Our gazes stay locked, silence ringing too loudly in my ears. “If you’re under my care, you can’t even look at me like that, Dr. Night.”
A fierce intensity darkens his eyes. “Maybe your care isn’t what I want to be under.”
Heat flushes my body. “We need to work on exercises that help you filter what leaves your mouth,” I say, steeling my voice against my flaring nerves.
“They’re just thoughts. Just words. You said I won’t act on them.” The way he’s watching me, gauging me, like this is a test I can’t fail. My spine knots with tension.
I smooth a palm down my skirt. “No, but I’m not sure I can handle sixty-seven instances of your unfiltered thoughts.”
He rests his tongue in the corner of his mouth as his gaze lowers to my throat. “I think you can handle a whole lot more.”
A sudden chill prickles my skin. Something’s off…veryoff. Revealing some of my cracks was supposed to get me closer to him—not expose me to a sadist. I may have pushed him too hard, too fast. I need him unraveled, even a little feral, not imploding.
Casually, I rub my thumb over the constellation along my wrist, willing my pulse to calm. “Besides being inappropriate, you need to understand that for most people, it takes time to feel a certain level of intimacy.”
His smile is knowing, and his deep chuckle drops low in my belly. “Time’s merely a construct to measure the passing of life.” He shrugs against the sofa. “It’s delivered to us in little drips, in a stream of lyrics and chords, a song we experience linearly, creating memory.” A serious note laces his voice. “I experience our song every time I look at you, Collins. All at once.” His eyes blaze. “In a rush.”
The molecules of the air crackle with heat. The bruised organ inside my chest flutters. I feel swept into his animated current, dragged by the undertow of his unstable thoughts.
To mask the flicker of unease in my expression, I glance at the file in my hand—two MRI series reports. One dated before the motorcycle accident. The other from a clearance check Banner ordered two years ago.
The report with the structural images states no obvious trauma. No bleeding, no lesions—nothing to explain the changes Orion started exhibiting after the wreck. All cleared and signed off. And yet, there’s a subtle shift in functional connectivity, some elevated reactivity in the regions tied to fear and compulsion.
Whatever emerged post-accident rewired something deeper, something psychological. Whether the crash was the catalyst is irrelevant.
Hebelievesit was.
And that can be exploited.
“We’ve strayed off topic,” I say, lifting my eyes to him. “You said your observatory is where obsessive thoughts don’t invade. It’syour routine that I need to monitor. Observing you there is the only way I can give you a proper assessment?—”
He stands abruptly.
Removing his glasses from his shirt pocket, he slips them into place and stalks toward the side table. He rests a finger on one of the black chess pieces, tips it forward. “Did you know the knight is the sneakiest piece on the board,” he says randomly.
I frown. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”
He grins down at the board. “One of my favorite plays is the smothered mate. It’s when the king is completely surrounded by his own pieces, nowhere to run. And the knight”—he hooks a finger under the knight and lifts it, moving it in an L-shape—“leaps right over.”
He looks up at me. “Checkmate.”
I close the file and drop it to the desk. “Are you saying you feel smothered by your colleagues?”
“Interesting you think I’m the king in this scenario.” He starts toward me, slowly crossing the distance.
I consider how to maneuver around him. “You still question whether you can trust me.”
He stops a few feet away. “I question everything, all the time.” His eyes connect with mine past the rims of his glasses. “Like why observing me in my observatory seems to be so important.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s where your time is focused. Typically, getting an academic to show off their work isn’t hard,” I say, emboldening my tone. “Some would say your secretive nature surrounding your research is somewhat paranoid.”
“I would say it’s completely paranoid.”
I expel a tense breath. “Why do you think you were able to rescue me from the tide, Orion?” I pivot, taking control.
A dark brow lifts behind his glasses. “You’re the expert. I’d ratherhear your thoughts on why I was able to rescue you, to get close to you.” He demonstrates this by drawing even closer.
“Danger,” I say simply. “You braved the tide without thought for your own safety. You rushed in impulsively, fueled by the desire to achieve an adrenaline rush. You’ve admitted you do this every chance you get. Stimulation addiction presents as extremely risky, thrill-seeking behavior.”
