And everything in the room seems to still.
There’s something feral in the way his gaze lands on me. Not hostile, exactly. Just… alert. Like he’s weighing the distance between us and deciding whether I’m prey, threat, or something that doesn’t matter enough to label. His eyes are dark, nearly black, with a strange gold sheen just beneath the surface that makes me feel like I’m being watched by something older than time.
“You the shrink?” he asks, voice rough, already tinged with sarcasm.
“Dr. Morgan,” I correct gently, stepping inside. “Clinical psychologist. I’m here for a consultation.”
“I don’t need fixing.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Then what’re you here for? To tell them I’m crazy? To recommend some pills and breathing exercises before the next kill?”
His voice is low but coiled, and there’s something beneath it. Not rage exactly. Just tension. Leashed, but fraying.
I take a seat on the bench opposite him, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate calm. “I’m here to assess risk, not diagnose you. And I don’t make recommendations until I’ve had a conversation.”
Rafe leans back slightly, one arm draping over the bench behind him. His shirt clings to the bulk of his torso, and his other hand plays absently with the edge of the gauze like he doesn’t feel the pain or is used to ignoring it.
“Then start your conversation,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”
“I could ask you about your past,” I begin, keeping my voice neutral. “But I’m guessing you won’t give me much. So let’s keep it present. Last fight. What do you remember about it?”
He shrugs. “Guy stepped in. Guy went down. Crowd screamed. End of story.”
I don’t flinch. “Did you feel anything? Before or after?”
“Yeah,” he says, too quickly. “Boredom.”
“That’s not usually a common response to beating someone unconscious.”
He smiles then. Not with humor or even warmth. “Lady, you ever seen someone deserve it?”
“I’ve seen plenty of people think they do.”
That gets him quiet. His fingers stop moving. His eyes narrow, and for a minute, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far too fast. But then he leans in, elbows on knees, eyes locking onto mine like he’s measuring something beneath the surface.
“You think you’re gonna fix me with talk?” he asks, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I don’t fix people,” I say. “I offer them a mirror and a safe place to look.”
“Well, I’ve broken every mirror I’ve ever seen, and safe’s just a word people use to sell lies.”
That should shake me. The way he says it. The way he believes it. But it doesn’t. I’ve sat across from men who scream, cry, laugh at pain. This one’s different. He doesn’t want to be heard. He wants to be seen and hated for it. That’s the armor he wears—anger thick enough to keep the world from noticing the cracks.
“You’re not what I expected,” I admit, closing my notebook without writing a word. “Most men in your position either bluster or break.”
“Maybe I’m the third kind.”
“Maybe.”
I rise, dust off my skirt, and tuck the notebook under my arm. “That’s all I need for now.”
He watches me, brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“I’m not a cop. Not a warden. Just a woman trying to understand what makes you tick.”
“You’ll fail.”
