My pulse spikes. I hate how easily he can read me. That’s the secret I keep from the world. I don't fix them because I want them better. I fix them so I can keep watching them.
“The session has started,” I mumble. “Sit. Down.”
Valerio’s grin is jagged, a row of white teeth that look like they were made for tearing. His gloved thumb brushes over my lower lip before pulling back and dropping into the chair, sprawling his legs out like he owns the floor, the walls, and the woman sitting in front of him.
“So, Doc,” he whistles, his eyes dancing with a manic, dark light. “What do you want to talk about first? My childhood? Or the way I saw the light when I lined up those men and shot them one by one at the docks?”
Chapter Two
Charlotte
At his words, I can’t help but stare, trying to get inside his head. My eyes rake over his face, hunting for any facial expression that hints at an inkling of emotion. I can’t pinpoint whether his words are for shock value or if he really does feel what he claims to. That’s the appeal of my job. Some people are like puzzles that I enjoy piecing together.
“You’re staring, Charlotte,” he sing-songs.
“I’m evaluating,” I counter. I pick up my pen, drawing aimless circles on the notebook to ground myself.
“Evaluate this, then.” He holds up his hands, showing me the thin black leather gloves. “I don’t like touch. I don't want anyone’s sweat or their filth on my skin. What does your little book say about that?”
“It says you have an aversion to contact. Maybe you were touched when you didn't want to be, so now nobody gets in.” I recite the memorized lines.
Valerio’s jaw hitches.
“You think you’re so fucking smart,” he whispers. He rises from the chair, circling my desk, and I find myself turning my chair to keep him in my line of sight. It’s a rule of life: never give a predator your back.
Despite my best efforts, he stops behind me. I can feel the heat radiating off him, even through the charcoal wool of his suit.
“I’ve spent my entire life in the dark, Doc.” His breath is cool against the shell of my ear. “My mother used to make sure of it. She didn't like the way I looked at her. Said I had the devil in me before I could even walk. So she put me where the devil belongs.”
I swallow hard. “The cellar, I’m guessing?”
“The cellar,” he repeats. “She tried her best not to let me touch anything. She said anything I’d ever touch would die or wither.Have you ever been slapped for trying to touch your mother’s hand, Charlotte?”
Sadness seeps in through the microscopic cracks in my walls. No matter who—or what—he is now…that’s still heartbreaking for a child to experience. The fact that he’s so vulnerable so early on isn’t actually a good sign. It shows how detached he is from his past, like he’s reciting someone else’s story. He seems to have a wall between the “Then” and the “Now”…like he’s two different people.
He’s looking at his gloved hand, flexing the fingers. Crackle. Crackle. The sound of leather is loud in the quiet room.
“Can’t say I have, Mr. Morelli,” I admit.
I truly had one of the most boring, stable, loving childhoods. No trauma to speak of. Last year, on my thirty-third birthday, my mother lost her fight with cancer, and my father followed her a few months later due to a broken heart. While I did feel vengeful at first—at life for taking my parents away from me so early—I learned to be grateful that I had them to begin with.
He reaches out to me again. His hand stops an inch from my cheek. I can feel the phantom pressure of him.
“I look at you and I see someone who’s bored of her own life,” he chuckles. “I think darkness is the only thing that ever made you feel anything. You aren't a healer, Doc.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, not pulling away. He doesn’t get anything from me beyond what I choose to give, and right now, I’m choosing the bare minimum.
Valerio’s eyes skip to my mouth. A flash of something raw and hungry breaks through the ice. It’s not affection—the mere notion is funny. It’s not even lust; I don’t believe someone who can’t even touch a hand without a barrier of a glove feels lust. Instead, it’s a violent curiosity.
“So,” he starts. “Aren’t you going to ask me more about my mother?”
“Do you want me to?”
“She hated the sight of me almost as much as she hated the sight of my father. Used to say I was born with a hole in me that nothing could fill. She was right.”
“Is that why you’re trying to fill it with blood?”
“You’re very brave for someone so small,” he hums, his thumb finally finding my cheek. He just rests it there.
