But beneath that saintly façade, a devil lurks.
It’s taken me months to accept that she wasput in my path for a reason. At first, I refused any connection to her. We couldn’t be farther apart on the continuum—and yet, her name kept coming to me, a chant my own damned soul recognized as kindred.
I lean forward, getting as close to her as my restraints will allow. “I trust in the inevitable,” I tell her honestly.
My response unnerves her. Despite her ability to maintain an unaffected appearance, the delicate column of her throat jumps. “At some point, all your victims’ fates were inevitable to you,” she says. “Do you view me as a victim, then? Have I committed some sin that I’m unaware of?”
Her twisty words bring a real smile to my face. Is she unaware—or is this merely a ruse, a part of her seduction? I don’t have the answer. Not yet. I need all the pieces of her puzzle first.
All I know for sure is that we have a story. Ours is not a love story—we’re too volatile, too explosive for happily ever after. No, our story comes with a warning:
Beware.
“You’re twisting things, doctor,” I say with a smirk. “But even so, you’re not wrong. Every sinner was once a victim. Anyone who sets out to harm, has suffered some harm themselves.” I run my palms over my thighs, my gaze flicking to the gleaming metal of my cuffs. “It’s the yin and yang, dark and light feeding and devouring each other. An ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail in a vicious cycle.”
London doesn’t use a notepad or tablet to log our sessions. She records them with a camera so she can watch them played back to her. Like me, she’s a watcher. A voyeur. She’s here in the moment with me as silence thickens between us, taking her time to analyze my words.
Finally, she says, “You feel you’re powerless against the cycle.”
My gaze clashes with hers, my hands itching to snatch thoseglasses from her face so I can stare into her eyes unhindered. “None of us are powerless,” I say, a guttural edge bleeding into my tone. “Choice is the most powerful thing in this world. Everyone has a choice.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, that small action igniting a flame beneath my skin. My hands curl into fists as I wait for her next question.
“That’s a powerful statement in itself,” she says, surprising me. “But if you render your victims helpless and force them to choose from only the options you dictate, then it isn’t truly freedom of choice, is it?”
I unclench my hands. My fingers splay across the tops of my thighs. I’ve wriggled an inch beneath her skin. I can see it in the way she rubs her finger, anxious for her little string. “Much like our sessions,” I say.
Her head tilts. “How do you mean?”
I lift my arms and rattle the chains. “If we were on equal ground, able to voice our thoughts truthfully, then my answers might be different.” I eye her closely. “And your questions, I bet, would be much different.”
She’s so still, if I blink, I might miss the slight tremor in her hands. Gradually, I let my gaze roam over her face, taking in those beautiful, captivating features I can’t get out of my head no matter how many times I sketch her.
We’re an inevitability—a certainty that no amount of chains and bars and guards will prevent.
This time, she’s the one to break the connection as she glances at the wall clock. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Disappointment coils the muscles at the base of my spine, and I clench my jaw. Where is the combative psychologist. Where is her determination to make me see the world her way. Doctor Noble is a narcissist, and I’ve spent the past year studying her and devising my strategy for a woman I have yet to meet.
I release the rising frustration with a slow exhale.
Tomorrow.
We have an infinity of tomorrows.
4
INSIGHT
LONDON
Adark screen stares back at me, daring me to hit Play.
My reflection snags my attention, and I turn slightly to inspect my legs at a different angle. For the briefest moment, I’m curious if Grayson notices how my knee-length pencil skirts hug my thighs—then I snuff the thought out and press the button to start the disc.
A rusty metal room appears on the screen as a low hum buzzes through the speakers. I click the volume higher, freezing when someone enters the frame. A heavyset man with dirty-blond hair and a disheveled gray suit comes into view.
The knot of his tie is loose, pulled away from his neck as though he’s been tugging at it. His sweaty hair an unkempt mess, like it’s suffered the same harsh treatment as his necktie. He’s searching the room in a rush, his hands feeling over the tarnished walls, hushed curses falling from his mouth.
