Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 14

GHOST

It’s been almost three days and Geneva still hasn’t come to see me.

I tap my fingers against the cold metal table in my cell, the rhythm steady but relentless. Like my thoughts of her. I’ve been accurate in all of my assessments of Dr. Andrews, along with anticipating her reactions. She should’ve contacted me by now.

Is she hiding from me?

Or hiding something from me?

I get up and walk over to my cell door to make sure the guards aren’t nearby before retrieving my new cell phone from its hiding place in the wall. After my final taunt to Geneva during our last visit, she informed the guards about my contraband, and they confiscated it. Such a tattletale.

If she were here, I’d spank her for that.

Because of that little stunt, I haven’t been able to watch Geneva for days and it’s killing me. What good is having cameras in her apartment if I can’t fucking see her?

I power on the phone and select the app that’s linked to the hidden cameras, the grainy black-and-white feed from her apartment flickering to life. The angles aren’t perfect, but they’re good enough. And there she is.

Finally.

Geneva is sitting on her couch, scrolling through her phone, her posture rigid like she’s deep in thought. I watch her for a few moments, the tension in her body almost palpable even through the poor-quality feed. There’s a smudge on her cheek, but I chalk it up to the lighting, the shadows playing tricks on the screen. She’s too precise, too put together for it to be anything else.

I scroll through my unanswered texts.

Unknown: You said you were done with me. Is this another lie you’ve told yourself?

Unknown: You’re quiet, but quiet doesn’t equate to tranquility. What are you thinking about? Maybe it’s a person with white hair, a killer instinct, erm… I mean a killer smile, and a big dick?

Unknown: I hate to tell you, but silence is agreeance, Dr. Andrews.

I type another cryptic text message and send it with my pulse racing. If she doesn’t seek me out after this, then I’ll lose my fucking mind. And put a tracker underneath that beautiful skin, blackmail her, or whatever the fuck it takes to keep her.

Actually, I think I’ll do all of that anyway.

Good idea, me.

Unknown: What if I told you the past isn’t as dead as you think? Would you believe that I know the identities and locations of the men from April 18th?

I watch the feed, my eyes locked on her as the message pops up on her phone. I can see the moment she reads it, the subtle shift in her posture, the tensing of her shoulders. She looks surprised, but there’s a flicker of something else that makes my dick hard. Complete and total rage.

Looks like that iceberg is melting…

She stands, walking back and forth, phone in hand, glancing around as if she can feel my eyes on her. I’ve seen her do this before, this restless pacing, and it always tells me the same thing—she’s trying to escape something, trying to avoid facing what she already knows to be true. I wish I could see her face more clearly, to gauge her full reaction, but the camera angles are limited. Still, I can read her body language like a book.

I imagine the thoughts running through her mind. How could he know?

Of course I know, Geneva. I know everything.

Her thumb hovers over her phone, and I can almost feel the indecision crackling through the air, even from here. She’s debating whether to respond, whether to engage me, and it’s exactly what I want.

The silence between us has lasted too long. I’ve missed our game, the push and pull of it, the way she tries to pretend she’s in control when we both know better.

I squint down at the grainy feed, watching her as she pauses in front of the window, staring out at the night. She’s thinking about me. I know she is. And as much as she wants to deny it, I’m the one who occupies her thoughts. Not Mason. Not anyone else.

Unknown: They thought they could disappear, but they’re not the ultimate magician. I am.

Geneva: Abracadabra, asshole. Go fuck yourself.

I slap a hand to my chest, close my eyes, and sigh. “I’ll definitely fuck myself, Dr. Andrews. While thinking of you.”

CHAPTER 15

GENEVA

Ghost is a fucking asshole.

And I’m going to visit him. Again.

It’s a dysfunctional cycle. I’m irritated at how easily I keep getting pulled back in. Back to facing things I don’t want to deal with. Back to facing him.

The truth is, I don’t know who I hate more at this point: Ghost, for the way he manipulated me, pushing and pulling until I revealed parts of myself I thought I’d buried? Or myself, for letting him do it?

I wasn’t supposed to crack that night with Mason. I wasn’t supposed to let Ghost’s twisted insight crawl under my skin. But I did. I fucking did. And Mason saw something in me that night, something dark that I couldn’t keep hidden anymore.

I drag my hands through my hair, pacing in my living room, my frustration building with each step. Ghost is the only one who’s ever seen me—really seen me. And that’s terrifying.

But it’s also addictive.

I stop moving and lean against the counter, tracing the bruise on my cheek. The memory of Mason’s barely contained rage plays out in my mind.

I stood there and smiled through the pain, because in that moment, I felt alive. Ghost was right. I’m not afraid of the darkness, or the fire that burns just beneath the surface.

I am the fire.

And fire has the means to destroy. To kill. That’s what scares the hell out of me.

Even with all of this bombarding my mind, making me crazy and putting me on edge, I can’t stop thinking about his latest text about April 18th—the night my parents were murdered. About knowing the identities of the men who killed them.

I was put into witness protection as a child. None of my blood relatives—excluding the aunt who raised me—know about my new identity. So, how does Ghost know about that night?

I continue tracing the outline of the bruise on my cheek, my thoughts spiraling in a million directions about the night I’ve spent years avoiding.

I’ve relived it over and over in my head, dissecting every detail, every moment, trying to make sense of the senseless. But now, with one text, Ghost has pulled the rug out from under everything I thought I knew.

I’ll never get the chance to ask those men why they did it. That’s what I’ve told myself for years. It’s what I’ve clung to, what I’ve built my entire sense of closure around. And now Ghost, with his twisted games, is trying to unravel it all with a few well-placed words. It’s gnawing at my insides, threatening to tear me apart.

What if he’s not lying?

I grip the counter, my knuckles whitening as I push back against the flood of doubt that’s crashing over me. I want to dismiss the text. I want to believe that Ghost is just messing with me to see if he can make me break. But deep down, something about it feels… true.

Ghost knows things he shouldn’t. He’s proven that already, time and time again. How the hell would he know about April 18th, about the specifics of that night, unless he’s found something I haven’t?

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm the storm raging inside me. Ghost has been pulling at the strings of my mind for weeks now, unraveling me bit by bit. But this is different. This isn’t just about me. This is about my parents. About their deaths. About everything I’ve spent years trying to understand. And now, he’s telling me that I might have a chance to get real answers.

I walk to the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water onto my face, trying to clear my head. But it’s no use. The words keep circling, digging deeper into my mind, forcing me to confront the possibility that my past isn’t as settled as I thought.

“Would you believe that I know the identities and locations of the men from April 18th?”

I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the sink, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. If what Ghost says is true, then it changes everything. The way I’ve lived my life, the choices I’ve made—all of it has been shaped by the belief that I’d never be able to confront my parents’ killers.

But what if I could?

I push away from the sink, pacing again, my mind spinning. I want to see Ghost, demand answers, and make him tell me what he knows. But deep down, I know that’s exactly what he wants. He’s been playing with my mind for weeks while watching me scramble to make sense of it all. And now, he’s thrown this at me, knowing it’s the one thing I can’t ignore.

The one thing that will make me come back.

I stop pacing, my breath heavy, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t just let this go. I need to know. I have to know why those men destroyed my entire life.

I grab my keys, my mind already made up. I’m going back to him. To the prison. To Ghost. And this time, I’m not leaving until I get the answers I want.

Right now, I don’t just hate Ghost.

I hate that I need him.

CHAPTER 16

GHOST

I sit in the interview room humming a dirty shanty I learned years ago. Something about sailors, a whore, and a mast representing a gigantic penis. One of my favorites.

The guards just outside think I’m simply waiting. Subdued and harmless. They believe these chains mean something. But like this prison, they’re an illusion of control.

The vent above me rattles, a tiny vibration in the ceiling every time the air kicks on. It’s small—just big enough for me to fit through—and the grill is rusted, held on by screws that also contain rust around the edges. I can hear the faint whistle of the air, and I mark it in my mind, cataloging it like I do everything else.

I sweep my gaze over the room. The table in front of me is bolted to the floor, but one of the legs isn’t secure. I figured that out weeks ago, during my first visit with Geneva. Just a small wobble, but it’s there. A weak point. All things can break if you apply the right pressure. Even metal tables.

Especially people.

The chair is the same as it always is, worn at the edges, but it’s solid enough. No use there. But the cameras? They’re my biggest point of contention. That’s where Dr. Andrews comes into play.

I lean back, the chains rattling just enough to remind myself of their presence. They’re heavy, cold against my wrists, but they don’t bother me. They’re temporary. Just like my situation.

But not her.

No, Geneva isn’t temporary.

She’s my eternity.

I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the thought of seeing her again. The tension in her posture, the fire in her eyes when she tries so hard to maintain control of herself. It’s intoxicating, watching her balance on that razor’s edge between order and chaos. She doesn’t realize how close she is to crossing over. Not yet, anyway.

But she will. I’ve made sure of that.

I smile as anticipation builds in my chest. She’ll come. I’ve baited the trap perfectly. And she’s never been able to resist chasing the truth, no matter how dangerous it might be.

The tiniest sound reaches me… a guard’s footsteps down the hall. It’s go time.

I sit up straighter, my hands still bound, but my mind is racing. I’m eager to see Geneva.

The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know it’s her. I can feel her presence, the feminine energy that fills the room whenever she’s near. I slowly lift my head, my eyes locking onto hers the moment she steps inside.

Welcome back, Geneva.

She walks up to the table, her steps deliberate, every muscle in her body tense, like she’s preparing for a battle she knows she can’t avoid. That’s what I love about her: the fight. She’s always wrestling with herself, with me, with the darkness that’s creeping closer every time we sit in this room together.

I lean forward, ready to play, ready to watch her unravel again. But then I see it.

A bruise.

The purplish shadow is barely visible under the makeup covering her cheek. But it’s there. My smile fades, the amusement that had been dancing on the edge of my mind slipping away in an instant. I stare at the mark, my gaze narrowing, all the plans I had for toying with her disintegrating.

It wasn’t a shadow like I assumed when watching her through the cameras. She’s had this on her for days…

Someone put their fucking hands on my Geneva.

I know without her saying a word. It was him. Mason.

I pushed her to destroy him and now her beautiful skin is marred with a bruise.

He’s a dead man walking. I’m going to fucking annihilate him.

What method of torture should I employ?

Skin him alive and make a rug out of his flesh?

Cut off his dick, and shove it in his mouth so he’s a literal cocksucker?

Beat the ever-loving fuck out of him until he’s pliable like a bean bag?

So many choices, but none of them will ever be enough to reverse what he did.

Geneva says nothing, just stares at me, waiting. Probably wondering why I haven’t spoken, why I’m not twisting her mind into knots.

But I can’t. Not when I’m looking at that mark on her face, the evidence that someone else has dared to touch her.

Hurt her.

My fingers curl into fists, the chains rattling again while I force myself to stay calm. I have to. But inside, there’s a stirring of the blinding, all-consuming wrath I haven’t felt in years.

Not since Abby.

CHAPTER 17

GENEVA

The silence between us is unnerving.

Ghost is always talking. Always taunting. But today, he’s just… sitting there. As motionless as a statue, not even blinking.

But he’s definitely watching me.

The intensity in his gaze hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s sharper, and more focused. His hazel eyes are almost gold, molten and burning. Not with mockery, but with anger.

Is he mad at me?

That’s fine if he is. I’ve been pissed at Ghost since I met him.

I shift in my seat. “I didn’t come here to have a staring contest. I’m here for answers.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s just a fraction, but it’s enough for me to know he’s heard me. Yet he still doesn’t speak.

“What do you know about April 18th?” I ask.

There’s the faintest flicker of something in his eyes, but still, he says nothing.

Damn it.

I glance at the chains on his wrists, moving slightly as his fingers twitch. There’s something simmering beneath his handsome exterior, something dark and dangerous. I know that look… it’s barely restrained rage.

I try again, softening my tone. “Ghost, please. How do you know about that night?”

His lips part, but instead of answering, he leans forward, his gaze never leaving my face. I blow out a breath and start to get to my feet when his voice stops me. It’s low and rough, like shards of glass grinding together.

“Who touched you?”

I slowly sit back down as my pulse quickens. This isn’t the direction I want this conversation to go. I came here for answers about my parents. Not to discuss Mason.

“Ghost—”

“Who. Fucking. Touched. You?” His voice is harder now, each word deliberate, as if he’s forcing them out.

I grit my teeth, trying to maintain my composure, but his intensity is crawling along my skin. He’s not letting this go. And I can’t help but wonder what he’ll do if I tell him what he wants.

“This isn’t about me. I’m asking about April 18th.”

“I don’t want to talk about your parents,” he says, his words clipped. “I’m asking about you. Who hurt you?”

I let out a breath, steadying myself. “No one.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dr. Andrews.” His words are softer now, almost playful, but there’s a sinister current beneath them, something far more threatening than his usual demeanor. “You let him hurt you. Why?”

I stiffen, my muscles going taut as Ghost’s words sink in. What the hell is he talking about? My first instinct is to lash out, to tell him he’s wrong. No woman would let a man put his hands on her. That’s absurd. I didn’t allow Mason to hurt me. I didn’t see the hit coming.

But in my gut, I know that’s not entirely true.

I didn’t back down. I didn’t turn away or run. I stood there, eyes locked on Mason, daring him to do it, daring him to lose control.

When his fist connected with my face, there was a part of me that wasn’t surprised. I pushed him to that edge. Not because I was weak, not because I was powerless, but because I wanted it. The fire burning inside me demanded something—anything—to make me feel alive.

The memory flashes in my mind: Mason’s rage, the way his expression twisted just before he struck me. But instead of fear, instead of regret, I felt pure satisfaction.

In that moment, I wasn’t the casualty. I was the catalyst.

How in the hell does Ghost know that?

I steady myself, forcing my expression to remain neutral, even though my heart is pounding in my chest. Ghost watches me in a way that makes me feel exposed. He tilts his head as if he’s challenging me to admit it. Waiting for me to say the words out loud.

But I won’t.

“This is none of your business, Ghost.”

“Everything about you is my business. Where you live. What you do. Who you fuck. All of it.”

“You don’t own me.”

He laughs. The sound is both sensual and frightening, making my skin prickle with fear and… something that I refuse to acknowledge.

“Actually, I do own you, Dr. Andrews. You’re mine. And no one else gets to hurt you. Only me.”

“You—”

“Say his name, and I’ll let it go.”

I snap my teeth together with a click. Ghost might be pushing me into uncomfortable territory, but he’s not asking me to admit that I manipulated Mason so he’d give in to his anger, allowing me to free mine.

When it comes to dealing with Ghost, I’m getting off easy.

“Mason.”

“That’s my good girl.”

Ghost smiles at me for the first time today, and I ignore the way my blood rushes through my body. “You’re not going to do anything, right?” I ask.

“What could I possibly do?” He jerks on his cuffs three times, and the sound of the chain links clicking together has me gritting my teeth. “I’m in here and he’s out there.”

I glare at Ghost. “Given our newest communication of the digital variety, I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

He nods. “Fair. I am quite resourceful. That’s something you’ll learn in due time.”

“Don’t hurt Mason.”

“Why not?” Ghost frowns. “Eye for an eye. Or cheek for a cheek, at least.”

I refrain from touching my face even though it flushes under Ghost’s perusal. This is the exact reason I didn’t want to visit Ghost. He doesn’t miss anything and I knew he’d force me to explain the bruise.

“Mason isn’t worth it,” I say.

“But you are. You’re worth everything, Geneva.”

His words coil around me like a serpent before slithering inside, sinking deep into places I didn’t even know existed. The intensity in his voice, the way he says it like a promise, like an undeniable truth—it sends a current through me, igniting something I’ve tried so hard to keep dormant. Despite my restraint, I can’t stop the pull, the dark magnetism that he wields so effortlessly.

I hate that he can make me feel this way.

I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest as if that small gesture could shield me from the impact of his words. But it doesn’t. It only makes me more aware of the fact that I’m struggling to keep my distance.

To stop my attraction.

This is wrong on so many levels. He’s a convicted murderer, a master manipulator, and completely insane. I shouldn’t be sitting here with my skin buzzing and my heart pounding in my chest.

His possessive statement from earlier, paired with his level of devotion, should terrify me. Instead, I’m terrified by how much I like it. How much it pleases me.

“Promise me you won’t hurt Mason,” I say.

“Why? It’s not like you care about him.”

I grimace at the truthful statement. “That doesn’t mean I want revenge.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“What are you—”

He cuts me off with a laugh. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Sitting across from me, wanting information from me about your parents’ murderers?” He reclines in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Let’s talk about why you came. But first, I have some requirements.”

“Requirements?”

“One piece of information for one piece of freedom,” he says smoothly. “That’s how this will work.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean by freedom?”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “Small things. Nothing too drastic but enough to make our conversations more comfortable. I can’t scratch my balls when they itch. You have no idea how annoying that is.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He tilts his head, studying me for a moment before he speaks. “Unchain me from the table. Let me move freely while we talk. Of course, I’ll stay in cuffs. There’s no need to worry about your safety.” He winks. “For now.”

The suggestion sends a rush of discomfort through me. Letting him move freely, even with the cuffs, is a risk. But I need answers. I need him to tell me what he knows about April 18th, about the night my parents were murdered. And if this is the only way to get it…

“Fine,” I say, my voice clipped.

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I knew you’d understand.”

I rise and make my way toward the door to speak with the guard stationed outside. As I give him the instruction to unchain Ghost from the table, the guard hesitates, casting a wary glance at the inmate before reluctantly complying. It takes a minute for him to walk to Ghost’s side of the glass, but then his chains are removed from the table, leaving only the cuffs on his wrists.

Ghost flexes his hands with a subtle smile playing on his lips, while I return to my seat, maintaining my calm exterior even though my pulse quickens with each second. The shift in power is palpable, but I won’t give up the opportunity to uncover the past.

I retrieve the tiny pencil and piece of paper I hid in my pocket. “Now, tell me. Who was there that night? Who killed my parents?”

Ghost watches me carefully before he speaks. “André Bisset.”

The name doesn’t immediately register, but I write it down, keeping my face neutral even though my thoughts are racing. Who the hell is André Bisset?

“Time for another bit of freedom,” Ghost says softly, his voice teasing.

“What do you want now?”

His gaze drifts toward the cameras in the corners of the room, the red lights blinking steadily. “Turn off the cameras. Let’s have a real conversation, without the prying eyes. Unless you’re into voyeurism? I don’t kink shame, Dr. Andrews.”

I grind my molars. Letting Ghost move around is one thing, but turning off the cameras? That’s giving him too much power.

But I know how this works. He won’t tell me anything else unless I give him what he wants.

I stare at him, weighing the risk, my mind spinning with possible repercussions. He’s still in handcuffs. He’s still restrained. A guard is right outside the door.

Except turning off the cameras means I lose a safety net. I’ll be alone with him in more ways than one.

“Fine,” I say, before I can overthink it. “But if you want to meet in a room without this glass wall between us, you can kiss this shit goodbye.”

Ghost’s smile widens, dark and predatory. “Are you scared to be alone with me, Dr. Andrews?”

Ignoring him, I stand and move to the door again, instructing the guard to turn off the cameras. He hesitates, clearly alarmed by the request, but I remind him that this is part of the process to gain Ghost’s trust and establish our relationship as doctor and patient. The guard finally complies.

The red lights blink out and dread sets in.

I return to my seat, locking eyes with Ghost once again. “Who else was involved?”

He places his hands behind his head, his stance casual, as if he’s at a coffee shop instead of a prison. “This is the new protocol between us. Every time you visit, I want to be in cuffs only without the cameras on.”

Once I get the information I’m searching for, I won’t be visiting him again, so there’s no risk in agreeing to this. “Fine. Give me another name.”

“Luis Dominguez.”

I jot it down, still lacking recognition. At this point, that’s irrelevant. I’ll hunt them down later. “Anyone else?”

Ghost clicks his tongue in admonishment. “Where’s my bit of freedom?”

I don’t hide my exasperation. “What else could you possibly want?”

“Besides you? Not much. For now, I’d like more of your time.”

The way he says he wants me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, sends a ripple of awareness through me. But I shove it away, focusing on the goal of finishing this list of names.

“I’m here, right?” I ask.

“Yes, but I need to ensure that you come back. With that being said, I want you to construct a full psychological profile on me.”

I pause, my pencil hovering above the scrap of paper as I consider his request. And why he wants it. I can’t deny that studying Ghost on a deeper level appeals to me professionally. Not only because there’s never been another criminal like him and it’d be groundbreaking, but it would also elevate my career to be the one who profiled him.

On the other hand, spending more time with Ghost in any capacity is hazardous to me mentally and emotionally. I know he’s manipulating me and I can’t stop him, even when I clearly see the tactics he’s employing. Ghost knows too much about me, preventing me from creating an effective defense against him. But a profile on him could give me the upper hand.

I glance up at him. He’s watching me, his eyes glinting with amusement, like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind: the struggle between my professional curiosity and my instinct for self-preservation.

“I’ll do it, as long as you’re truthful during the assessment,” I say.

“Will do.” His smile widens. “It’s a date.”

“But,” I add quickly, “there will be limits.”

His brow arches. “Limits?”

“Three visits. That’s it,” I say firmly. “I’ll spend the time gathering the necessary data for your profile. After that, we’re done.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Three? You think you can figure me out in just three visits, Dr. Andrews? I’m impressed, truly.”

“You’d be surprised what I can do if you cooperate.”

Ghost’s smile fades as his eyes narrow. “Make it ten and we have a deal.”

Making it possibly months of seeing him? Hell no.

“Five,” I counter.

“Seven.”

“Five. Take it or leave it.”

He grins at me. “Deal. You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Andrews, but I won’t need all of them.”

“Excuse me?” I scrunch my face in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be out of here before then. And that’s when the fun really begins.”