I shiver as I lower the cups beneath my breasts. The office feels obscene, wrong, charged.
I take advantage of his trance, pressing where I know it hurts. “The first time you felt like your father—”
“Stop.” His voice breaks.
I should’ve realized he was pushing himself too far. He clutches his chest. His skin turns a sick, translucent gray. He gasps, clawing at his throat as he collapses into the chair, eyes rolling back.
The Morelli monster is breaking apart in front of me.
The doctor finally wakes up—but she’s soaked in blood and lace.
I rush around the desk, gripping his shoulders.
“Valerio! Breathe. Look at me!”
I drop to my knees between his legs, cupping his face. Doing this bare, exposed, feels like a fever dream. He isn’t in my office anymore. He’s back in the dark cellar. I try grounding him. Nothing fucking works.
Desperate, I do the only thing I have left.
I kiss him.
For a single, suspended second, he goes perfectly still. Then he explodes.
He doesn’t kiss me back—he consumes me. His arms lock around me like iron, slamming my body against his. One hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head back. The other crushes into my lower back. His tongue is everywhere, but with no finesse or tenderness. Just hunger.
I’m trapped between his thighs. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He breaks away just enough for our foreheads to touch. His grip is bruising.
“You,” he rasps, breath scorching my lips. “What did you do?”
“I brought you back,” I whisper.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte
The silence in my apartment is too loud.
I’m pacing the length of my living room, the hardwood cold under my bare feet. Every few minutes, I find myself drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, peeking at the balcony. I’m looking forhim. I’m looking for the man who spent the last few weeks making me feel like a hunted animal.
Nothing.
I bite my lip, the skin still feeling swollen from the afternoon. I pushed him too hard.
I need to know if he’s okay. A phone call won’t do it, even if I had his number—which I don’t. I need to see that the cellar inside his mind didn’t swallow him whole.
I grab my phone. My thumb hovers over Lucian Morelli’s contact. It’s nearly eleven. Calling a man like Lucian at this hour is usually a death wish, but I’m desperate.
The phone pings three times before the line clicks open.
“Doctor Charlotte,” Lucian greets. In the background, I hear a soft laugh and the rustle of sheets. His wife.
It’s jarring—the eldest Morelli being capable of such terrifying kind of devotion.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. The edge is back in his tone, the family man receding, the boss stepping forward.
“I’m sorry for the late hour, Mr. Morelli. I’m calling about Valerio. Our session today… it was high-intensity. I’m concerned about his mental state.”
I count my heartbeats until he answers.
