I swallow.
“This never happened,” he says, stepping back, looking at me.
“Agreed,” I say, closing my legs.
He grabs his pants, pulls them on, and buttons them with hurried fingers before tucking himself away. He doesn’t look at me as he moves for the door. And within a second later, it closes behind him.
I press my palms to my face, heat crawling up my neck as embarrassment settles heavy in my chest.
“Fuck,” I mutter into my hands.
This is not me.
This is not who I am.
I am not someone who spreads her legs for every man who looks at her. I have only been with two men in my life. There was never time for more. I wanted a career. I wanted purpose. I wanted to be someone.
This isnew.
And it terrifies me.
Zayne Mercer is pulling something loose inside me, dragging the worst parts to the surface. Even worse, I see him now in every man who touches me.
And I don’t know how to make it stop.
SEVEN
ZAYNE
Nurses wake me up early in the morning when the clock turns six a.m. They led me into one of the rooms on the lower floor, which they use for therapy. I am assigned to receive a few electroshock treatments per the order of Dr. Emily Beckett.
Inside the room, there are two tables with restraints beside the machines, standing at the side. I turn to one of the nurses and chuckle.
“I didn’t know this was group therapy.”
She doesn’t laugh at my joke. She only pushes me further inside until I reach the edge of one of the tables. I sit down, move my legs to the side, and lie back. My hands rest at my sides, and they buckle them in, tightening the straps.
Before I can say a word, the nurse brings a belt close to my lips.
“Bite.”
I bite down, my eyes moving left and right, searching the room, waiting to see if Dr. Beckett shows up.
She never does.
All I feel is cold metal pressed against my temples, and with a second, electricity courses through my brain. My eyes roll back as the flashing light in front of me blazes too bright, and then everything turns black.
I feel it again.
I bite down harder on the belt, the taste of leather filling my mouth. This time, my body starts to shake uncontrollably. I arch my back, lifting off the table as my hands fight the restraints, uselessly pulling and straining.
That doesn’t stop them.
They press the metal against my temples once more. This time, I feel my skin begin to burn. The pressure inside my head grows heavier, crushing every thought I had before until my mind turns blank. My eyes close tight.
Behind my eyelids, small dots of light move and shine, flickering in the darkness until light breaks through again.
But this time, I am not thirty-five-year-old serial killer Zayne Mercer.
