She reaches for a pen. “Go ahead.”
“He’ll undergo electroshock therapy early in the morning, before breakfast,” I say. “The device is to be used three times. The treatment needs to be documented.”
She nods as she writes. “Anything else?”
“Yes. After that, he’s not to receive any medication until after he speaks with me. We’ll meet tomorrow at five in the afternoon.”
“Got it.”
I exhale slowly. “Thank you.”
I turn and head down the hallway that leads to the offices.
I take the right turn and stop at door seven. Inside, the office still smells faintly of dust and old paper. It used to belong to the psychiatrist who took leave the week I arrived.
I cross to the desk just as the phone buzzes.
Rourke.
I close my eyes and roll them back.
Of course, it’s him.
I pick up the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Do you have an update on the case?” he asks.
“I do,” I say. “And you’re not on it.” My voice sharpens. “You really thought I wouldn’t find out you were suspended? I don’t report to you anymore.”
Silence answers me just before the line goes dead.
“Fuck,” I mutter, setting the phone down before leaning my palms against the desk.
I close my eyes, but all I see are Mercer’s hands on me. The weight of his grip. The way his palm enclosed my breast, how hedragged my nipple between his teeth, and pulled a shiver from somewhere deep inside me.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
I shrug off my white coat and hang it on the hook near the bookshelf. Then I slip into my black coat, pulling the belt tight and tying the knot with more force than necessary.
I grab my purse and return to the desk for the phone. I need to go home. I need a shower. I need to scrub his touch from my skin, even if it does nothing for my thoughts.
Why does the body crave what poisons the mind? Why does the heart side with flesh instead of reason? Maybe it’s because every thought of him steals a little more of my clarity. Because he followed me for years without ever stepping into my path.
Ten years to study me.
Ten years to plan how to dismantle me piece by piece.
And I had three days.
Three days to realize he already had what he wanted.
I don’t have ten years to plot against him. I have a month to fix his mind before he does this again. Before he hurts someone else. Yet now, the thought of stopping him doesn’t land the way it should.
He spent years learning from me. I spent years studying monsters like him. And I still don’t understand him.
He is cold. Calculated. Unpredictable. A psychopath who knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And despite everything I know, everything I’ve learned, I don’t know how to stop him.
I do know this. Once someone like him decides what he wants, nothing stands in their way. Not walls. Not locks. Not iron bars.
