My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors as I make my way to the kitchen. The day has been a blur, a relentless onslaught of noise, tension, and fear.

But my time with Ghost ended up being worth it.

They found Anna Lee.

She was dirty, barefoot, and curled behind a dumpster like a forgotten doll left out in the rain. Alive but only just. Her skin was a patchwork of bruises, her body frail from days without food, and her hands trembled so violently the paramedic had to steady her arm twice just to place the IV.

She’s safe now, but the damage is done. Her world will forever be colored dark, like mine and Sarah’s.

Now, with nothing but my thoughts for company, my mind starts spinning. Ghost’s voice is there, lurking in the corners of my psyche, whispering all the things I don’t want to hear. All the truths I’m not ready to deal with. I can’t get rid of him, can’t escape the feeling that he’s still with me.

I reach for the bottle of whiskey in my cabinet, my hand trembling slightly as I unscrew the cap. After filling a glass, I take a sip, the burn of the alcohol searing its way down my throat. It’s not enough to mute Ghost’s voice in my head.

“Geneva. I. See. You. The real you.”

I take another long drink, desperate to silence him, to push him back into the darkness where he belongs.

“You’re going to break.” I can see his twisted smile, feel the satisfaction in his tone. “And when you do, I’ll be there, waiting to pick up the pieces. To put you in a design of my making.”

CHAPTER 9

She’s fucking exquisite.

Dr. Geneva Lynn Andrews.

Her name lingers in my mind like a sweet, forbidden melody, the kind that envelops you long after the music stops. I can still see her, the way she tried so hard to maintain that icy composure. To keep the walls up around her. As if they could protect her from me.

But I know better.

I saw the cracks, felt the tremors beneath that polished surface. That beautiful mask. She thinks she’s in control, but she’s not. Not anymore.

I glance around my cell, the dim light from the small, barred window casting long shadows on the gray walls. The room is sparse, bare of any comforts. It contains a metal bed bolted to the floor with a thin mattress, a steel toilet, and a small, scratched-up desk that’s seen better days. The air is stale, carrying the scent of mildew and disinfectant, but I’ve grown used to it. The walls are covered in faded graffiti and scrawls from previous occupants. They’re messages to no one in particular, just marks left behind by those who’ve passed through this place.

What legacy will I leave behind? It would be a shrine to Dr. Andrews if I was inclined to share.

Spoiler: I’m not.

Tucked behind the loose brick in the corner is a collection of notes. I’ve carefully written on and hidden away each piece of paper containing observations, plans, and thoughts. All of them concerning Geneva.

The moment she stepped into that interview room, I could sense it—the darkness in her, the one she’s tried so hard to hide, even from herself. It’s there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.

And I want to be the one to set it loose.

There’s something intoxicating about the idea of watching someone so tightly wound unravel. Especially when they don’t even realize it’s happening.

I can still hear the tremor in her voice when she asked about Anna Lee, the way she hesitated when I used her first name. Geneva. It suits her. So strong, so fucking sexy.

How many times have I whispered her name while following her?

How many times have I uttered her name while planning her future?

How many times have I groaned her name while fucking my hand?

The number is more than the years of prison I’ve been sentenced to.

Geneva hates me. I know that. But that’s what makes our relationship so interesting. Hatred is a powerful emotion—one that can be twisted, manipulated, turned into something much more potent.

She thinks she can keep me out, that she can walk away and forget about me, but she’s wrong. I’m already inside her head. It’s only a matter of time until I’m inside her body, with her legs wrapped around me and her moans in my ear.

“Shit,” I mutter. “You’re hard again?” I pose the question to my dick, staring at it with exasperation. “Okay, but this is the last time tonight, you greedy fuck.”

As I pull out my cock the dull fluorescent light overhead flickers, casting brief, erratic shadows across the room. It’s the only source of light in this place at night, and it’s unreliable at best. I’ve learned to ignore it, just like I’ve learned to dismiss the hum of the ventilation system and the muffled sounds of the other inmates down the hall, all of them constant reminders that I’m never truly alone. But in my mind, I am.

Right now, it’s just me and Geneva.

I lean back on the bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the hard metal beneath. The image of her face when she left the interview room, that mix of determination and something fragile, plays over and over in my brain. She’s already questioning herself, doubting her instincts. And that’s exactly where I want her mentally.

Physically, I want her underneath me.

I grip my cock, sliding my hand up and down the length, imagining it’s her touch. Her hands and her soft skin, her breathy sighs and her desperate moans.

My eyes fall closed, and I can almost see her, perched between my legs, her hair a dark curtain around her face. She’d look at me through her lashes, gaze heavy-lidded and heated. She might even bite her lower lip like she did when I looked at her mouth. She hadn’t even registered the giveaway to her desire. But I had.

“God, Geneva. You’ve fucking ruined me.”

She would smile, the expression sultry and sensual, before taking me into her body. I groan at the thought. I’m so fucking hard for her it’s painful.

My strokes become rougher, faster, the friction bringing me closer to release. I imagine her riding me, her tits bouncing, her pussy wet and tight. Her hands are on my chest, her nails leaving trails of red.

“Fuck!” I grit out.

In my fantasy, she whimpers, her body moving faster, desperate for me. And only me. I reach out, grabbing her hips, pulling her closer. I need to feel her, to own her. Inside and out.

She screams, the sound echoing in the chambers of my mind, and I come, fucking her as if she’s my prisoner, as if her submission is all that matters.

Actually, it is.

When I open my eyes, the beautiful imagery is gone. Only the stark, cold reality of my prison cell remains as the cum on my stomach and the sweat on my skin begin to cool. I’m still alone, the fantasy of her lingering like a ghost. That’s ironic as fuck.

I sit up, my heart rate struggling to return to normal. My cock is still half-hard, and I run my thumb over the head, smearing the cum Geneva pulled from my body. This momentary relief is not enough. It’s never enough.

Not since I first saw her.

She’ll come back to me. I know she will. Geneva needs answers, and I’m the only one who can give them to her. But more than that, she’s drawn to me, whether she wants to admit it or not. And that’s where I have the advantage.

While she’s busy trying to figure me out, she’s forgetting the most important thing: This isn’t about me. It’s about her.

It’s always been about her.

And when she finally sees that, when she understands what I’ve been trying to show her, it’ll be too late.