Page 8 of Lovely Violent Things

“Sounds like a good time.” I smirk. “Did he mention wetting himself in his report? I should really send him an apology card.”

Torres narrows his gaze, then flips to another page in the folder. “You worked very closely with Dr. St. James,” he says, his voice taking on a baiting edge. “She gave you a positive review. I find that very interesting.”

My nostrils flare at hearing her name in his condescending tone.

He sets the pen down and steeples his fingers together. “Let’s talk about how it was to work alongside the woman who essentially sabotaged your life.”

“No.” The word is a near growl. I prop my elbows on my thighs, allowing the chain to dangle between my knees. “I’d rather talk about the document you have sitting in your printer tray right now.”

He blinks, then briefly glances at the printer. “I see the taste of freedom hasn’t dulled your keen observational skills.”

“The paperwork, Torres,” I say, my tone hardened around each syllable. “Sign the release and send it to Agent Alister.”

The FBI header on the top document gives me reason to believe Alister has set aside his grievances, because—as he’s now working opposite of a certain clever criminologist—he has need of my services once again.

With a jittery shake of his head, Torres chuckles. “That, professor, will not happen.” He pins me with a manic gleam in his eyes. “See, putting you back on the case would only prolong my pain. The sooner I have you transferred, the sooner I can close the case study, and get you the fuck out of my hospital.”

With disdain, I inhale the foul stench of his rank office, suffering the agonizing loss of Halen’s sweet, addictive scent.

I spin my thumb ring a few times, impatient to get the cuffs removed from my wrists. “You told Dr. St. James that I physically harmed you.”

He raises his chin in stubborn assertion. “I told her what she needed to hear to contain you,” he rebounds.

My gaze tapers on him. “And do you believe she, in fact, contained me?”

He blinks rapidly. Clears his throat. Situates his glasses. The doctor’s tics always surface when he becomes distressed.

“I knew your obsession with Halen would present an interesting outcome,” he says. “I admit, my curiosity won in that regard. However, despite my professional curiosities, I do have my limits. I can’t allow you to hurt her, Kallum. I will not sign the paperwork to put you anywhere near her again.”

Dr. Torres has spent his life delving into the dark recesses of his patients’ minds. In order to understand the psyche of highly disturbed individuals, he’s had to familiarize himself with the most base and violent offenders.

He has gazed into his abyss.

To which, I discovered early on during our very first session, he never resurfaced.

Psychosis tears at his frayed edges like the worn restraints he uses to confine his patients. Where Torres is concerned, it’s the age-old question of the chicken and the egg. Did the doctor lose his final tether to reality before or after he took me on as a patient.

He believes in the power of the mind, so much so, that he credits me for the disfiguring scars marking his body.

Admittedly, it’s almost insulting how little I had to push him toward his cliff. More like a lazy nudge, really.

When Torres invaded my privacy to find me carving a sigil into my forearm, the weak leash he had on his sanity finally snapped. He saw a demon in place of a man—one he believes is trying to take possession of his body.

He’s been trying to burn me out ever since.

With effort, I roll my sleeve past the manacle cuffed to my wrist to expose the sigil I charged before Halen’s arrival at Briar.

I could almost admire Torres’s determined will toward his ambition, if not for the very fatal flaw he made by deceiving Halen.

And now, his attempt to keep me from her.

“Pick up the pen,” I command him.

His gaze darts to the engraved fountain pen on the desk before returning to my eyes. “You have no power over—”

“Pick up the pen, Laurence.” I stress the use of his first name. “Pick it up now, and don’t even think about reaching for that call button.” I place the inked sigils along my knuckles in his line of sight.

Our will is strongest when we believe. Amid his delusions, this man truly believes I’m a demon sent to torment him.

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