She just breathes, slow and steady, her body relaxed against mine like she's found somewhere safe to rest.
The air in the aftercare room feels different now, charged with something I can't quite name. I've just confessed to being a serial killer with a moral code, and she's lying against my chest like I told her I enjoy stamp collecting.
I exhale slowly, the breath carrying more weight than it should.
"I get it," I tell her, and I mean it in a way that surprises me. "The shame you described, the feeling of being fundamentally broken because of what goes on inside your head. I feel it too."
My hand moves through her hair without conscious decision, the strands sliding through my fingers like water.
"I'm probably insane," I admit, and the words taste strange in my mouth because I've never said them out loud before. I've thought them, certainly. I've run the diagnostic criteria in my head late at night when the satisfaction of a completed hunt starts to fade and I'm left alone with the reality of what I've done.But speaking them to another person feels like removing a piece of armor I didn't realize I was wearing.
Scarletta doesn't respond, but her breathing remains steady against my chest. She's still here. Still listening.
"If you'd like to leave," I continue, and something tightens in my gut as I say it, "I'll take you back to the preparation pavilion. Give you a private room. You can clean up, eat something, rest for as long as you need. Then I'll put you on a plane home."
I watch her face for any flicker of relief, any sign that she's been waiting for permission to escape the madman who's been holding her.
"The money will be in your account regardless," I add before she can answer. "The full fifty thousand base pay, plus the bonuses you earned at Stations One and Two. You've more than fulfilled your contractual obligations."
The silence stretches between us.
I'm not accustomed to uncertainty. I plan every variable, anticipate every outcome, maintain control over situations through sheer force of preparation and will. But right now, watching Scarletta process everything I've told her, I find myself genuinely unable to predict what she's going to say.
It's uncomfortable.
It's also, I realize with some surprise, almost exhilarating.
She still hasn't spoken, so I continue. Part of me recognizes that I'm making a pitch, selling her on something, which is absurd because I've never had to sell anyone on anything. I acquire what I want through planning and resources, not persuasion.
But here I am, laying out options like a salesman with a quota.
"If you stay," I tell her, "I've got eight more stations set up for you. Designed them myself. Every detail calibratedto the specific fantasies you've written about, the particular psychological triggers I've identified in your work."
I pause, letting the weight of that settle.
"Station Three is exceptional," I say, and I can hear something almost like enthusiasm bleeding into my voice. "A maze in the jungle. Sensory deprivation. Complete trust required. The psychological intensity exceeds anything we've done so far."
Scarletta's lips curve slightly at the corners, and the sight of it loosens something in my chest.
"Then a break for lunch," I continue. "It's Valentine's Day, after all."
She smiles properly now, a small sound escaping her throat that might almost be called a giggle. The sound is so unexpected, so completely incongruous with the heavy confessions we've been trading, that I find myself staring at her like she's a species I've never encountered before.
"I had the kitchen prepare something special," I tell her. "Fresh seafood brought in this morning. Lobster, oysters, whatever you want. The chef trained at a three-star restaurant in Paris before I hired him away with an offer he couldn't refuse."
I'm rambling now, which is not something I do. Caleb MacLeay does not ramble. Caleb MacLeay speaks with precision and purpose, every word calculated for maximum impact.
But Scarletta is watching me with that small smile still playing at the edges of her mouth, and I find myself wanting to keep talking just to see if I can make it grow.
"After lunch, two more stations," I continue. "Then a full massage, a proper bath with the attendants, and dinner. I was thinking the terrace overlooking the ocean. Sunset should be spectacular this time of year."
I hesitate for a moment, weighing whether to reveal the next part. But I've already told her I kill people for justice. Admitting that I want her company seems almost trivial by comparison.
"I was going to invite you to sleep in my room tonight," I say, and I'm aware that my voice has dropped lower, softer, into a register I don't typically use. "Not for sex. Obviously we've had all the sex we need for one day."
The understatement hangs in the air between us, and I see her eyes flicker with amusement at the absurdity of it.
"But for companionship," I finish. "I thought it might be... pleasant. To not be alone."
