“What about your brothers?”
I shrugged again and smirked. “They’re tolerable. They get my parents off my back.”
“So, they’re useful to you?” Dr. Miracle nodded and hummed, stroking his chin. “You’re a psychopath, Ari. Although, these days they call it Antisocial Personality Disorder. ASPD.”
“I know,” I said nonchalantly. I’d heard the term and didn’t like it. I was me, not a line in a boring book.
“And do you know what ASPD means?”
“No, but I don’t care.” I reached over to the table between us and grabbed his hourglass, flipping it up so the sand poured in the opposite direction.
“Having antisocial personality disorder means you are unable to feel the way others do. For example, love to you is different.” Dr. Miracle cocked his head as I turned to scrutinize him with raised eyebrows. “Love is usefulness. Your version of love is how someone can benefit you and your goals.”
“Why don’t you just say I’m a psychopath? Stop with that ASPD bullshit. It’s more interesting.” I threw the hourglass in the air and caught it, staring at the grains of sand trapped in the glass. That’s how I felt—stuck, among many other grains of sand who looked the same as me but were so different.
He ignored my words. “In your own way, you love your brothers because they provide you with something you need. A distraction. Maybe even companionship where there’s no judgment. Your parents, however, offer you a blockade. You feel like they are holding you back from your potential, thus you cannot love them.”
It made sense. Theydidkeep me confined like an embarrassment.
“I believe that for you to connect to someone, they need to complement your personality. Feed your ambitions.”
“Am I a terrible person?” My mother had called me that once, said my differences made me an abomination.
“No,” Dr. Miracle said quickly, frowning. “There are many bad people in this world, Ari. People who hurt others, who are not like you at all. Just because you are different from what society claims isnormal—” He used air quotes on the last word. “—doesn’t mean you’re wrong or horrible.”
“And those people who are bad, who hurt others, they deserve to be punished, right?” I thought about my parents. They’d stolen so much money from those who didn’t have much, and I’d heard them laugh about it more than once. They didn’t care.
“I firmly believe the law will get them, and if not, then karma. We can only control our own actions and reactions.”
I smiled. What if I’d been created this way to be that karma? It would be me controlling my actions, even if it was taking the life of another. Interesting. “Thank you, Dr. Miracle.”
He blinked in surprise. “For what?”
“For making me realize my purpose.”
As I thought back on our conversation about love, I wondered about Jules. He was like me, a psychopath—sorry, we had antisocial personality disorder—which meant I served a purpose to him. We loved differently, like everything else we did, and I was beginning to realize how obsessed I was with him.
“What are you thinking about?” Jules asked from behind me.
I was standing in the small kitchen of his home, staring out the wide window at the tiny backyard that had a toolshed and a large tree with branches that spread out across the entire length. “Love.”
He stopped beside me, tickling his fingers up my neck, and I leaned into his touch and smiled because I felt like doing it. “Love?”
“Love,” I confirmed, as though we hadn’t said it right the first time. “I had a therapist once who said I don’t love like other people. He said that I grew attachments to people who were useful to me. I never got to ask him what he meant by that because it was our last session. Mother didn’t like him much, but I did. He was honest. I liked that.”
I tore my gaze from the window and turned to stare up at him, taking in the rough face, hard eyes, and firm shoulders. He wore his navy blue police uniform because he was working again today, and I was disappointed. I wanted to waste the day with him. After the fucking awesome present I received, I wanted to spend the day sucking his cock. Such an act from him proved I had power in this relationship, too. He respected me, as he fucking should. I killed for him, and I would do it again and again.
“Am I useful to you, Master? Do I complement you?”
He grunted out a laugh. “That’s a weird way of putting it.” Grabbing my chin in his fingers, he leaned in closer, lips inches from mine. “But yes, you’re very useful to me. And you’re sexy and intelligent and such an obedient little killer. I couldn’t imagine life without you now that you’re a part of it.”
“Good.” I nipped at his bottom lip and tugged it until I tasted blood on my tongue, and when I pulled back, I admired the cut I’d made on his mouth and grinned. “Because you’re mine, Master. If I need to leave a physical reminder on your body every day, I will.”
His eyes darkened and his lips curved into a wicked smirk that had my belly growing warm, and then he cupped my face and drew me into a deep kiss until my toes curled against the tiles and my fingers were clawing at his upper arms needily. He shoved his tongue against mine and ate my mouth like a hungry man, and I was more than happy to give him whatever he desired. Our connection ran deeper than simple words and feelings that “normal people” had; there was a primal need and satisfaction we craved from each other. He was my Master, and I was his obedient killer.
When he was done, I was breathless, and I leaned against the kitchen counter to stop my shaky knees from collapsing beneath me.
He smirked and caressed my jaw. “Be good while I’m at work. I’ll be home tonight, and we’ll discuss... things.”
