Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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CHAPTER 11

GENEVA

The inmates look at me like I’m a donut and they’re on a diet. It’s uncomfortable but not enough to deter me. Meanwhile, the guard barely glances at me as he guides me down the long, dim prison hallway.

Every step takes me closer to Ghost, to the conversation I know I shouldn’t be having but can’t stop myself from seeking out. Even Detective Harris was perturbed this morning when I told him about my plan.

“What are you hoping to get out of this, Gen? What more could you possibly need from him?”

I didn’t have a good reason for Allen. Or maybe I just didn’t want to say it out loud. The truth is that I need answers only Ghost can give me.

Out of all the billions of people in the world, why am I the one he’s fixated on?

I run my fingers over my hair, making sure my bun is secure and there are no flyaway strands. My clothes still hold the starch from the dry cleaners, and paired with my ballet flats, I embody propriety. And to some, monotony.

No one would say I’m fascinating.

Except Ghost.

“Remember,” the guard says, coming to a halt outside the room, “don’t say anything to provoke the inmate. Don’t give him any details about other cases, and absolutely no personal information.”

I almost burst out laughing. Ghost has already proven he knows more about me than I’ve ever shared, or made public. It’s not as though I gave him my cell number and asked him to text me.

“I got it.”

The guard unlocks the door, and I steel myself as I walk into the interview room. The lights are harsh, too bright for the darkness I’m about to face. Ghost is already sitting behind the glass, chained to the table, his white hair made blinding by the fluorescent lights framing him in a soft glow. It gives him an ethereal quality, but he’s no ghost.

Just a man who haunts me with only a few words.

Our eyes meet as I sit down. The hazel in his glitters with amusement. And that smile… It’s there, curling at the corners of his mouth like he knows a dark secret.

I’m quick to speak first, wanting to take charge of the conversation. “Why are you in this room before me? Last time I was here, they brought you in after I arrived.”

Ghost nods slowly, his smile growing just a fraction. “Very perceptive, Dr. Andrews. You see, things changed around here, especially after the latest incident.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Incident?”

His eyes flash with that familiar glint, the one that tells me he’s enjoying every second of this. He leans back slightly, letting the chains on his wrists clink softly against the metal table. I try not to become distracted by the muscles of his large chest expanding under the orange material. “The inmate closest to this room. He met an unfortunate end. An apparent suicide. Gruesome, they said.”

My body tenses, and I take a deep breath to loosen my muscles. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Such accusations, Dr. Andrews. Do I strike you as the type to get my hands dirty?”

I nod. “Yes, actually.”

“Then, you’d be correct.” He rests his elbows on the table. His eyes gleam with a twisted amusement, and the smile never leaves his lips. “I may have given him a few choice words to remind him of… unpleasant truths. Sometimes, when you look at yourself too closely, you don’t like what you see.”

He tilts his head, eyes still locked on mine before continuing. “It’s amazing what the mind is capable of when it’s pushed in just the right direction. Wouldn’t you agree?”

My stomach tightens. He didn’t need to lay a finger on the inmate. Ghost has a way of planting seeds in the heads of others—seeds that grow into something far more dangerous.

Case in point: I’m sitting here talking to him when I know I shouldn’t.

His grin widens at my silence, and he nods slowly—almost as if reading my mind and praising me for connecting the dots. “The truth is powerful. You, of all people, should know that. And sometimes, the truth is enough to destroy someone.”

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to create some distance between us. “Did you know him?”

Ghost shrugs, the motion casual, as if we’re discussing something trivial. “Not personally, but we had commonalities. He had his ghosts, just like you, just like me. I simply helped him face them.”

I stare at Ghost, my skin crawling at the ease with which he speaks about manipulation and murder. “Why did you do it?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking ‘why’?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of killing people?”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. “Nope. And to answer your question: I did it because I could.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between us, the tension thick in the air. I can’t tell if he’s being honest or if this is just another one of his games. But I can feel the weight of his words pressing down on me, and the disturbing part is… I almost understand. I’ll never stop asking why. It’s my obsession, the same way murder is his.

“I knew you’d come back to me, Dr. Andrews.”

The way Ghost addresses me should be a barrier, a professional title that creates formality. But the way it rolls off his tongue is soft. Intimate. Like the brush of fingers over skin. Like he’s reminding me who I am when I’m with him… and who I pretend to be when I’m not.

“It would seem that you know a lot, Ghost. More than you should.”

Like my fucking phone number, for instance.

His smile widens, turning puckish. “I suppose I do. Information is the only thing I have to keep me company. It’s lonely here, and you’re my only friend.”

I roll my eyes. “We are not friends.”

“We could be. You’re not going to ask me for my real name?”

“Do you want to give it to me?”

He grins. “No. No. No.”

“Then why waste time?”

“Why indeed?” His eyes shine with satisfaction, and something devilish. He spreads his powerful thighs as he settles deeper in his chair. “So cold. So distant,” he murmurs. “But I suppose that’s what makes you so good at what you do.”

I put my elbows on the table and steeple my fingers, using this posture to send a message of confidence and control. “I’m not the only one who’s good at what they do. From my understanding, you’ve manipulated someone into giving you certain privileges?” Like a cell phone.

Ghost shakes his head, his smile never wavering, as if we share some private joke. I suppose we do. “Me? Manipulate? Never. I haven’t been given anything that hasn’t been approved by the great state of New York.”

“Then I guess you found other ways to get what you want.”

“Loneliness breeds creativity. One has to be innovative if they want something that’s unattainable, Dr. Andrews.”

I hold his stare while my mind churns. There’s something different in the way he’s looking at me this visit. It’s a subtle shift, minuscule, but I sense it. It’s how his eyes trail over my face as though he’s captivated by every inch of skin, every eyelash, every freckle. It’s intense, unnerving, and… fascinating.

For the first time since I met him, I feel like I’m the one being studied. My insides clench and I instinctively squeeze my thighs together to eradicate the sensation of desire.

I peer at him from behind my steepled fingers. What was once a gesture of self-assurance has now become a shield. Against him and my unwanted attraction. “Have you always been good at getting what you want, even when it’s impossible?”

“Oh, yes,” he purrs, his voice a deep rumble. “Nothing is impossible. Some things just require more patience. More… finesse.”

“Finesse is a decent strategy, but it won’t do you any good with something as immovable as a mountain.”

He laughs softly. “Even a glacier will melt, given time and the right circumstances.”

His reference to me doesn’t go over my head. It’s not the first time Ghost has called me cold and guarded.

“Why me?”

The question I’ve been agonizing over falls from my lips and into the silence between us with the impact of a bomb. I may have detonated it, but I’m not ready for the explosion. For the destruction that follows.

At first, there’s nothing. Then his gaze sharpens, and something flickers behind his eyes—something that feels almost like recognition.

“Because,” he says slowly, his voice soft but deliberate, “you’re just like me.”

I rear back, a mix of anger and denial surging through me. “I’m nothing like you,” I say through clenched teeth.

His smile doesn’t falter. “Oh, but you are, Dr. Andrews. The only difference is that you’re still trying to bury your ghosts, but I invite mine to dinner.”

He’s pushing again, trying to blur the lines between us. The worst part is that the connection I felt while texting him returns with full force. And it’s more than a mere ember. It’s scalding.

He adjusts in his chair. “Once you embrace your ghosts, that’s when real freedom begins. No amount of work, alcohol, or meaningless sex will help you. You can’t outrun them.”

“I—”

“You know, even ice can burn with prolonged exposure. Does your current distraction enjoy the pain you offer? Or has he finally gotten tired of it?”

“You know the rules,” I snap. “No personal information about me.”

Ghost’s smile widens and his eyes gleam with that infuriating calm, completely unbothered by my anger. “Oh, Dr. Andrews, I’m not breaking any rules. I’m simply asking questions. You’re not the only one who wants answers.”

Fury bubbles up inside me, warring with the cold edge of fear. How does he know about Mason? Not that I give a shit about him, but our relationship was never public. Yet here Ghost is, dropping it into conversation like it’s common knowledge.

Like he’s been watching me.

It’s not a stretch to assume that a man who can send me texts from prison would also know the details about my love life.

“For example,” Ghost continues, his relaxed tone at odds with the predatory glint in his eyes, “I want to know when was the last time you felt anything with him, beyond routine? Or what you think he’d say if he saw the real you? The Geneva that I see.”

The truth of his words cuts deep, past the lies. Past the bullshit. I hate that Ghost is right. I hate that every time I’m with Mason, I’m left with a gnawing emptiness, a sense of going through the motions, but never truly feeling anything. It’s predictable and safe. But it’s not what I need. It’s not what I want.

And somehow Ghost knows it.

I clench my fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms. “You don’t get to talk about my life like you understand it.”

“But I do understand it, Dr. Andrews. That’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”

Ghost’s maddening smirk only deepens, as if he’s savoring every flicker of emotion I’m trying so hard to suppress. For the first time, I’m irritated by the glass between us because I want to smack the shit out of him, to remove that knowing look off his face.

I get to my feet. Even as I’m staring down at him from this position of superiority, Ghost maintains the air of power surrounding him. Once again, he’s the victor of our exchange. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to take him down a notch.

“Let me tell you what I see.” I lean forward and narrow my gaze. “I see a man who’s trapped. Trapped in his own twisted mind, trapped behind these walls. You think you can manipulate me like I’m a rat in a lab. But you’re the one who’s nothing more than a prisoner, Ghost. A prisoner of your own delusions.”

His smile wavers, a flash of something behind his eyes. At last, I’ve finally gotten to him. It’s a small win, but a win nonetheless. He recovers quickly, his lips curling, almost taunting.

“Is that what you think, Dr. Andrews? That I’m the one trapped?” His voice is maddeningly calm, but there’s an edge to it now, something sinister. “I guess I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

“Don’t waste your time,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on his. “Don’t contact me anymore—not through legitimate means, and definitely not through your other methods.”

I turn and quickly make my way toward the door. I need to get out, to breathe, to put as much distance between us as I can. But just as I reach for the door handle, his voice slithers through the air, soft and chilling.

“Oh, Dr. Andrews, you should know by now that nothing I do is a waste of time. It just takes others longer to discover the results… or consequences.”

CHAPTER 12

GHOST

I’ve pissed off Geneva.

Good.

Even though she left the prison hours ago, she never left me. This woman has carved out a place in my mind and taken up residence. To remove her… I might actually go insane.

Well, more than I already am.

I laugh at this until the sound turns manic, until the hilarity of my thoughts has my eyes stinging as I roll around on my mattress. Given all the shit I’ve done, the number of people I’ve killed, how can I become more demented than I already am?

A guard walks up to my cell and slams his cudgel against the bars. “Shut up, Ghost.”

“Is that a baton, or are you just happy to see me?”

“You’re one crazy motherfucker.”

I sit up on the bed and pucker my lips to blow him a kiss. “Yes, sir.”

He shakes his head, grumbling to himself as he stalks off. I lie back down, returning to my thoughts of Geneva.

I close my eyes, savoring the image of her fury. The fire in her eyes as they darkened, shifting from that soft brown to a cold, hard black. Revealing the darkness that lives in both of us.

I recall the way she stiffened when I mentioned him. Mason. The name alone leaves a foul taste on my tongue like ash. If he wasn’t a tool needed to manipulate Geneva, I would kill him.

Once his usefulness is gone, all bets are off.

Her reactions this morning confirmed that she doesn’t feel anything for him. But I wasn’t just provoking her because I wanted to break her down—though I certainly enjoyed that part. No, it was more than that. I wanted to push her to tear him apart.

And to show him who she really is.

The glimpses I’ve seen of the real Geneva are beautiful. They’re raw, unfiltered, pure. When she lets go of the façade, when she stops pretending to be the calm, collected professional, she’s something else entirely.

She’s everything I expected her to be—and more. Enthralling. Captivating. I want to see her unravel, not just for me, but for herself.

Because I know, deep down, she’s dying to.

As I sit here in my cell, the thought of Mason being close to her, touching her, sharing the same space as her…

Fuck him.

He doesn’t know what she’s capable of. He’s too blind to see the fire beneath that ice, the part of Geneva that craves something deeper. Something darker.

The part that matches me.

The truth is there, gnawing at her like a parasite. She’s bored with him. Dissatisfied. She’s holding on out of fear, desperate for some sense of normalcy.

I roll onto my side, my eyes half-closed, a slow smile creeping onto my face. Soon enough she’ll break. Geneva will destroy him, and when she does, when she finally lets go of that safety net, she’ll realize that she’s been lying to herself and using him as a crutch.

And she’ll hate herself for it. She’ll hate him for it.

That’s when I’ll have her.

Because in the end, Mason will never be enough for her. He’s weak, ordinary, and she’s so much more than that. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t understand her. Not like I do.

She’ll never belong in that mundane world he offers her.

Geneva belongs with me.

CHAPTER 13

GENEVA

“I’m going to end it for good this time,” I say, my tone resolute. “I’m done with Mason.”

Sarah doesn’t laugh like I expect her to. Her silence lingers, and I can picture her on the other end of the call—brows furrowed, lips pressed together.

“I believe you,” she finally says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a heaviness to it. “It’s long overdue.”

She’s right. How many nights have I looked at Mason and felt nothing? How many years have I gone through the motions with men but not really lived?

But things have changed.

“I know.” With a sigh, I lie back on my couch and prop my feet on the armrest. “I’ve just been… putting it off.”

“You’ve been putting it off because you’re scared. You don’t want to face what it’ll feel like when Mason isn’t there to distract you.”

Although her tone is gentle, her words hit hard. Being with Mason has always been about more than just comfort—it’s been about avoiding the real issues.

Ghost’s voice creeps into my mind, uninvited, taunting me. “Does your current distraction enjoy the pain you offer? Or has he finally gotten tired of it?”

Both Sarah and Ghost have called Mason my distraction. I hate how much truth there is in those words. Mason isn’t the problem—I am. But I’m done lying to myself.

“I’m doing it tonight. No more excuses.” My voice is firmer now. “I can’t keep pretending.”

Sarah lets out a long breath. “Good. Just… be kind to yourself, okay? You’re doing the right thing. I’m here all night if you need me.”

“You’re the best. Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Gen.”

Be kind to yourself.

It’s easier said than done, especially when you don’t like who you are.

I stand in front of the window, the city lights casting a dull glow over the room. My reflection stares back at me, eyes hollow, lips pressed together in a tight line. Who am I?

The reflection doesn’t answer, and I look away, trying to steady my breathing as the weight of Ghost’s words presses down on me again, heavier this time.

“What do you think he’d say if he saw the real you? The Geneva that I see?”

I shift my focus to constructing a psychological profile on Mason that’ll help me plan our upcoming conversation. After grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I begin to jot down notes as if Mason were a patient or a criminal.

Mason thrives on control—of his environment, his relationships, and, most importantly, the way others perceive him (Narcissistic tendencies). When things go his way, he’s charming, logical, even supportive. But when he’s challenged, he can’t handle anything that threatens his dominance.

I pause, nibbling on the tip of my pen. Although Mason has never lashed out physically, there’s repressed violence in him. I’ve seen it before, in the way his jaw tightens when I don’t fall in line with his expectations. It’s a quiet, dangerous kind of anger.

For some reason that I can’t explain, he doesn’t scare me the way Ghost does.

Mason can’t handle failure or rejection because it conflicts with the image he has of himself as a capable and strong man. When I tell him it’s over, he won’t just see it as the end of a relationship—he’ll see it as a personal attack, a reflection of his own inadequacies.

I put down my pen and reach for my wine glass. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Knowing Mason, he’ll try to manipulate the situation and turn the blame on me. But after dealing with Ghost, Mason’s tactics will seem like child’s play. I guess that serial killer asshole has been helpful in a way. The irony has a smile appearing on my lips as I pick my pen back up.

Me initiating this “break-up” will make Mason feel as though he’s been backed into a corner. He’s the type of person who believes he’s entitled to a certain level of respect, and when that respect is denied, he’ll lash out in ways that are meant to remind me of his power. The insults will be calculated, designed to make me feel small, to keep me in check.

The loud knock on my door has me pulling in a fortifying breath.

Here we go.

I place my wine glass down on the coffee table and get to my feet, rehearsing the lines in my head one last time. Direct, quick, honest. No unnecessary explanations, no reasons for him to stay.

When I open the door, Mason’s usual composed expression is in place. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, sweeping his gaze over me. I’m in my usual sweatpants and an old, torn shirt—it’s casual with the intent to appear innocuous—and I catch the brief flicker of disapproval on his face before he speaks.

“Glad you finally got over yourself, but really, Gen? Sweatpants and… that?” His tone is mildly condescending, as if I’ve somehow insulted him by not dressing up for his arrival.

I press my lips together, biting back the first sting of irritation. After shutting the door behind him, I make my way to the couch to sit down. I cross my arms, creating an invisible barrier between us as he removes his jacket.

“Want to have a seat?” I ask.

His eyes narrow slightly at my invitation, but he joins me on the couch at the opposite end. “What’s this about?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” I say, my voice firm. “I know we’ve been on and off a lot over the past year, but this isn’t working out for me anymore. I’m done. For good.”

His entire body goes rigid. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to drag this out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this relationship isn’t what I need.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he scoffs. “We don’t have a relationship. We just fuck. Are you mad because I don’t coddle you like you expect me to?”

There it is.

The first little dig, an insult implying that I’m an emotionally needy woman. Therefore, I’m the problem.

“No,” I say evenly. “It’s not about coddling or me wanting something romantic. I need to move forward with my life.”

“Move forward?” he repeats, his tone incredulous. When I nod, he jumps to his feet and waves his hand in my direction. “Being with you is like fucking an ice cube. Do you think if you ‘find yourself’ that you’ll stop being a cold-hearted bitch?”

Mason’s words hit me like a slap to the face. I can’t stop myself from reacting, from rearing back with my lips parted in shock. However, my years of training immediately kick in. I neutralize my expression while slowly getting to my feet in a way that signals confidence and my refusal to be baited.

As I stare into Mason’s eyes, Ghost’s words flood my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. “You’re flame and wrath encased in a wall of ice and control.” In this moment, I have to admit he’s right about me.

Except my barrier is melting…

“Maybe I’ll always be like this,” I say evenly. “And maybe I won’t. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

A flicker of something darker passes over his face. He steps closer, his posture more rigid, his hands fisted. I hold my ground, my instinct for self-preservation overridden by the anger burning inside me.

“You think you can just walk away from me?” he asks.

“Yes, Mason. I do.”

I lift my chin. The gesture is a direct challenge. A gauntlet tossed at his feet. I know better. I know not to provoke him. But maybe, just maybe, Mason needs to see a glimpse of the “real” me. If only this once.

His eyes narrow, and for a second, I see it—the barely repressed fury. His need for dominance. He’s not used to being on the losing side of things, and right now, I’m taking away something he thought he had control over.

Me.

I take a step toward him, putting myself directly in his path, within his reach. “Get out.”

He sneers at me, his curled lip making his face grotesque. “You’re going to regret this.”

I shrug, the act dismissive, meant to make him feel insignificant. “I doubt I’ll even remember this conversation. Or you.”

Mason’s eyes flash with emotion and intent. In a split second, I realize what’s about to happen, a moment too late.

Mason’s fist connects with my face.

The impact sends a shock wave through my skull, and I stumble back, my hand instinctively flying to my cheek. Pain blooms instantly, but I let my arm fall to my side, refusing to cradle my injury.

The adrenaline already flooding my system becomes amplified, my synapses firing off in rapid succession, creating something close to chaos in my mind.

Or is it freedom?

My short burst of laughter hits the air, shattering the silence.

The sound is involuntary, almost absurd, but it bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, breaking free before I can stop it. The sting from his punch throbs, but the pain is oddly grounding, focusing. It’s as though the world has slowed down, sharpening into clarity.

Mason stares at me, chest heaving and hands fisted. His eyes widen when I laugh again, on purpose. I’m not horrified by Mason’s violence. I’m… amused and exhilarated. My body feels awakened, thrumming with a strange, turbulent energy. The line between control and chaos has been crossed.

And I’m not going back.

“You’re fucking crazy.” Mason’s voice carries the sharpness of his insult, but his posture, the way his shoulders sag, tells me he’s afraid.

He should be.

I don’t respond. And I don’t stop laughing as I make my way across the living room to the patio door. I pick up the baseball bat that sits there and lift it, resting the length of it on my shoulder.

“What do you think you’re going to do, Gen?” He takes a retreating step, signaling his uncertainty. “Are you going to hit me?”

I stop laughing and tilt my head, a mocking smile firmly planted on my face. “Fuck around, and find out.”

He gapes at me before turning sharply, his footsteps heavy as he storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. The noise reverberates through the room, but I dismiss it.

I stand there with my chest full of repressed laughter and adrenaline coursing through my blood, heating me all over. I turn my head to peer at my reflection again.

Now, I’m looking at an entirely different person.

My cheek is red, the skin starting to swell, but the woman looking back at me is strong. Stronger than I ever gave her credit for.

And she’s not afraid.

I smile at my reflection as Ghost’s voice fills my mind.

“There’s the Geneva that I see.”