Page 41 of Unethical

I was saving this bottle to celebrate my eventual release. I’m not supposed to drink on parole, but none of that mattersanymore. Once Sarah turns in a scathing letter detailing my misdeeds, I’ll be on my way back to prison.

I was so stupid for thinking I could be anything more than a fucked-up felon. I was delusional for thinking I deserved someone like the doc.

Lukewarm liquor burns away the tightness in my throat. I’ve never desired to love or be loved, but now that I’ve had a small taste of it, I feel fucking terrible. The emotional parts of my brain have been turned off for so long that I don’t know how to process each scrape of the cogs as they try to break off the rust and begin working again. Maybe the alcohol can turn off those feely parts, because I don’t want this.

Any of this.

I don’t want feelings, and I don’t want her.

My throat opens as I pour more alcohol into my mouth. Vodka can turn off my feelings, but I don’t think it will touch my desire for her. Not unless I down the entire thing and die here in the graveyard alongside my brother.

Maybe that isn’t such a terrible idea. A psychopath deserves nothing less than death, even if an angel like her could have salvaged me.

She has a decision to make, but so do I. This longing for her won’t die until I do. I want to stay away from her and respect what she needs, but I’ve tethered my yoke to her wagon and I see only one way to break free. But if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to free her and myself, I want to see her one more time.

As a light buzz settles over my brain, I slide behind the steering wheel and start the car.

Chapter Thirty-One

Sarah

Today was the longest shift of my life. I was too lost in a dizzying cyclone of emotions to keep my mind on my work or my patients. Hatred and self-loathing swirl around the desire to love someone I shouldn’t. I can’t love him.

But I fucking do.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I look like I feel, and I feel like a mess. This should be better than the constant worry that I’m being watched, which once consumed me and coated me in a thick layer of dread, but it’s not better. It’s so much worse.

I step toward the window and grip the curtains I hung just a few days ago. I feel like I’m losing my mind as I wrench them open and stare into the darkness.

Maybe Iamgoing crazy, because I swear I can see a shadow lurking by a large tree. I can’t make out any features, just the human-like shape on the grass beside the trunk. Holding my breath, I wait to see if the figure will move. No one can sit stillforever. But maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, because the shadow remains as still as stone.

Instead of pulling the curtains closed, I ball the fabric in my fists and rip them down. The tension rod tears paint from the wall as it bends and falls to my feet. Tears sting my eyes. I told him he couldn’t come back, that he had to stay away from me. Now he’s finally honoring my demands, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Then the shadow moves.

It could be another game my exhausted mind has conjured up, but I’m willing to play. I step back from the window and grip the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head with slow, deliberate movements—my best attempt at seduction. I go for the bra clasp behind my back and let the straps fall. When I step toward the window, I keep my breasts on display for the man I should hate.

Disappointment washes over me when I realize the shadow is gone. I probably imagined it in the first place.

“Get your shit together,” I whisper to myself. “He’s not there.”

With a sigh, I turn on the shower and wait for the water to warm, then remove my skirt and step beneath the spray. Hot water taps against my body, and I lean against the wall and let it wash over me. Instead of thinking about Maxim’s selfish touch, I focus on the beads of water as they hit my skin.

Once I wash my hair and body, I feel a small semblance of comfort, as if I bathed the dirt and decay from me. I wasn’t covered in physical dirt, obviously, but my mind is filthy and fucked up.

I turn off the shower and stay inside until the steam dissipates. I open the glass door just enough to slip my arm out and fumble for the towel on the rack. My fingers meet warm metal, so I lean further in case my towel slid down the rack.

A towel pushes into my waiting hand. Almost as if someone held it toward me.

I shake off that thought. Maxim would never offer a towel. He’d just take it away and force me to stand naked in front of him.

I wrap the towel around my body and ease open the door, simultaneously afraid and intrigued by my imaginings. When I step onto the tile floor, there’s no one in the bathroom with me. I start to think I imagined the towel thing too, but then footsteps hit the tile floor and my eyes rush to the doorway.

Maxim.

His haunted gaze pierces me, burning a hole through my chest, but his gaze leaves the curves of my breasts and rises to meet my eyes.

“Why were you giving me a show, doc? Aren’t you sending me back to jail? Isn’t that what that little manilla folder was?”

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