I don’t push him away even though his grip loosens. I’ve finally pulled something out of him, and it’s the most beautiful, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
“Don’t ever mention him again,” he rasps.
He pulls back, his hands dropping as if my clothes are fire. He looks at his hands, horrified by the contact he just initiated. He doesn’t even fucking look at me when he walks out, slamming the door so loudly the windows rattle.
I slide down to the floor, my legs giving out. How much more could I pull? How much more could I break? Where would he touch next?
I will be finding out.
Chapter Six
Valerio
Isit hidden in the small kitchenette in Charlotte’s clinic. Usually, my mind is nothing but a craving so strong forsomethingI don’t know that I have to quench it with violence—so much violence, murder, and blood that I could be classified as a serial killer. It doesn’t matter that almost all the people I kill are criminals on the loose: rapists, thieves, drug dealers, and their like. I will always be labeled as a monster no matter what.Because I am.
But lately, things have been different.
I only agreed to see a shrink to humor my eldest brother, the person who tried his best with us because we had no parents to speak of. And his reasons for getting me to come here aren’t because I kill—we are all Lucifer’s offspring, after all—but because of the frequency I’ve been doing it at. He knows I’m doing it to numbsomethinginside. It awoke a year ago, clawing inside me, an everlasting hunger that pushes me to kill more and more in an attempt to distract myself from it.
But Charlotte isn’t what I expected at all… when I’m with her, the urges I’ve been struggling with quiet down.
She reached into me during that last session and pulled out the one thing I bury every day. My father. That bastard who I hope death has been harder on than life. I should have crushed her throat against the drywall at her mere audacity. Instead, I’m here. Stalking my own shrink.
I’m supposed to be at the docks. There’s a rat whose tongue Lucian needs removed. But the urge to kill feels distant, muffled by a new distraction—her. I’m fascinated. She’s the only thing that hasn’t blurred into the grey background of my life. Why her? She’s small. She’s fragile. But she looks at the dark like she’s greeting an old friend.
Through the cracked kitchenette door, I peek into her office, watching. She’s sitting across from a woman—socialite type, expensive shoes, and a huge diamond ring that bends her finger weird. The woman is hysterical. Screaming about a husband or a lover. Noise. Just noise. I can’t focus on it even if I try.
“I can’t help you if you won’t be honest, Sarah,” Charlotte sighs.
The woman snaps. She lunges across the space, slapping Charlotte’s cheek.
Something happens in my chest. It isn’t like anything I’m familiar with. It’s a white-out. A searing heat that makes my vision go red at the edges. I don’t know what to call this. I have a limited range of things I can feel—boredom, annoyance, the satisfaction of a kill—but this is a new level of insanity, even for me.
Is this rage? No, I’ve felt rage before. This is something else. It’s possessive. Someone just touched a piece of my world they don’t have permission to.
I want to peel the skin off that woman’s face. I want to hear her bones grate.
Charlotte sits there calmly, her head turned slightly from the force of the blow. A red mark begins to bloom on her pale skin.
Charlotte stands up, and even in those absurdly high heels, she has to look up at the other woman. She walks to the door, opens it, and points. She doesn’t have to say a word.
The woman—Sarah—finally appears to realize what she has done. Panic sets in. She starts babbling, reaching out to put ahand on Charlotte’s shoulder. Pleading. Begging for the session to continue. Where else can she talk about the blood and violence her husband commits—and not end up in a ditch for it?
Charlotte moves her shoulder back, avoiding the touch. She waits, refusing to even speak.
Sarah leaves in tears.
I don’t follow Charlotte back into the office. If I go in there now, I’ll burn the building down. My mind is a mess of static. Why does the sight of that welt on her face make me want to unmake the world? I don’t understand thewhy. I only know themust.
I follow Sarah instead.
She’s a mess, fumbling for her keys in the parking garage, sobbing into her designer bag. I step out from behind a concrete pillar.
“You hurt something that doesn’t belong to you,” I growl.
She turns, her eyes widening. She recognizes the aura before she recognizes the face. “Who are you? What—”
I don’t let her finish. I don’t want to hear her fucking voice.
