It’s a sick, dizzying kind of vanity—like I’m the only woman on earth capable of making a man who hates touch want to crawl out of his own skin just to get to me.
With him, I feel wanted. Sought after. Needed.
The sensation makes me fuzzy.
His eyes are on me twenty-four seven. A burn at the back of my neck while I work. Even in the shower, the steam clinging to my skin feels like his breath. Iknowhe’s there, watching.
But I’ve let the line blur until it no longer exists. I need to be the doctor again. I need to try to fix him before he finishes ruining me.
When he walks into my office on Tuesday, he looks wrecked. The shadows under his eyes are darker, carved deeper into his face. He stops in front of my desk. Without a word, he reaches for his left hand and peels the leather glove off, dropping the black skin onto my desk.
Then he offers me his bare hand.
I freeze.
After a moment that feels too long, I finally reach out and slide my palm against his. The contact is jarring—our auras bleeding into one another, two voids collapsing into a single black hole.
When I pull back, my heart is tingling.
I sit, gripping the pen until my knuckles go white. “Let’s work, Valerio.”
“No.”
“That’s not how this works. You’re here for help.”
“I’ll answer your questions on one condition,” he rasps. “An exchange. A truth for a dare. I answer—you do what I ask, Doc.”
I should end it. But the scavenger in me wants more.
“Fine,” I say. “Why did you kill Sarah?”
“She deserved it for hurting you.” His eyes don’t leave my face. “Now take your panties off. Give them to me.”
The dare is blunt.And hot.
I reach beneath my skirt, sliding the lace down my legs. I step out of them and hold the scrap of fabric out. He takes them with his gloved hand. Never looking away, he lifts the lace to his face and inhales. A low moan slips from his throat as he drags the fabric over his cheeks, his jaw—like a man finding oxygen after drowning.
He looks unhinged.
It makes me wet.
The man who recoils from skin touching his own… is rubbing my arousal over his face like it’s holy water.
“Next question,” I say, desperate to regain control. “What was the first thing you killed?”
“A rat. In the cellar.” His eyes are glassy, the lace still pressed to his nose. “Next.”
“The gloves,” I push. “Is it really about filth—or are you afraid you’ll feel what your mother felt when your father touched her?”
He flinches like I struck him.
“Both. Your turn. Unbutton your blouse. All of them.”
I obey. One by one. His pupils dart wildly, like he can’t decide where to look.
“Why me, Valerio?” I ask. “Out of everyone you could havestalked—why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who ever interested me. Push your bra down. Now.”
