Текст книги "Depraved devotion"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER 34
GENEVA
The office is quiet except for the ticking of a clock on the far wall. My mind likens the sound to the ticking of a bomb.
I sit on the edge of a leather chair, the kind meant to be inviting but too structured to actually relax in. Across from me, Dr. Linton waits patiently, her pen poised over a notepad. She doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. The clinical psychologist simply waits, her calm, expectant expression making it harder for me to avoid the reason I’m here.
I take a deep breath, twisting the hem of my sleeve. “I need to talk about a… situation,” I begin, my voice steady but thin. “It’s hypothetical.”
Her brow arches, but she doesn’t comment. Just a small nod, encouraging me to continue.
“Let’s imagine a professional has developed complicated feelings,” I say carefully, choosing each word as if I’m navigating a minefield. Which is true since I don’t want to detonate my career. “And it’s about one of their patients.” I nearly choke on the last word.
Dr. Linton doesn’t react visibly, but the slight nod signals she’s following. “Complicated feelings,” she repeats gently. “Can you elaborate on that?”
I exhale slowly, my gaze dropping to my hands. “The person is dangerous. He’s the kind of man who thrives on manipulation and control. But there’s another side to him. A side that feels… real.”
She nods again, her pen tapping lightly against the notepad. “And this professional—you—feels drawn to this subject because of that ‘real’ side?”
I give her a pointed look. “I said this was hypothetical.”
“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “So this hypothetical professional is drawn to this subject despite their dangerous nature. Maybe even because of it?”
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way her words strike closer to the truth than I want to admit. “It’s not that simple. This patient is more than just dangerous. They’re intelligent, protective, and capable of things that no one else would even think of doing.”
Dr. Linton’s pen stills, her eyes focused intently on me. “Protective. How so?”
I shift uncomfortably, the memory of Ghost’s hands on Lobo’s throat flashing in my mind. “They saved someone,” I admit quietly. “It was violent, yes, but it was also necessary.”
“And this professional, do they feel conflicted because of this act of violence? Or because it challenges how they see the subject?”
My throat tightens, and I look away, signaling my guilt. “Both,” I whisper. “They’re supposed to be impartial and objective. But this… this changed something. It blurred the lines.”
For the first time, Dr. Linton’s calm expression falters. “It sounds like this professional is carrying a lot of guilt.”
My stomach twists, and I fight the urge to get up and leave. Professionals like her—like me—are taught to read people, to see what they aren’t saying through body language. I know she’s reading me like a book, and I hate it. But how else will I get help?
“Hypothetically,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. “This professional knows how wrong it is. They know the risks.”
“And yet,” she presses lightly, “they’re here. Talking about it. Why?”
I don’t answer right away, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my sleeve. The room feels smaller, the air thicker, as I force myself to meet her gaze. “Because they don’t know how to stop feeling it. And they’re terrified of what it means.”
Dr. Linton doesn’t write anything. She just watches me, her expression steady but kind. “Acknowledging it is the first step. What you do with it—that’s where the real work begins.”
I nod as I lean back into the chair. What do I do with this feeling? As if I know how to answer that question.
“This isn’t just curiosity or fascination. It’s deeper than that. And that’s what scares them the most.”
“Deeper how?”
I glance down at my hands, noticing the way my fingers twist around each other like they’re trying to wring the words out of me. “It’s a… connection. The kind of connection they’ve spent their entire life avoiding. The kind that makes them vulnerable.”
Dr. Linton nods slowly. “And this connection… Does the subject reciprocate?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice cracking. “At least, it feels that way. But it’s impossible to know if it’s real or just manipulation.”
“Which is a hallmark of their danger. That ability to blur the lines, to make you question what’s real and what isn’t.”
I nod. “Exactly. That’s what makes everything so complicated. Because even if it is manipulation, it doesn’t feel like it. Not in those moments.”
“And how does that make you feel? The possibility that it could be real—or that it might not be?”
“It’s torture,” I confess, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “If it’s real, then everything I’ve worked for is at risk. But if it’s not, then I’ve let myself be played. Either way, I lose.”
Dr. Linton sets her pen down to fold her hands in her lap. “That’s a heavy burden to carry. But I wonder if part of the weight comes from trying to figure it out alone. Isolation can amplify confusion, Geneva.”
The sound of my name startles me. It feels personal, too personal, even though I know it’s just her way of grounding me in the conversation.
“What would you suggest, then?” I ask. “That I tell someone? Confess everything and watch my career burn to the ground? My career is my identity. It’d be akin to suicide.”
Her expression remains steady. “Not that. But maybe it’s not about confessing to someone else. Maybe it’s about being honest with yourself first. About what you feel, what you want, and what boundaries you’re willing to hold.”
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Boundaries. Those are already in pieces.”
She doesn’t react to my deflection, her gaze unwavering. “Then maybe it’s about deciding what pieces you want to pick up, and what you’re willing to leave behind.”
The simplicity of her words cuts deeper than I expect, and I sit back, pressing my hands into my lap to steady myself. I don’t respond, because I don’t have an answer.
Dr. Linton lets the silence linger again, giving me space to process. Finally, she speaks, her voice softer than before. “It’s okay to feel conflicted, Geneva. It’s okay to not have the answers right now. But what’s not okay is carrying this alone until it consumes you.”
I nod, my eyes stinging with unshed emotion. The clock ticks in the background, marking the seconds that feel heavier than time should.
“Let’s start small,” she says gently, her pen poised again. “If this hypothetical professional could speak freely, without judgment, what’s the one thing they’d say to this subject?”
The question catches me off guard, and I frown. My mind flashes to Ghost, to the look in his eyes as I walked away, the unspoken words between us. And then, without thinking, the answer tumbles out. “I’d ask him: Do you care about me?”
Dr. Linton doesn’t look up from her notepad as she writes, her expression calm, her movements even. The scratch of her pen against paper fills the quiet, and for a moment, I feel exposed. Regretful. I know I need professional help, but this might’ve been a huge mistake.
Finally, she sets the pen down and folds her hands in her lap. “That’s an honest place to begin. And it’s okay to feel torn. Relationships—especially ones with this level of complexity—are rarely black and white.”
I shift in my seat, gripping the armrests. “But this isn’t a relationship,” I say quickly, as if saying it aloud will make it true. “It’s a professional situation that’s gotten… messy.”
And by “messy” I mean he had his fingers in my pussy.
Her brow arches. “Messy, yes. But not entirely professional, is it? At least not in how you’re experiencing it.”
The words sting, but she’s not wrong. “No,” I admit, my voice barely audible. “It’s not. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want this. Hypothetically,” I add lamely.
“I believe you. Remember that you’re human. Feelings don’t always follow logic or intention. What matters now is what you do with those feelings.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Dr. Linton leans forward. “Start with this: What do you want? Not what you think you should want, or what you’re afraid of wanting. Just simply, what do you want?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and impossible to answer. I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. What do I want? To escape this? To understand it? Or worse, to let myself feel it, to follow this to its destined conclusion where I end up hurt and alone?
“I don’t know,” I finally say, my voice breaking. “I just know I can’t stop thinking about him. Even when I try. And it’s exhausting.”
Dr. Linton smiles at me with sympathy. “Honesty is good. When you think about him, is it fear you feel? Or something else?”
“Both,” I whisper. “It’s always both.”
Her expression softens. “That’s not uncommon. Attraction and fear often coexist in complicated dynamics like this. The key is understanding why. Why you feel drawn to him, and why it scares you.”
I close my eyes, the memories flashing behind my eyelids—Ghost’s smirk, his biting humor, the way he looked at me when I left the room. His euphoric expression when I came on his hand. “Because he makes me feel addicted.”
“Addicted,” she repeats. “That’s a strong word. It suggests there’s a pull you feel, something beyond just fascination or curiosity. Do you think that’s part of why you’re here?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I think about him all the time. About what he said, the way he looked at me… the way he saved me.”
“Let’s talk about that,” she says, her pen hovering over the notepad again. “When he saved you, how did it make you feel?”
I hesitate, the memory of that moment flashing vividly in my mind—Lobo’s body crumpling to the ground, Ghost’s hands still restrained but lethal, the way he turned to me afterward, calm and completely unapologetic.
“Conflicted,” I admit. “Because it was brutal. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. But it wasn’t for himself. It was for me. He saved me, and I don’t know how to reconcile that with the person I know he is.”
Dr. Linton nods slowly. “It’s not uncommon to feel gratitude toward someone who’s protected you, even if they’ve done so in a way that feels morally or ethically complicated. It can create a bond, a sense of connection that’s hard to ignore.”
“That’s exactly it. And it scares me because I know he’s capable of so much worse. But when I’m around him, I don’t just see the manipulative side. No, I do see it, but I can’t stop it from affecting me. How do I make it stop?”
Dr. Linton’s gaze is unwavering, her tone firm. “You start by taking back control. By setting boundaries. Not just with him but with yourself as well. And you remind yourself that it’s okay to feel conflicted. It’s okay to be drawn to someone and still recognize that they may not be good for you.”
I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at her as the words deep in my soul begin to surface. “But I want him despite knowing all of that.”
“That’s a powerful realization, Geneva. You’re in a situation that challenges not only your professional boundaries but your personal ones as well. And that can be disorienting, even overwhelming. But the question now is: What are you willing to risk to explore these feelings of want?”
The more accurate question would be: Is there anything I’m not willing to risk?
And I don’t like the answer.
CHAPTER 35
GENEVA
Two weeks later…
The lights buzz softly overhead as I sit at my desk, the hum a faint but persistent reminder of reality. Dr. Linton’s words from my last session loop through my mind like a mantra, steady and relentless: Set the boundary. Hold the line.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus. My laptop screen illuminates the otherwise muted office, the open file staring back at me like a dare. Slowly, deliberately, I click on his photo. Ghost’s face fills the screen, his expression as infuriatingly smug as it is captivating. It’s a test, I tell myself. A deliberate exercise. Small doses of temptation to practice building the mental distance I so desperately need.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk, and force myself to study the photo like it’s nothing more than another case. Another subject. The hard angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes are all there, frozen in a single frame, daring me to unravel what lies beneath. And I hate how easily it draws me in, how even in a static image he manages to hold power over me.
I scroll through the notes I’ve painstakingly compiled, clinging to the words as if they’re a lifeline. Each sentence is a reminder, a tether to reality: Dangerous. Manipulative. A psychopath. Traits I’ve dissected and cataloged, the same traits that should keep me grounded.
But as I skim the lines, my gaze keeps drifting back to his photo, as if it holds answers the text can’t provide. My stomach churns, a mixture of frustration and need. He’s more than what’s written in this file, more than what the mugshot captures, and that’s what terrifies me the most. Because it’s that more which has me prisoner and refuses to let go.
My fingers hover over the trackpad, debating whether to close the file, to put the temptation away. But closing it feels like running, and running means I’ve lost control. I need to face it, face him, in small doses if that’s what it takes to fortify myself.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
The words are hollow, even as I mentally repeat them. How do I not act on something that already consumes me? Every line I’ve written about Ghost, every session I’ve spent trying to understand him, has led to this moment, where the boundaries between professional and personal are no longer blurred but shattered.
My chest tightens as I force myself to focus on the facts, the clinical detachment I’ve trained for years to maintain. His history. His diagnosis. The patterns of manipulation. It’s all here, laid bare in my notes. Evidence of who he is, what he is. But even as I read, the memory of him flashes in my mind. The vulnerability, the rawness. The tender emotions he isn’t supposed to be capable of.
I grip the edge of the desk.
“He’s a psychopath,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make it easier to believe. “He’s dangerous.”
And yet, staring at his photo, I can’t shake the truth that keeps gnawing at me: He’s not dangerous to me in the way everyone assumes. Not physically. Not in the ways that make sense. He’s dangerous because he makes me question everything. My professionalism. My judgment. My very sense of self.
I let go of the desk to scroll down, forcing myself to look at the notes instead of his face. Clinical facts. Behavioral patterns. My observations, written with care and objectivity. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The smirk in his photo is still there, lingering in the corner of my vision, taunting me.
I close my eyes, take a steadying breath, and open them again. I won’t let him win. Not today. Not in this moment.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I close the file abruptly. The small victory feels far less satisfying than it should. But it’s a start. A single step in a battle I’m not sure I know how to win.
My laptop pings with a new email, jolting me out of my thoughts. The subject line catches my eye: “Keynote Speech Confirmation: Dr. Geneva Andrews.”
Holy Shit. I forgot about that.
Clicking the email open, I skim the message quickly.
Dear Dr. Andrews,
I hope this email finds you well. We are absolutely delighted to have you as our keynote speaker for the Annual Behavioral Science Fundraiser tomorrow night. Your groundbreaking insights into criminal psychology, particularly your recent work with high-risk inmates, promise to be a highlight of the evening.
Your profile on the inmate you’ve referred to as “Ghost” has generated immense interest among attendees and supporters. The way you’ve unraveled his psychopathy and the intricate nuances of his behavior is both fascinating and vital to understanding the complexities of criminal profiling. We are excited to hear you expand on these findings during your address.
This event will not only showcase the importance of behavioral science but also serve to raise critical funds for ongoing research and education in the field. Your expertise and perspective will undoubtedly inspire and resonate with our audience.
Thank you once again for lending your voice and expertise to this important cause. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you require any resources or support as you prepare for the event.
Warm regards,
Dr. Melanie Corbin
Chair, Department of Behavioral Sciences
The email stares back at me from the screen, its words neatly typed, each one tightening the invisible noose around my neck. My fingers hover over the mouse, motionless, as if clicking away will somehow lessen the weight pressing against me.
The way you’ve unraveled his psychopathy and the intricate nuances of his behavior is both fascinating and vital to understanding the complexities of criminal behavior.
Fascinating. That’s the word they’ve chosen. They’re enthralled by the work I’ve done, the clinical precision I’ve supposedly brought to studying Ghost’s mind. But I can’t stop replaying our last moment together, the look in his eyes, or the way he kissed me.
Ghost is more than fascinating. He’s damn near irresistible.
I let out a shaky breath, slumping in my chair. The email’s praise is a spotlight I want to shrink away from. They have no idea how I continued blurring the lines between me and Ghost until they became nonexistent.
They can’t know. That thought is immediate, sharp, and terrifying. If they knew how much of myself I’ve already sacrificed to understand Ghost—how personal it’s become—they wouldn’t be congratulating me. They’d be condemning me.
The ticking clock on the wall is deafening in the silence of my office. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to force the tension out of my head. The room feels too small, too bright, like the walls are closing in.
Get your shit together.
I glance at the email again, my eyes scanning the polite words, the thinly veiled demand for more. They want me to stand on a stage and tell them about Ghost, to make him a spectacle to satisfy their curiosity. But how can I talk about him like that now, as though he’s just another file on my desk?
My gaze shifts to his file, the notes glaring up at me. Diagnoses. Traits. Behavioral patterns. All of it meticulously documented.
None of it captures what I saw in that interview room.
The pain.
The longing.
The raw, undeniable humanity he shouldn’t be capable of.
My computer pings again with a new notification, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the subject line, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Instead, I close my laptop and stare up at the ceiling.
I can’t let Ghost derail me, not when so much is riding on this keynote. My career depends on it. My reputation. But as much as I try to focus on what matters—what should matter—all I can think about is him.
The way he looked at me. The way he said my name.
The way I didn’t want to leave.
CHAPTER 36
GENEVA
The glass of wine dangles precariously from my fingertips as I recline on my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. The screen’s glow is harsh against the soft lighting of the room. I stare at the blank document in front of me, the blinking cursor mocking me with its persistence.
My keynote speech. The one everyone is so excited about. The one they’re certain will showcase my brilliance, my insight, and my objectivity.
The outline sits neatly in a document, a skeleton of ideas waiting for flesh, but I can’t make the words come. Every time I try, the same thought rears its head: How do I talk about him without exposing myself?
I take a sip of wine, the warmth spreading in my belly. It dulls the edge of my nerves but does little to quiet the noise in my head. They want to hear about Ghost, about the man behind the diagnosis, the enigma wrapped in danger and control. They want to know how I unraveled his psychopathy.
But how do I make sense of him when I’m still trying to understand? And where do I even begin? How do I distill months of studying him into something academic and detached?
I exhale sharply and reread the first sentence: “Psychopathy is a condition defined by control.”
It’s a good start. Clean. Professional. Clinical.
I take another sip of wine and lean back against the headboard, staring at the words on the screen. Ghost is nothing if not controlled. Every smirk, every word, and every movement is deliberate and calculated. It’s what makes him so fascinating. And so infuriating.
But he wasn’t controlled the last time I saw him…
Ghost looked at me as though he was dying; his pain was so raw it felt like a boulder pressing down on my chest. I swallow hard as the memory of his gaze appears in my mind.
Vulnerability. Longing. Empathy.
Things he shouldn’t be capable of.
I set the wine glass on the nightstand and run my hands over my face. Focus, Geneva. The speech isn’t about him. It’s about his condition, his behavior, and the way he manipulates and deceives. It’s about what makes him a textbook case.
Not the exceptions that make him human.
I type another line and then read it aloud: “Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision.”
My gaze drifts to the wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the soft light. The alcohol isn’t helping. If anything, it’s making things blur even more.
Turning my head, I glance at the scattered notes around me, papers strewn across the bed like fallen leaves. Quotes from past lectures. Clinical terms. Carefully worded descriptions that strip the humanity from the subject, leaving only a puzzle to be solved.
I pick up one of the papers, scanning a highlighted passage: “Psychopathy is the absence of connection, the inability to form genuine bonds with others.”
Frustration bubbles up in my chest, so I drop the paper back onto the pile. None of these notes or observations account for Ghost. The file doesn’t explain why he saved me, why he let me see him in a way no one else has. And it certainly doesn’t explain why I let him touch me.
I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself, but the memory of his touch keeps replaying in my mind. The way he said my name like it meant something. Like I meant everything.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it?
Except that look shattered something inside me. Ghost isn’t just a simple answer anymore. He’s the question I can’t stop asking.
I reach for the wine again, taking a long sip before setting the glass down. I’ve spent years telling myself I could maintain control, that I could navigate the darkness without it touching me. But now I’m not so sure.
The cursor blinks, urging me to continue, but I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I close the laptop gently, resting my head back against the pillows. The wine hums in my veins, offering a false sense of calm, but the truth simmers just beneath the surface.
Ghost isn’t just the focus of the keynote. He’s my focus.
I close my eyes, letting the silence of the room wrap around me like a cocoon, but it doesn’t bring the tranquility I hope for. Instead, it brings memories. That day. That moment in the interview room when the boundary between us dissolved completely.
His hands on me. Not manipulative or detached, but intimate and claiming. His voice, low and rough, commanding while laced with something deeper. The way his fingers moved with purpose, igniting sensations I’ve never felt.
I inhale sharply, my thighs pressing together instinctively as the memory flickers like a flame I can’t extinguish. The look in his eyes as he stood behind me, watching me in the reflection of the glass. Yes, there was power in that moment. But there was also something else. A vulnerability that mirrored my own, a shared understanding.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. About him. About the way my body betrayed me, the way I surrendered to something I still don’t fully understand.
I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, willing the memory to fade, but it doesn’t. It lingers, teasing, pulling me back into that room, to the way his touch burned through every layer of professionalism I’ve ever built. To the way his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered words that made me shiver.
My breath hitches, my pulse quickening. I tell myself it’s just the wine, the late hour, and the stress of the day catching up to me. But I know that’s a lie. It’s him. It’s always him.
Ghost isn’t just in my thoughts… he’s in my body now, too. A temptation I can’t seem to escape, no matter how much I try to rationalize it or push it aside. And as much as I want to hate him for it, I can’t.
I’m the one to blame because I know better.
I grip the edge of the blanket, my knuckles whitening as the thought creeps into my mind, unbidden but persistent. The idea of him here, now. His hands instead of mine. His voice instead of silence.
My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a betrayal of the control I’ve fought so hard to maintain. I press my thighs together, a weak attempt to stifle the growing ache, but it only makes it worse. The memory of his touch lingers like a ghost itself, haunting and unseen, leaving me trembling with the weight of what I know I shouldn’t want.
Desire rises, insistent, drawing me further into the fantasy: what it would feel like to surrender completely, to let myself go. To let him take what he’s already claimed in my mind.
My lips part, a sigh escaping as I imagine him here, watching me, whispering my name like a prayer. I slip my hand beneath my long t-shirt to the apex of my thighs, where the evidence of my desire has already soaked through my panties.
I shudder at the first brush of my fingers, the sensation both relief and torture. It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough.
With a frustrated groan, I push the fabric aside, baring myself to the chill of the night air. My skin prickles, pebbling with goosebumps, and a tremor runs through me as I circle my clit, the movement slow but with purpose. And need.
My eyes flutter closed, my mind filling in the gaps of my reality. His hands. His touch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” his voice breathes, soft and reverent. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
I slip two fingers inside, pressing deeper, imagining it’s him. Imagining his fingers curling and thrusting, coaxing me toward release.
“Fuck, Geneva,” he murmurs. “You’re so tight. So fucking wet for me.”
“Yes. God, yes.”
His hand covers mine, guiding me, urging me on. His grip is strong and firm, his movements relentless, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost unbearable. I arch my back, grinding against his palm, desperate for release.
“Come for me,” he demands, his voice rough with lust. “I want to hear you scream.”
I do.
His name tears from my lips, echoing off the walls of the room as my orgasm crashes through me, leaving me shaking and spent. My breathing is ragged, the sound harsh in the silence.
As the last waves of pleasure recede, shame begins to creep in. But before it can take hold, something else washes over me… anger.
How dare he make me want him? How dare he invade my thoughts, my dreams, my desires? How dare he leave me like this.
Wanting.
Aching.
Craving.
“Fuck you, Ghost, for making me want you,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. It feels good to let it out, to give voice to the emotions clawing at my chest, so I press on, the words spilling out like poison needing to be purged.
“Fuck you for making me feel this way. For making me question everything I’ve ever known about myself, about control, about boundaries. Most of all, fuck you for leaving me to deal with this… this obsession with you.”
The echo of my voice hangs in the air, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve taken back some small piece of myself, wrestled free from the grip he has on me. I mentally congratulate myself on how cathartic that was.
“If that’s the case, then come fuck me.”
The words slither through the darkness, low and smooth, dripping with amusement. I jerk upright, my heart hammering as I scan the room. Shadows stretch across the walls, the glow of the streetlight outside doing little to illuminate the corners of my bedroom.
“Ghost?” I whisper, my voice shaky and barely audible.
There’s no answer. Nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the hum of the city beyond the window. My hands shake when I lower my t-shirt while continuing my search for any sign of him.
Finding nothing, I sigh. It was nothing more than my imagination. My mind’s desperate attempt to make him real.
“Hello, Doc.”
