suicide claims life of convicted rapist.”
The pages continue to stack, each headline a weight, every name a face. It builds until the throbbing pain in my head screams, and I shout, “Enough?—”
Grayson kneels before me and reaches up, touching my hair. “I love it when you wear it down.” He drapes the strands over my bare shoulders, situating the beaded shawl, his touch gentle, reassuring.
I attempt to ground myself as a wave of nausea pounds through me. “I didn’t kill them,” I whisper, so low I can barely distinguish my own voice.
“No,” he says, removing the printed pages from my lap. “You didn’t have to kill them. You simply gave them the means to kill themselves.”
My world tilts.
