Darkly, Madly Duet

by Trisha Wolfe

Relatively, Grayson’s actions, his sins, have created a black hole in the justice system. He’s careening toward his fate at supersonic speed, and there’s no outside force strong enough to stop it. Not even me.

And I’m drowning in him.

His arms are bare, displaying black and gray designs inking his skin. The tattoos are a shield. You have to look closer to see what’s beneath. The shiny scars the ink can’t completely conceal. I carry the same mask.

I want to learn how you feel beneath me. I want to learn how your hair feels tangled in my hand—” “Stop.”

He’s been the one gathering and collecting intel. On me.

He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close—close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “There’s no such thing,” he says. “Stop asking the questions of a psychologist and get your answers.”

But we’re not talking about that. You’re not ready.” “The very definition of my job is being prepared to talk you through this exact thing, Grayson.” “But not today.” He touches an extensive scar along his forearm, a hard expression masking his face. “There are a number I’ve carved myself,” he confesses. “The pain I inflict on myself serves as punishment for when I become aroused while watching their suffering.”

Alarmed. Curious. Enthralled—the dark corner of my mind beckons me closer. I can feel the draw.

escape its vortex, you don’t stand a chance against the darkness. Whatever light I’ve been able to muster in this dark world, he will surely devour if I continue on this collision course.

stand. “Did you watch my videos?” I push the frame of my glasses up, situating them. “Yes.” “All of them?”

“Which one is your favorite?” The rules of psychoanalysis are simple: there are no rules. In this safe haven, I can confess my excitement, my arousal at watching the woman be bound and racked until her limbs snapped. But I won’t admit that aloud. I refuse to give in to him.

My march toward the other side of the room is thwarted as he grabs hold of my skirt. Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on my skin stand, all senses captured by him and his clutch on my skirt.

“But you still want to.” He releases the fabric one finger at a time, until I’m free of him. But I’m not. The dare in his eyes still holds me captive. “I want you to.”

“But if you do, I get to touch you,” he challenges.

I shut my eyes against the onslaught of emotions—the illicit and erotic way he makes me feel as his coarse palm grazes up my thigh, my skirt bunching against his wrist. “Look at me.”

The stronger his touch becomes, the more I crave to dig my nails into his flesh. My fingers form claws on his arms.

His features strained as if he’s feeling the same suffocating pain that burns my lungs. The room pulsates with each of his breaths, in harmony with the pounding of my heart.

Moving toward my cot, I inhale deeply, taking in the lingering scent of lilac. The flowers dried up. Dead petals frame my puzzles. I’m patient, but even I have my breaking point. A year in prison was easier than the torturous seconds spent touching her. It’s not time.

How much does she remember? I wonder if she’s completely rewritten it, her memories some distant nightmare she dreamed long ago.

She’s buried beneath the lies. Buried. I like that.

It’s only a matter of time until all the pieces align, and the picture is complete.

She’s almost complete. She’s almost mine.

I’ve recalled the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing it, dissecting it, recollecting the details. The sensations and emotions he evoked. The yearning… And I’m scared that every time I remember, I’m altering what actually occurred.

I gave in to Grayson’s wants, and you can never give your patient everything they want—regardless if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that. Especially when their desires reflect your own. It’s more than dangerous; it’s unethical.

When I look into his eyes, I see myself. Not a reflection of the woman—but the hollow echo of my blood-stained soul.

If he’s evil, then am I in danger of falling for the devil, or am I the devil herself?

I’m still in control of my mind and emotions, despite my fears. And I refuse to admit I’m falling for a patient. I refuse to fall for a killer.

“We’re not yet ready for what I want,” he says. “Let’s start with what I don’t. No practiced or rehearsed psycho-nonsense. Give me your honesty.”

my hand. He takes my finger into his mouth. A roar fills my ears, my heart thundering at the feel of him sucking the blood away. I feel it in the back of my knees, an electric current racing through my body and knocking my legs weak.

“I’m afraid that when it comes to you, London, I’ll never master that kind of control.”

Anger ignites his pale eyes. “Your lies don’t work on me. You feel everything I do.”

“We’re not leaving here until you admit the truth one fucking time.” His warm breath touches my neck. His mouth rests against my ear.

“You’d have never been so careless unless you wanted these chains off.” He tightens his hold, letting me feel the chain still cuffed to his wrists. The cool metal of the links rub along my back. “Now tell the truth.”

“You’re a deviant, London. I know where you live—that dark corner where you hide.”

“If you’re not turned on, I’ll cuff myself to the floor and never touch you again. But if you are…then you’re going to confess all those dirty sins to me.”

“Admit the truth, London.”

He slips inside me then, his fingers sinking expertly, as if he’s spent the past three months memorizing me.

I want to break you, so I can piece you back together.”

“I’m the puzzle you’re piecing together,” I whisper.

“You’re my match.”

“Does that terrify you?” he asks. “Yes.” A cruel smile slants his mouth. “But you still want this.” I swallow. “Yes.”

I was damned long before Grayson found me, and it was that dark note of my soul that called to him. I’m burning.

“I see you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He kisses me, his lips soft and claiming, in complete contrast to the rawness we just experienced.

The photos, the research, the evidence of my obsession…all gone. It’s locked inside me. Locked, locked. Only one other holds the key.

We’re a perfect match.

That man only knew one way to survive: alone. Isolation is a survival instinct. But I no longer crave solitude to suffer my penance—I’ve found the one thing that can set me free, and I’ll kill for it.

And the most fundamental of all: London. Without her, this will fail.

Until her. I covet this rarity. Anxious to nurture this dark little seed she planted in my soul. My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.

My fear of loving a man capable of such atrocities can’t stand in the way of what I inherently believe is right.

You want romance, go find yourself a nice little do-boy. But you don’t want that—I tasted what you crave. I can feel it in you now. That dark obsession that twists you, makes you mine. ”