“I know you’re performing right now,” I dare to say, trying my best to tease the beast out of him. “This monster routine. You want me to be afraid of you so you don’t have to talk about why you can’t stay in the same room as anyone for more than five minutes without wanting to tear their throats out.”
“Performance?” His gloved hand wraps around my throat, the movement so fast I barely have time to blink. He jerks my head toward him, pinning my scalp against his crotch.
“I could end you right now,” he growls. “I could squeeze that pretty neck hard enough to watch the light go out. No more sessions. This easy.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I could reach for my pistol, but something in me is certain he won’t kill me. If I’m wrong—if my intuition fails me—it’ll be a fatal mistake. I take the risk anyway.
“Then do it,” I manage to get out.
His hold tightens. I can’t fucking breathe. For a second, I’m certain I’m about to see God. Only then does he let go.
“You’re sick,” he says, walking back to his chair like nothing happened.Sicksounds like a fucking compliment coming from his mouth.
“We’re in the right place, then,” I mutter through coughs, discreetly dragging in as much oxygen as I can.
“Next Tuesday,” he says. “But not here. This office smells like lavender. It makes me want to choke.”
“Where?”
“I'll send a car. Wear something you don't mind getting blood on.”
He turns and walks toward the door, using the edge of his sleeve to open it.
I stay in my chair, trying to massage the pain from my neck. My skin is on fire, like it’s been touched by Satan himself.
I reach for my notes. I try to writeAntisocial Personality Disorder. I try to writeChildhood Trauma. Sometimes, I prescribe meds to certain patients who need it. I try to this time.
Instead, I write his name over and over until the ink bleeds through the paper.
It’s like a haunting.He’sa haunting… and I’m possessed now.
Chapter Three
Charlotte
It’s next Tuesday.
I adjust the hem of my black silk skirt. It sits higher on my thighs than anything I’d usually wear. Valerio’s attractive, but for me, that’s a biological fact, not an emotional one. I’m not doing this because I’m attracted to him—it’s because I want to see if a psychopath’s nervous system will acknowledge the curve of a woman’s leg, or if he’s as dead inside as he pretends to be.
My means have never been ethical.
I reach down, strapping the Glock 43 to my inner thigh. Safety comes first. I’m not an idiotic bitch. I know that if Valerio decides he wants me dead… I’m dead. But if that time ever comes, I refuse to go without a fight.
The black sedan he sent is waiting. It’s been outside my office since morning.
We drive deep into the industrial district. The car stops in front of an old, crumbling warehouse. I get out, the wind whipping my long brown hair across my face.
Inside, Valerio is standing by a lone wooden chair in the center of the floor. He’s wearing a fresh pair of black gloves. He looks at my legs, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Other than that, I get absolutely no reaction. Not even dilated pupils or a slight lean toward me.
“You're late,” he says.
“You didn't give me a time. You gave me a day.”
“Sit.” He gestures to the chair.
“No.”
He walks closer until the silk of my blouse brushes the wool of his suit. The aura he carries is suffocating—a heavy, dark shroud that wants to pull me under.
