I’m elbows-deep in shit. My only prayer in a long time is the hope that I survive Valerio Morelli.
Chapter Five
Charlotte
Playtime is over.
I plan to put my hands inside Valerio Morelli’s chest and see what’s left of the boy who grew up in the cellar. I want to see the rot.
The brass handle of my office door turns. I find myself counting the seconds until the session starts. I’ve got a few things up my sleeve that I can’t wait to see him react to. This is my passion—my calling. Trying to pull emotions from people who claim they can’t feel.
He’s wearing a black overcoat, his gloved hands loose at his sides. He moves to the bookshelf, his eyes trailing over titles on psychopathy as if he’s looking for his own name in the index.
“You look different today, Charlotte,” he says.
I’m wearing red lipstick.
“I’m tired of the games, Valerio. You’re trying to shock me into submission. It’s not working,” I confront, wiping near my lips even though there’s nothing there. When his eyes zero in on the motion, I try to stifle the smirk—got him right where I want him.I wore red lipstick just for him, to get one of those mini-reactions I love so much.
“We’re not talking about your mother today,” I tell him, sorting the papers on my desk.
“No? I thought she was your favorite subject, Doc. The woman who hated the monster she made.”
“She was a symptom. Your father was the disease.”
The hum of the ventilation system becomes ten times louder in the otherwise silent room.
“Your father hunted her down. He forced a marriage on a woman who looked at him like he was filth. And you were a consequence—a child born of a man who didn’t know how to hear the word no.”
The leather of his gloves crinkles as he clenches his fist. It makes me cringe.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.
Why is this so fun?
“He was obsessed with her,” I continue. “And she looked at you and saw him. Is that why you won’t touch anyone? Because you’re afraid you’ll see his hands coming out of your sleeves?”
Valerio explodes.
He’s across the room before I can draw a breath. My chair hits the floor with a violent crash as he grabs my lapels and slams me against the wall. The impact knocks the air out of my lungs, but I don’t feel pain. I feel a sick, twisted version of triumph.
Yes. Yes. Lose that control you pride yourself on so much.
His forearms press against my collarbones, crushing me into the drywall. He’s shaking with a rage so raw it looks like it’s going to tear his skin apart.
“You think you know?” he barks. His face is inches from mine. If I tilt my head just right, our lips could touch. I’m almost certain I’d be his first kiss, and the thought sends a rush through me from my hair to the tips of my toes. “You don’t fucking know anything.”
“I know that even though all you talk about is your mother, she’s not the main reason why you’re like this,” I gasp. For the second time in his presence, I can’t fucking breathe. But the fact that my body is screaming for oxygen isn’t what I’m focused on right now. I’m analyzing the way his pupils are blown, the way his breath comes in ragged, broken hitches. Analyzing him, seeing reactions no one else can pull out of him but me, gives me pleasure. And I know it’s sick, twisted, and wrong—but I can’t stop. “I know you hate being his son more than you hate anything else in the world.”
Valerio’s grip tightens until it hurts. He wants to kill me, or he wants to devour me, and I don’t think he knows the difference.
And because I’m a vile human, my panties are so slick they’re past the point of washing. I’ll need to throw them away as soon as I get home. This insanity is making me wet.
“I should really kill you,” he whispers. His eyes are frantic, searching mine for the flinch that won’t come.
Something in me is so sure he won’t kill me that I’m not even scared. “Show me you’re just like him, Valerio. Show me you don’t have a choice.”
He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses his forehead against mine. I bite my lip to stop a moan from escaping. The first time the devil felt human skin—it was mine. My skin was the first thing he had touched in fucking years.
