The day I arrived marked the beginning of a steady stream of letters. They’re mostly written by women who claim to love me, who profess to understand the shadows I live in. The twisted attraction to the forbidden, the thrill of being tied to someone who’s done the unimaginable. They romanticize it, obsess over it, draping themselves in fantasies of being the one to redeem me.
It’s textbook hybristophilia. See? Dr. Andrews isn’t the only one who knows fancy words.
These people send photos—cheap lingerie, smeared lipstick, eyes full of lust and desperation. They offer me their bodies, their minds, sometimes even their souls, hoping for a sliver of attention, some acknowledgment from the man they think they understand. But they don’t.
Except Geneva.
She doesn’t delude herself with stupid fantasies. She doesn’t dress up my madness in the robes of some misunderstood, broken hero. She knows what I am, and she’s afraid.
But she keeps coming back.
And that’s the difference. Her fear isn’t born from ignorance or naivety. She knows the fire she’s playing with, and yet, she confronts me, close enough to feel the heat.
Because she is made of fire as well.
The guard says, “It’s her.”
“Yay!”
I stand and roll my shoulders for a quick stretch before I let him cuff me without resistance. The cold metal snaps around my wrists and I sigh. The things I put up with for Geneva’s sake.
I grab the material of my pants and curtsy. “How do I look?”
“Shut up, Ghost.”
My laughter follows us as he leads me into the hall and we begin the slow walk down the corridor. The air smells of sweat, musk, and pent-up aggression. I glance at the inmates we pass by, some slumped against the wall, others sleeping. I take note of each face, searching for something useful. They’re all disposable, most of them too broken to serve any real purpose.
But then I spot someone who fits the bill. A lanky, wide-eyed inmate in one of the far cells is pacing methodically, his fingers twitching as he walks. He has the look of someone deep in his own head, trapped in obsessive thought.
What are you thinking about, Junior?
He’s not one of the usual thugs. No, there’s an air of neuroticism about him which makes him perfect for what I have in mind.
We keep walking, the guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor. He’s quiet, avoiding eye contact, probably trying to keep hispulse steady. I enjoy it. These men, the ones with the keys and the power, know exactly who they’re dealing with.
Finally, we arrive at the interview room. He unlocks the door, pushing it open with a tiny creak. I step inside, and my eyes adjust to the lighting in the familiar setting.
“Finally some freedom,” I murmur under my breath, sitting down and casually crossing my legs. “Now be a good boy and turn off the cameras. It’s part of my arrangement with the doctor. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The guard stiffens, his face paling as he swallows down whatever objections he had. He nods once and steps out of the room, presumably heading to shut down the cameras.
Geneva’s holding up her end of the bargain. I have to give her credit for that. Despite everything, she’s still playing the game. Anger only makes her more determined.
I glance up at the corner of the room. The red light flickers once, twice, and then goes dark.
That’s my girl.
I lean back in my chair, a slow smile curling at the corners of my mouth. The camera is off. No witnesses. No barriers between us. Perfect.
Geneva storms in, slamming the door behind her with a force that echoes through the room. Her hair is pulled back haphazardly, strands falling loose around her face in a way that makes her look exhausted but oh so feminine. She’s in rumpled clothes, consisting of baggy sweatpants and an old hoodie that’s frayed at the cuffs. This is the kind of outfit that says she’s running on too little sleep and even less patience.
She puts the “hot” in “hot mess.”
I fold my arms and give her a once-over, letting my gaze linger just a second too long on her breasts. “Rough night?”
She strides toward me, her steps quick and her chest heaving. Her emotions are written all over her face. The tightness in her jaw, and the cold fire burning in her eyes.Fury. Controlled, yes, but it’s there all the same. And it’s beautiful. Like her.
She stops just shy of the table, glaring down at me through the glass, her fingers flexing like she’s trying to decide whether to throttle me or stay professional. “You motherfucker.”
