Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 22

GHOST

“Ghost, you have a visitor.”

I turn my head to stare at the guard standing in front of my cell. “If it’s not Dr. Andrews, they can go fuck themselves.”

The day I arrived marked the beginning of a steady stream of letters. They’re mostly written by women who claim to love me, who profess to understand the shadows I live in. The twisted attraction to the forbidden, the thrill of being tied to someone who’s done the unimaginable. They romanticize it, obsess over it, draping themselves in fantasies of being the one to redeem me.

It’s textbook hybristophilia. See? Dr. Andrews isn’t the only one who knows fancy words.

These people send photos—cheap lingerie, smeared lipstick, eyes full of lust and desperation. They offer me their bodies, their minds, sometimes even their souls, hoping for a sliver of attention, some acknowledgment from the man they think they understand. But they don’t.

Except Geneva.

She doesn’t delude herself with stupid fantasies. She doesn’t dress up my madness in the robes of some misunderstood, broken hero. She knows what I am, and she’s afraid.

But she keeps coming back.

And that’s the difference. Her fear isn’t born from ignorance or naivety. She knows the fire she’s playing with, and yet, she confronts me, close enough to feel the heat.

Because she is made of fire as well.

The guard says, “It’s her.”

“Yay!”

I stand and roll my shoulders for a quick stretch before I let him cuff me without resistance. The cold metal snaps around my wrists and I sigh. The things I put up with for Geneva’s sake.

I grab the material of my pants and curtsy. “How do I look?”

“Shut up, Ghost.”

My laughter follows us as he leads me into the hall and we begin the slow walk down the corridor. The air smells of sweat, musk, and pent-up aggression. I glance at the inmates we pass by, some slumped against the wall, others sleeping. I take note of each face, searching for something useful. They’re all disposable, most of them too broken to serve any real purpose.

But then I spot someone who fits the bill. A lanky, wide-eyed inmate in one of the far cells is pacing methodically, his fingers twitching as he walks. He has the look of someone deep in his own head, trapped in obsessive thought.

What are you thinking about, Junior?

He’s not one of the usual thugs. No, there’s an air of neuroticism about him which makes him perfect for what I have in mind.

We keep walking, the guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor. He’s quiet, avoiding eye contact, probably trying to keep his pulse steady. I enjoy it. These men, the ones with the keys and the power, know exactly who they’re dealing with.

Finally, we arrive at the interview room. He unlocks the door, pushing it open with a tiny creak. I step inside, and my eyes adjust to the lighting in the familiar setting.

“Finally some freedom,” I murmur under my breath, sitting down and casually crossing my legs. “Now be a good boy and turn off the cameras. It’s part of my arrangement with the doctor. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The guard stiffens, his face paling as he swallows down whatever objections he had. He nods once and steps out of the room, presumably heading to shut down the cameras.

Geneva’s holding up her end of the bargain. I have to give her credit for that. Despite everything, she’s still playing the game. Anger only makes her more determined.

I glance up at the corner of the room. The red light flickers once, twice, and then goes dark.

That’s my girl.

I lean back in my chair, a slow smile curling at the corners of my mouth. The camera is off. No witnesses. No barriers between us. Perfect.

Geneva storms in, slamming the door behind her with a force that echoes through the room. Her hair is pulled back haphazardly, strands falling loose around her face in a way that makes her look exhausted but oh so feminine. She’s in rumpled clothes, consisting of baggy sweatpants and an old hoodie that’s frayed at the cuffs. This is the kind of outfit that says she’s running on too little sleep and even less patience.

She puts the “hot” in “hot mess.”

I fold my arms and give her a once-over, letting my gaze linger just a second too long on her breasts. “Rough night?”

She strides toward me, her steps quick and her chest heaving. Her emotions are written all over her face. The tightness in her jaw, and the cold fire burning in her eyes. Fury. Controlled, yes, but it’s there all the same. And it’s beautiful. Like her.

She stops just shy of the table, glaring down at me through the glass, her fingers flexing like she’s trying to decide whether to throttle me or stay professional. “You motherfucker.”

A laugh bursts from me. “I must say, Doc, I’m really enjoying the verbal foreplay. Insult me again. I like it.”

“Cut the shit, Ghost. You killed him.”

I blink, feigning innocence. “Who are you talking about?”

She takes a deep breath, but her composure is fraying at the edges. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know what you did.” She flicks her gaze to the cameras before looking at me. “You all but confessed in your texts.”

God, she’s magnificent when she’s like this. We both know I did it, but she’s still trying to keep herself in check. It’s pointless and yet, it doesn’t fail to turn me on.

“Well,” I say, leaning forward, “I made sure my message got across.”

Geneva bristles at my words, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. I catch the slightest tremble in her fingers before she forces them to relax.

“Why, Ghost?”

I sit back, watching her, enjoying the way she’s wrestling with herself. She’s not just angry because Mason’s dead. She knows I did it for her.

“Why?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Because he touched you. And that’s unacceptable.”

“You don’t get to decide who touches me.”

“Oh, but I do.” My voice is calm, steady, even as I lower it to a whisper. “He touched what belongs to me. You. And I don’t tolerate that, Dr. Andrews. Not ever.”

“You don’t own me,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m not your property.”

I smirk, relaxing into my chair. “We both know that’s not true. You may not like it, but you belong to me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”

I study her for a long moment, savoring her righteous indignation. “Mason was weak. He hurt you because you let him think he could. I simply corrected that mistake.”

Her eyes flash with something… anger, disgust, or maybe even guilt. But she doesn’t break. She finally sits down. “I don’t need you to protect me, Ghost.”

“I know.” I give her an impish grin. “Mason told me about the baseball bat.”

Geneva freezes for a fraction of a second, and that’s all I need to see. That small hesitation tells me everything. She’s still holding on to the belief that she has control in this situation, that she’s above the chaos, but her reaction betrays her.

“Ah, yes,” I continue, my voice low and smooth. “He didn’t expect it, did he? You, standing there with that bat in your hands, ready to bash his skull in? I have to admit, the image of you like that… It’s impressive. And so fucking hot.”

The skin around her mouth tightens, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Mason was wrong for hitting me, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

I imitate the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong. He deserved everything I did to him and more for what he did to you.”

“I wanted him out of my life, not out of this world.” Geneva’s gaze hardens, a dark glint flaring in her eyes as she finally loses the battle and her frustration seeps through. “You think this sick gesture of loyalty will do what exactly? Make me trust you? Connect us further?”

“Connect us further,” I repeat, rolling the phrase over my tongue as if savoring a fine wine. “Now that is an interesting choice of words, don’t you think?”

She goes statue-still.

“Whether you want to admit it or not, Doc, we share a connection neither of us can ignore.”

“If we’re so connected, I would understand why you killed Mason, but I don’t.”

“Maybe I just enjoy killing the way other people enjoy video games? Or maybe, it was for you. To show you that I don’t like disobedience.” I pause, watching her reaction. “Or maybe it was for me. Because I don’t share what’s mine, Geneva. Not with Mason. Not with anyone.”

Her mouth tightens, and for a second, I think she’s going to stand up and leave. But she doesn’t. She stays. My body relaxes.

“You’re sick, Ghost.”

“And you keep coming back,” I say. “Why do you think that is? Why do you keep playing this game with me?”

Her expression hardens, but there’s a flicker in her eyes, something deeper, something she won’t let herself admit yet. “I need answers.”

“But you didn’t need the baseball bat, did you?” I ask, softening my tone. “You could’ve stopped him using only your mind and your education. But you wanted him to feel it. The fear. The power shift. You wanted him to know that you weren’t the weak one.”

“Stop,” she snaps, her voice barely above a whisper, but I still detect the tremor beneath it. “You don’t know anything.”

I chuckle softly, leaning forward to close the space between us. “Oh, but I do. I know you, Dr. Andrews. I know that bat wasn’t just a weapon. It was wrath. All Mason had to do was challenge you and…” I make a swinging motion with an invisible baseball bat, rattling the chain links on my handcuffs. “It would’ve been a home run, darling.”

She shakes her head, refusing to look at me, her hands gripping the table harder now, her knuckles white. “Shut up.”

“You enjoyed every second of that power. Watching him flinch, watching him lose control. It was euphoric.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, the fire in her eyes blazing even brighter now. “I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Liar.”

The word hangs in the air between us, sharp and cutting. She wants to deny it, to push back against everything I’m saying. I can see the fury battling with something else—something deeper. Fear? No. Not fear. Recognition.

“You can’t keep pretending that fire inside you doesn’t exist,” I say quietly, my voice losing none of its intensity. “Mason saw it. I’ve seen it. Now it’s your turn.”

CHAPTER 23

GENEVA

My chest heaves with breath as if hearing the words, however true, is a burden.

I wish I could beat the shit out of Ghost. Just once. Instead, I glare at him.

“I’m not the one who sliced into Mason and then put a candle in his mouth, you twisted fuck.”

Ghost shrugs. “I carved him like a pumpkin. At least I didn’t slit the sides of his mouth to put a jack-o’-lantern smile on him. I doubt you would’ve enjoyed that as much as me.”

The grotesque image twists my stomach, but I refuse to let him see even a flicker of the disgust boiling inside me. He already knows I find this entire affair abominable.

“You think this is a joke?” I ask. “You framed me for murder, asshole. If I hadn’t gone to the gym, I wouldn’t have an alibi for last night. Then I’d end up right beside you in a neighboring cell.”

“Don’t tease me with that idea, Dr. Andrews. It’s awful tempting.”

“You—”

Ghost flicks his wrist in a dismissal. “I didn’t frame you.”

“Explain to me how you killing my ex-boyfriend, shortly after I had an altercation with him, didn’t lead the police to my front door this morning?”

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” He cranes his neck from side to side, stretching it. When he meets my stare, his gaze is hard, focused. “I told you to stay home last night. I also told you that if you didn’t do as I asked, there would be irreversible consequences. Death is pretty permanent, no?”

I jump to my feet. “Are you saying Mason’s death is my fault?”

“Are you saying you didn’t disobey me?”

“You—”

“Listen, Dr. Andrews, and listen well. When I give an order, it’s not a suggestion. I expect to be obeyed. Remember that.”

“Fuck you.”

After spinning on my heel, I make my way to the door, my entire body shaking. Ghost’s voice gives me pause, but I don’t turn around.

“Did you really think I would let anything happen to you?” He says it gently, softly. If I didn’t know better, I’d venture to say lovingly. But I do know better. “Do you actually believe I didn’t know you would do the opposite of what I said?” he continues, his tone hardening. “This entire event is a result of your choices. Make better ones next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I snap.

“Yes, there will. Your parents’ murderers are still out there, and justice has yet to be served.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I stiffen, my knuckles turning white as I grip the door handle. I don’t want to turn around, don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words wreck me.

“Think, Dr. Andrews,” Ghost says, his tone eerily calm. “You’re here because of a choice you made, and every choice from here will either pull you further from the truth or push you closer to insanity. Mason was just the beginning. You’re in this now, whether you want to be or not.”

I turn, anger simmering in every fiber of my being as I meet his gaze, unflinching. “You think I’m here because I want to be?” I laugh bitterly. “I never asked for this. I didn’t ask for you to barge into my life, twisting everything until it’s unrecognizable.”

Ghost leans back, his expression unreadable, though a faint glint of amusement lingers in his eyes. “Maybe not. But people like you and me… we’re driven by something darker, something that won’t allow us to walk away.” He tilts his head, studying me with that unsettling intensity. “You want answers, don’t you? About your parents, about what happened to them. I can give you those answers, but not if you keep fighting me.”

I shake my head, clenching my fists. “You’re delusional if you think I’ll ever trust you.”

“All in good time.”

“Never.”

“Never say never, Dr. Andrews.”

I take one last look at him and then I leave, slamming the door behind me. But as I walk away, his voice echoes in my mind, an insidious reminder that maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

I will come back.

The hot water cascades down my back in rivulets, tracing lines along my body as I stand completely still under the shower in my apartment. The heat seeps into my fatigued muscles, attempting to loosen them, but to no avail. I’ve never come away from an interaction with Ghost with the ability to relax afterward.

Stress is synonymous with his name. Along with sensuality.

I close my eyes and will the water to wash away everything.

His beautiful face.

His haunting voice.

His provoking words.

All three dance along my senses, imaginary yet more real than the water heating my skin. And just as scorching. Little by little, Ghost is melting my defenses.

I let my head fall forward until it lands against the tiled wall with a muffled thud. The water continues streaming, and my mind continues churning. I take a deep breath and release it slowly, trying to quiet my thoughts.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

I’m the psychologist, the one who’s supposed to have the answers. The one who guides others through darkness to enlightenment. But it’s me who’s stumbling along the path of self-discovery as Ghost drags me further along.

I know what’s happening. Every tactic. Every bit of manipulation. But that doesn’t mean Ghost’s influence isn’t wrapping around me, constricting me while setting me free at the same time.

Maybe he’s not the only one who’s crazy.

I’ve interacted with psychopaths before, men who tested my patience and my ability to remain unemotional. But with Ghost, I’ve lost both. He isn’t just challenging my personal boundaries… he’s rewriting them. Expanding them, to include himself.

The mere thought sends a chill through me, combating the warmth of the water as my skin prickles. I turn off the shower and step from it to quickly grab a towel. Then I wrap it around my body as if it’ll shield me from my insidious musings.

“He touched what belongs to me. You. And I don’t tolerate that, Dr. Andrews. Not ever.”

Ghost’s words echo relentlessly in my mind, forcing me to grip the edge of the counter. His possessiveness was something I dismissed at first, assuming it was nothing more than a ploy to assert control over me. But as I stand here, alone with only silence as my companion, a realization settles over me, making my legs shake.

Ghost isn’t just mad at Mason. He’s mad at me. Because I didn’t defend myself the way he thinks I should’ve and it ended with me getting hurt.

But most of all, Ghost is furious with himself. For not being there. For failing to protect me as if I’m the most precious thing in his life.

I hang my head, my chest tightening with every breath. With every heartbeat. No one has ever cared about me like this. No one has ever viewed my pain as a personal affront to them. It’s a toxic possessiveness. Undoubtedly. But the intensity of it—of being someone’s singular obsession, their reason for rage and vengeance—is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed, let alone experienced.

“Did you really think I would let anything happen to you?”

Ghost’s voice slides over my mind like silk, a caress to my psyche. It’s as though he’s right next to me, whispering in the stillness. Into my soul.

His words carry a depraved devotion, an assurance that no matter what happens, he would never let harm come to me if it were within his control. And for someone like him, a man who has no limits, no fear of consequences, that promise holds a terrifying weight. It’s a promise that, no matter what lines he has to cross, no matter what darkness he has to invoke, he will ensure that I am safe.

The idea of this makes me feel… valued. Cherished.

This feeling exposes a need that’s woven into the very fabric of who I am. A need that I’ve buried under layers of control and competence. However, in this moment, Ghost’s words are pulling back those layers. This is what he does, cutting into the most raw parts of me without hesitation. Without mercy.

My parents, due to their unexpected absence, were never able to make me feel this way. I was a child, lost in the chaos of life, constantly trying to fill the hole their deaths created. I grew up telling myself that I didn’t need protection from another, that I was strong enough to handle anything alone. And I am.

But Ghost believes I’m important. Irreplaceable. He would paint the world red with the blood of my enemies, if it meant keeping me safe. This promise of security, although coated in violence, is something my parents couldn’t give me.

And it’s something I desperately want.

At this realization the trembling in my legs intensifies until I’m sinking to the floor, unable to stand. With my back pressed against the wall, I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees, praying for some unknown entity to hear me. To rescue me from Ghost.

And myself.

I don’t know how long I sit there, curled on the floor as Ghost’s promise envelops me, fills me with a sense of worth I can’t ignore. It’s wrong, and so many levels of fucked-up, but in the quiet corners of my mind, it feels right.

It’s what I’ve been missing.

Eventually, I take a shuddering breath and push to my feet, swaying before steadying myself. My body is weak, hollowed out by the intensity of everything he’s revealing in me.

My steps to the bedroom are slow and heavy. Reaching into my dresser, I pull out a worn pair of pajamas, soft cotton that offers a bit of comfort. I change without thinking, the movements mechanical, as if dressing in something familiar might soothe me a little.

I flick my eyes to the window, noting the sun shining brightly between the closed blinds. It’s not even noon, but I can’t imagine interacting with anyone while successfully pretending to be the collected, put-together person I’ve always been. Instead, I crawl under the blankets with a sigh.

My body sinks into the mattress, my muscles finally loosening. I stare at the ceiling until my gaze drifts across the room, catching on the small stuffed elephant sitting on my dresser. Its faded fur and beady eyes are a reminder of another time.

A reminder of what I’ve lost.

After getting to my feet, I retrieve the item and hug it to my chest, fighting tears of both exhaustion and sorrow. I return to the bed and tuck the elephant under the covers, and then lightly squeeze its worn body.

A wave of nostalgia washes over me as I remember my father giving it to me, his smile warm when he placed it in my waiting arms. I was so young then, barely able to comprehend the world around me, let alone the complexities of safety and danger. Life and death.

My parents, both humanitarians, had taken me to Africa, a journey filled with purpose and hope, even if I was too young to understand its significance. I remember the smell of the sun-baked earth, the kindness of the people they helped, along with the laughter and stories they shared under starlit skies.

They were so full of goodness. And yet, despite all their compassion, they couldn’t shield me from fate: their unexpected deaths, followed by the void they left behind.

“An elephant never forgets.” My dad smiles in my memory. “So never forget how much we love you.”

“I wish I could forget,” I whisper in the emptiness. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I hastily wipe it away, but another appears. I squeeze the stuffed elephant tighter and bury my face in its fur, clutching this small remnant of them until past and present collide.

Until my parents’ love is a distant memory and Ghost’s obsession for me is all that remains.