My brain short-circuits.
“Wait, what?”
He meets my stare. The corner of his lips twitches.
“You were a doctor?” I repeat, slowly, because my neurons are still buffering.
The twitching of his lips turns into a full-on smirk, and he tilts his head. “Surprised?”
Uh, yeah. A little.
I study him—sharp jawline, piercings, the cold, precise way he carries himself. Somehow, I never imagined him in a sterile white coat, prescribing meds, holding a clipboard. But now that he’s said it… it makes a disturbing kind of sense.
Nathaniel is meticulous. Clinical. There’s something methodical about the way he moves, the way he speaks.
I remember how he flashed that UV light all over the bloodied basement. He was a detail-oriented monster.
By the way, speaking of the basement…
“I suppose the cut on the murderer’s wrist I saw before was you cutting the flesh just right…?” The thought slips out before I can stop it.
“Oh?” He gives me another smile tonight. Jesus. “You were admiring my work?”
“Admiring is a strong word,” I mutter. “But yeah, it crossed my mind once or twice that he was… prepared very particularly.” I pause. “Let me guess, you prolonged his death? To catch me?”
His smile widens—a little too much. I can’t even tell if it makes him prettier or creepier. Maybe both at once. He’s got that unsettling, sexy-but-might-bury-you-in-the-woods quality about him, like he belongs in both a fever dream and a true crime documentary.
“Do you want to know what I did?” he asks.
Do I? Absolutely not. But also… yeah. This feels like Grim Reaper 101. If I don’t learn, I might end up on the wrong side ofa very educational experience again. Assuming my plan fails and Nathaniel and the rest don’t kill my ex-husband.
So I nod.
“I made sure he wouldn’t go too quickly. That’s the key to good work—control.” His voice is smooth, almost tender. “A quick death is easy. But that’s not what I needed. I needed him to be aware. I needed him to feel everything.”
I should be horrified, but I just watch him—the way his fingers drum against his knee, his lazy amusement. No regret. No hesitation.
He’s so… fucked up. Why do I like it?
“The syringe had three components,” he continues. “A metabolic suppressant to slow his heart rate—keep him alive longer while his body shut down. A neuromuscular paralytic, so he wouldn’t struggle, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. And, of course, a coagulant inhibitor. Can’t have the blood clotting up when you need it fresh.”
A slow, creeping chill crawls down my spine. “So he was completely aware?”
Nathaniel nods. “He felt everything. The incisions. The blood leaving his body. The weight of it all, dragging him under.” He exhales, tapping his fingers against his knee. Once. Twice. “Just like his victims did.”
He watches me, waiting. Expecting something—horror? Judgment?
I give him neither.
“What about the other men? You colleagues? What did they do?”
“They were worse,” he says simply.
I raise an eyebrow. “Worse than a man who tortured and murdered your mother?”
His smirk vanishes. “Yes.”
A beat of silence. I wait, letting him decide whether to continue. He does.
