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

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.