Текст книги "Depraved devotion"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER 40
GENEVA
I wake up disoriented and confused, lying naked and tangled in the sheets. The memory of Ghost’s hands on my skin rushes through me, and I sit up, my pulse racing.
Was it a dream? A hallucination? Or did it actually happen?
I press my hand to my chest, trying to steady my erratic heartbeat as the room comes into focus. The pale light of dawn filters through the curtains, soft and mild, the opposite of the storm raging inside me. My skin feels warm, hypersensitive, as if his touch lingers even now.
It had to be a dream, I tell myself, though the conviction isn’t there. Because it felt so vivid, so real. His hands gripping my hips, the way his lips moved against mine… each detail is etched into my mind with a startling clarity.
I glance at the sheets, twisted and rumpled with use. Meanwhile, the comforter lies disregarded on the floor as if it was a hindrance. I drag my fingers over the curve of my hip, over the trace of a bruise, and a shiver runs through me.
The memory—or the illusion—floods back with force, Ghost’s voice low and rough in my ear, saying things that make my breath hitch even now. I shake my head, trying to clear it. The logical part of me knows the truth. He wasn’t here. He couldn’t have been. And yet, the pull of him is so strong, so consuming, that the boundary between reality and desire is almost nonexistent.
I scan the room, searching for any indication that he was actually here. That he’d come for me, touched me, been with me in a way that wasn’t just a fantasy born of my selfish desires. But there’s nothing. No clothes discarded. No sign of the man who’s ruined my life.
Except for a single magnolia resting on the pillow beside me.
My breathing halts as I stare at it, my chest tightening with a wave of emotions so twisted I can’t unravel them. Fear. Desire. Confusion.
And something I don’t want to name.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the flower, the smooth petals cool against my skin. The soft fragrance wraps around me, heady and intimate, like a whisper of the night before.
The magnolia is real.
Ghost was here.
The memory surges forward, vivid and inescapable. His hands on my skin, his body against mine, the way he claimed every inch of me with a mix of raw intensity and startling tenderness. The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t just someone to him, but everything.
My cheeks flush, my pulse quickening as the reality sets in. I close my eyes, clutching the flower tighter as the weight of what we did presses against my chest. And my heart.
This isn’t just a crossing of boundaries; it’s a complete obliteration of them. Every rule, every line I told myself I’d never cross, gone in an instant.
But the fear isn’t as sharp as I expected. It’s there, simmering beneath the surface, but it’s overshadowed by something else. Desire. For intimacy. For connection.
For him.
It’s a yearning I can’t ignore. The memory of his lips on my skin, his cock thrusting deep, the way he unraveled me completely… it all lingers, refusing to let me go.
The magnolia is his message. A silent confirmation of what we shared. A reminder that he’s never far. That I can never be apart from him.
I gently set the flower down on the nightstand, my fingers lingering on the stem. My mind spins with questions, but the answers don’t matter right now. What matters is that it happened. That he happened.
And that nothing will ever be the same.
Later that evening, I gesture to the garment bag hanging in the corner. “Well, I got the dress. The rest is up to you.”
Sarah beams, practically bouncing up and down as she unzips the bag to reveal the wine-colored gown inside. The fabric gleams under the light, rich and smooth, with a neckline that plunges just enough to feel daring but not overly scandalous. The slit up one leg is tasteful, though it still makes me blush when I think about how much skin it shows.
“You’re going to slay, queen,” she declares, holding it up against me. “Now, off with the boring clothes. We’ve got work to do.”
I laugh again at her infectious energy and quickly change. The cool silk of the gown slips over my skin, molding to my body like it was made for me. When I’m finished, Sarah’s face lights up.
“Okay, wow,” she says, circling me like an artist appraising her masterpiece. “You look… I mean, damn, Geneva. Picasso!”
She kisses the tips of her fingers, and I laugh again as I turn toward the mirror. The dress hugs my curves in all the right places, the burgundy setting off the warmth of my skin and the dark waves of my hair. The neckline draws attention to the slope of my collarbone, while the slit reveals just enough of my leg to feel provocative.
“Too much skin?” I ask, gesturing to the open back.
“Not enough,” Sarah quips. She runs out of my bedroom and quickly returns, dragging a chair into my bathroom. “Sit. Hair time. We’re going full old-Hollywood glam.”
I settle onto the chair, and she gets to work, pulling my hair into loose waves that cascade over one shoulder. As she works, I glance at my reflection, my lips curving into a small smile. The Geneva staring back at me feels… different. Alive.
The memory of Ghost’s hands on my skin, and the way he murmured my name like it was something delicious, flutters through my mind, sending heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Why do you look like you’ve got a naughty secret?” Sarah asks, narrowing her eyes at me in the mirror.
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “Do I?”
“Mm-hmm.” She smirks, gently tugging a lock of my hair. “There’s a glint in your eyes. Something spicy. Did you meet someone?”
“No,” I lie. “I had a sexy dream last night. The stuff of legends.”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Niiiiice. Hold on to it. You’re glowing tonight. Care to share any of the details?”
“I can’t without covering my face and ruining your makeup.”
“Don’t you dare.”
When she finishes a while later, I stand, running my hands down the smooth fabric of the gown. I look taller, more statuesque. Sophisticated. Sultry.
I wish Ghost could see me like this.
“You look like a damn goddess,” Sarah says, stepping back to admire her work. “Everyone at the banquet is going to donate something after seeing you. If they don’t, screw them.”
I grin at her in the mirror, a genuine smile that isn’t enough to convey my gratitude. “Thanks, Sarah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d survive.” She winks at me. “But you wouldn’t look half as good doing it. Now, go show ʼem what your momma gave you.”
CHAPTER 41
GENEVA
The room quiets as I step onto the stage. Instantly, the podium is a barricade between me and the audience, a shield I’m grateful for. My speech is neatly printed, the outline memorized, but my chest tightens as I shuffle the papers, forcing myself to exhale slowly.
You’ve done this before. It’s just another lecture.
Except it isn’t. I’ve added a personal touch, something that I don’t usually do, and the stakes are higher. Donors, alumni, and faculty members are all waiting to hear me deliver insight into the enigma they know as Ghost. They’re hungry for the polished, clinical observations that paint him as a fascinating puzzle, a cautionary tale of psychopathy.
They have no freaking idea.
“Good evening,” I begin, my voice steady, carrying just enough warmth to pull the audience in. “It’s an honor to stand before you tonight, not just as a keynote speaker, but as someone whose journey began here, within the walls of this very university.
“Before I delve into the heart of my work, I want to share a story. A story that began thousands of miles from here, in the sun-drenched savannas of East Africa. It’s where I spent much of my childhood, alongside my parents, who were humanitarians. They devoted their lives to healing the fractures of a world so often divided by conflict and inequality.”
My voice softens, laced with emotion. “They were more than my parents. They were my compass, my moral anchor. My mother, a physician, established clinics in villages that hadn’t seen a doctor in years. My father, an educator, believed that knowledge was the most powerful tool for change. Together, they were a force of nature, inspiring everyone around them. Including me.”
A smile touches my lips, but it’s tinged with bittersweetness. “Their work wasn’t easy, and neither was their decision to uproot our lives and move to Africa when I was a toddler. They did so to advocate for change on a larger scale, to ensure that their work could create ripples far beyond what they could accomplish alone.”
I pause, letting the weight of my next words settle. “But their journey was cut short. After returning to the States, my parents were killed in an act of senseless violence. A tragic event that left more questions than answers. For years, I struggled to understand the kind of mind capable of such cruelty. And that struggle became my purpose.”
The room is utterly still now, and everyone is watching me with rapt attention. It’s a good sign, but only adds to my nervousness. I clear my throat and continue.
“This is why I chose to study criminal psychology. I needed to understand what drives people to the darkest corners of human behavior. Not just to solve crimes, but to prevent them. To find meaning in the chaos. And, perhaps most importantly, to honor my parents’ legacy by seeking justice in a world that often feels unjust.”
I glance at the slideshow behind me, where an image of my parents appears. It’s a candid shot of them laughing together with my father’s arm draped over my mother’s shoulders, and the African sun setting behind them. The photo shifts to an image of me as a graduate student, standing proudly beside the university sign.
“This university gave me the tools to take that purpose and transform it into action. It gave me the mentors, the resources, and the opportunities to explore the complexities of the human mind. It gave me the courage to face the hardest truths and the knowledge to pursue answers where none seemed possible.”
I shift my tone from personal to inspirational. “Today, I stand before you not just as a scholar, but as proof of what this institution can achieve. The research I conduct, the cases I work on, and the lives I’ve touched all began here, with the generosity of people like you. Your support fuels the dreams of students who, like me, aspire to make a difference in a world desperately in need of it.
“Imagine what we could accomplish together. Imagine the lives we could change, the futures we could shape, the light we could bring to those darkest corners. This isn’t just an investment in education. It’s an investment in justice, in understanding, and in hope. My parents believed that one person could change the world. I believe that too. But together, we can do so much more.”
I let the current photo of my parents linger on the screen behind me, their smiles illuminated in the soft glow of the stage lights. “They believed in the power of connection, in the idea that understanding others—no matter how different—could bridge divides and heal wounds. It’s a belief I carry with me in all my work. But not everyone values connection. Not everyone is capable of it.”
With the press of a button, the slide transitions to a picture of Ghost. On the giant screen, his mugshot feels larger than life. Especially because of that infuriatingly smug expression I’ve come to both love and hate.
His face is a mask of defiance, his eyes cold yet piercing, as though he’s challenging anyone who dares to try and label him. It’s a picture I’ve analyzed countless times, but now, standing here, it feels different.
The room is silent, the audience captivated, but I can’t focus on their reactions. My pulse quickens as my gaze locks on his image. The memory of last night floods my mind, making my skin burn with the phantom sensation of his hands on me.
“Psychopathy is a condition defined by control, not connection.” My voice is steady despite the tendrils of lust coursing through me. Branding me.
A flicker of movement snatches my attention. My gaze shifts toward it, landing on a tall figure who’s leaning casually against the back wall. The man has his arms crossed, and his face is partially obscured by shadows. It’s the posture, the body language that’s familiar. But when his eyes meet mine, sharp and unmistakable, my breath catches in my throat.
For a moment, I hesitate, my mind scrambling to reconcile what I’m seeing. His hair, normally stark white, is now jet black, styled in a way that makes him look almost ordinary. The scar that twists down his cheek is gone, replaced by flawless skin, likely the work of expertly applied prosthetics and makeup. His tailored suit blends seamlessly with the polished crowd inside, but it’s the smirk tugging at his lips that shatters the illusion.
Ghost.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the recognition flickering across my face. But his gaze holds mine, unflinching, and I know this isn’t a hallucination. He’s here, in plain sight, daring me to falter.
Or to continue…
I grip the edges of the podium, my fingers digging into the wood as I force myself to speak. “Psychopaths are often misunderstood. Their actions are calculated, their emotions shallow, and their ability to manipulate unparalleled.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a glint in his eyes that I recognize too well. A challenge. He’s testing me, pushing me to maintain my composure while he stands there, a living contradiction to everything I’m saying.
“However,” I continue, my gaze flickering briefly to my notes before returning to the audience, “what sets them apart is their ability to adapt. They learn to mimic human connection, to exploit vulnerabilities in ways that make them appear normal.”
The words hang in the air, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches with the faintest hint of amusement. My pulse quickens, but I press on, refusing to let him rattle me.
“They thrive in environments where control is paramount. They seek power, not always through brute force, but through subtlety. Through precision.”
Ghost shifts slightly, his posture unchanged but his gaze burning into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not just listening. He’s dissecting every word and every nuance, as if this speech is for him alone. And in a way, it is.
He’s here for a reason, and I can’t decide if it’s to intimidate me, to test me, or to remind me of the connection I’ve tried so hard to bury. Maybe it’s all three.
“Dr. Andrews, a question.”
All eyes turn toward the source. My stomach plummets, and I grip the podium more tightly. He remains in the shadows at the back of the room, his presence commanding, his gaze locked on me.
“Do you really believe psychopaths are incapable of connection?” Ghost’s voice carries easily, calm but direct. Although it sounds like a casual inquiry, it’s anything but.
The audience murmurs, confused at the interruption but intrigued, their attention shifting between him and me. I force a neutral expression, one that doesn’t betray the apprehension building inside me.
“That’s what the research shows,” I say. “Psychopathy is characterized by a lack of genuine emotional connection. While they may mimic emotions, their relationships are typically shallow and self-serving.”
“But isn’t it possible,” he says slowly, “that even a psychopath could experience something real? Under the right circumstances?”
The murmuring in the audience grows louder, curiosity and unease rippling through the crowd. My chest tightens as his words settle over me, heavy with meaning only we can fully understand.
“Psychopaths lack empathy,” I reply, forcing a clinical tone. “Their actions are driven by self-interest, not genuine care or connection.”
His smirk deepens, his eyes never leaving mine. “Interesting. And yet, couldn’t one argue that self-interest and connection aren’t mutually exclusive? That sometimes, wanting someone, needing someone, can feel indistinguishable from… let’s say, love?”
My breath hitches as the room around us fades into a blur. He’s not asking about psychopaths. He’s asking about himself.
About us.
The audience shifts uncomfortably, the tension palpable, but Ghost doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. His gaze burns into me, daring me to respond, to refute him, to call him out for what he really is.
“I suppose it’s possible for someone to misinterpret those feelings,” I say carefully, my voice tight. “But that doesn’t mean they’re genuine. It means they’re manipulative. A reflection of what they want, not what they feel. Psychopaths manipulate perceptions to serve their own ends. What feels genuine to them is often an illusion designed to elicit a specific response from others. It’s not about connection, it’s about control.”
Ghost tilts his head, his gaze unyielding. “And if the person being controlled wants it? If they choose to see the illusion as real, does that make it less genuine? Or does it make it something else entirely?”
The room is deathly silent now, the audience caught in the battle of wills raging between us. I can feel their confusion, their intrigue, but all I can focus on is Ghost. The challenge in his words, the way his tone pressures me to submit.
“That choice,” I say, “is often born from manipulation. It’s a reflection of the psychopath’s ability to distort reality, not a sign of authenticity.”
“And yet,” he counters smoothly, taking a step forward, “authenticity is subjective, isn’t it? What’s real to one person might look like manipulation to another. Who gets to decide what’s true? The one who feels it… or the one who’s afraid to?” He gives me a pointed look.
“I appreciate your perspective,” I say, my voice hard. “But this discussion is rooted in empirical evidence, not philosophical interpretation.”
Ghost smiles, a slow, sensual curve of his lips that makes my stomach flutter. “Of course it is,” he says softly. “Because it’s safer that way, isn’t it? Easier to stick to data than to face what’s right in front of you.”
The audience shifts in their seats, unsure whether this is part of the presentation or something far more personal.
My hands tremble now. “Thank you for your question. Now, as I was saying, understanding the mind of a psychopath requires detachment. Data isn’t just safer. It’s essential. Without it, we risk letting personal biases cloud our judgment.”
I briefly flick my eyes to Ghost, finding his posture relaxed but his gaze unrelenting. His smirk hasn’t faded, and it needles at the edges of my composure.
“As an example,” I say, “let me introduce you to someone I’ve spent several months studying. A subject who embodies everything I’ve just described. He’s a man who has confounded the justice system, evaded capture for years, and left a trail of devastation in his wake.”
I click the button and the screen behind me shifts to a picture of Ghost during his arraignment. “This is the man the media calls ‘Ghost.’ He’s a textbook example of what makes psychopaths so dangerous: charming, intelligent, and completely devoid of empathy.
“He operates in the shadows,” I continue, addressing the audience but acutely aware of his presence. “He doesn’t just manipulate individuals. He manipulates entire systems. His actions aren’t impulsive, they’re meticulously planned, each one designed to exploit weakness and evade accountability.”
Ghost nods his head, his expression somewhere between amusement and approval. It’s as if he’s silently applauding me for describing him so perfectly.
“And yet,” I say, “he’s also human. Behind the calculated actions and the façade of invincibility lies a fractured psyche. It’s a mind shaped by experiences we may never fully understand.”
The audience leans forward, captivated, their unease momentarily overshadowed by fascination. Ghost, however, remains motionless, his presence a static hum at the edge of my awareness.
“To study someone like Ghost,” I say, “is not to glorify him. It’s to shine a light into the most depraved parts of human behavior, to understand how such minds operate, and, ultimately, to protect others from falling victim to their machinations.”
I glance briefly at Ghost again, just long enough to catch the subtle shift in his expression. The smirk is gone now, replaced by something sharper, more calculating. It sends a chill down my spine.
“Criminal psychology isn’t just about solving crimes,” I say, addressing the room with renewed conviction. “It’s about prevention. It’s about justice. And it’s about giving voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves.
“But why, you might ask, does someone like Ghost capture the public’s attention so completely? Why do we see his story splashed across headlines, his actions dissected by multiple professionals, and his name whispered in fear?”
The screen behind me shifts again, this time to a timeline of Ghost’s alleged crimes: high-profile murders, inexplicable disappearances, and cryptic messages left at the scenes. Each event marked by precision, each detail curated for maximum impact.
“It’s not just his crimes that intrigue us,” I say, gesturing toward the screen. “It’s his ability to remain untouchable. Ghost is not like the average offender we encounter in criminal psychology. He doesn’t act out of desperation or recklessness. His motives aren’t rooted in impulse or emotional instability. Every move he makes is deliberate, methodical, and—most unsettling of all—purposeful.”
“What sets Ghost apart,” I continue, “is his need for control. Not just over individuals but over entire narratives. He crafts his actions like a playwright, ensuring every piece of the story serves his end goal. And what is that goal? Power. Influence. Not through brute force, but through psychological domination. He doesn’t just break laws; he breaks people.”
And I’m one of them.
The image on the screen changes again, this time to a crime scene photo (tastefully blurred) but the emotion it evokes is undeniable. A note left behind is the focal point, scrawled in neat handwriting: Actions have consequences.
“Messages like these are what make Ghost truly unique,” I explain. “He communicates not just with his victims but with society as a whole. He knows how to manipulate fear, curiosity, and even admiration. He’s not content with staying hidden in the shadows. He wants to be seen but only on his terms.”
I pause to take a deep breath. “And that is what makes him unlike any other psychopath we’ve studied. His intelligence, his adaptability, and his mastery of psychological manipulation elevate him to a level that defies traditional categorization. Ghost isn’t just a criminal; he’s a phenomenon.”
The screen fades to black, and I turn back to the audience, my gaze steady. “But we must be careful not to confuse fascination with glorification. To study someone like Ghost is to understand the dangers of unchecked power and the consequences of failing to see the warning signs before it’s too late. He’s a case study in what happens when brilliance and darkness collide. Thank you.”
The room erupts into applause, though it feels distant, muted against the pounding of my heart. I step back from the podium, my hands trembling as I clasp them together.
Ghost doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on me, his smirk fading into something more serious, more dangerous. For a moment, I think he might say something else, might push me further, but then he steps back into the shadows, disappearing into the crowd as if he was never there.
