Insanity, p.20
Insanity, page 20
As Beckett and Fischer talk, Zane turns toward me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He whispers one word, “Go.”
And I go.
Down the hall, through the door, and into the bedroom-slash-prison we’ve been forced to stay in.
Dominic is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, a fine tremor radiating through his body. He doesn’t look up when I approach, but I know he’s aware of my presence. His muscles stiffen, though he doesn’t lift his head.
I sit beside Dominic on the edge of the bed, close enough that our shoulders touch. He doesn’t say anything. He just…sits there, his hands grasping at his unruly blond hair, his eyes boring holes into the floor like the answers to everything might be hiding in the carpet fibers. I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” he finally mutters, voice low and scraped raw.
I shift toward him and slide my hand over his. He doesn’t pull away—thank fuck—but his fingers don’t curl around mine either. They stay there, tired and heavy.
“I don’t think there are any ‘right’ feelings in this situation,” I reply softly. A part of me can almost relate to him, though in a belated, distant way. After all, I’ve been grieving my parents for years, only to recently discover they weren’t the people I thought they were. They were amazing parents, but they did horrible things for the Paragons of Prosperity. Sometimes, I’ll stay up at night, my mind churning with unanswered questions, wondering what unspeakable crimes my parents committed for the cult.
Did they murder?
Rape?
Or were they oblivious sheep with no idea what they got themselves into?
“It’s hard to justify grieving monsters,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “but grief doesn’t ask for justification. You can know who they were—every cruelty, every wound they carved into you or another—and still feel the ache when they’re gone. It isn’t forgiveness and it isn’t love; it’s the mourning of what should have been, the version of them you needed and never got. Grieving them doesn’t make them better, and it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Dominic lets out a humorless laugh, more breath than sound. “I hated them, Ellie. Both of them. My whole life, I hated them. And now they’re dead, murdered in front of me, and I’m supposed to…what? Grieve? Forgive them? Pretend there was something good there?” His voice cracks at the end, a fracture he tries to physically swallow down.
I squeeze his hand gently. “You don’t have to pretend anything. And you don’t have to forgive them.”
I suspect, out of the two of them, he’s most conflicted about his brother. Doyle was awful to Dominic growing up, and he obviously participated in POP’s deranged activities—how else had he found my listing on the app? He helped us a few times, but does that negate all the awful things he did? Was he looking for redemption or a way to reconcile his relationship with Dominic?
I suppose neither of us has the answers to those questions. The only one who did is…dead.
“I fucking hate them, even now. They’re dead, and this…bitterness remains. This anger. It’s caustic and ugly, but I can’t get rid of it. What kind of person does that make me?”
I move closer until our knees touch, until I can guide his head gently to my shoulder. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then allows himself to lean against me, his soft hair tickling my cheek.
“A human one,” I answer. “A hurt one. Someone who spent years protecting himself the only way he knew how. You weren’t wrong to keep your distance from someone who’d hurt you.”
Dominic’s breath shudders against my collarbone. “I miss my moms,” he whispers, and I feel his tears wetting my skin.
My heart fissures, cracks, deteriorates like tissue paper dipped in water.
All of my guys have…interesting relationships with their parents, but Dominic’s mothers are absolutely wonderful. Before we came to live with Aria, he was keeping up with them semi-regularly. They know all about our unconventional relationship and support us one hundred percent. Currently, they believe the four of us—minus Landon and Ryker, who are “dead” in their eyes—are touring the UK and meeting Beckett’s family.
“I miss them too, but we’ll see them again.” I tighten my grip around him. “And you can be sad your father and brother are gone. And relieved. And guilty. And angry. You can feel all of it at once. None of it cancels anything else out.”
He nods, his face still pressed against the hollow of my throat, his hands clutched at the front of my dress, as if he’s afraid I’ll leave him.
Silly boy.
Doesn’t he realize I’m not going anywhere?
I don’t know how long we hold each other, but I want him to know he doesn’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. I’ll hold his broken pieces together until he finds the strength to stitch himself back together.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” I whisper. “Not with me. You can feel whatever you need to feel.”
His body trembles, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder. “I feel… nothing,” he says, his voice hollow. “And everything. It’s a fucking mess, Ellie. They were horrible people. They made my life hell. But they were…they were my family. And now they’re just gone. And I’m free. I feel like I should be lighter, but I feel empty.”
“Then let me fill you up,” I murmur, turning him to face me. His eyes are red-rimmed, the usual sharp, commanding intelligence clouded by a profound grief he won’t name. I reach up and cup his face, my thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Let me remind you who you are, Dominic. Let me remind you what’s real.”
I lean in and kiss him. It’s not a kiss of passion but of solace. My lips are soft against his, a silent promise. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, a statue carved from sorrow. Then, with a ragged breath, he wraps his arms around me, crushing me to him. He deepens the kiss, a desperate, hungry edge to it, like a man drowning and I’m his only source of air.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words raw and broken. “God, Ellie, I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” I breathe back, my hands sliding into his hair, holding him to me. “More than anything.”
His gaze meets mine, and the vulnerability I see there steals my breath. “Show me,” he pleads. “Show me something good. Show me something real.”
I answer him by sliding the straps of my dress down, revealing the simple lace of my bra that I put on after my time with Zane. His eyes trace the curve of my breasts, his expression softening from anguish to reverence. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the strap with a touch so light it feels like a prayer.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the best thing in my life. The only real thing.”
He unfastens my bra, his knuckles brushing against my skin. He cups my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, which tighten under his touch. Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, his tongue gentle, worshipful. It’s not about arousal; it’s about connection. It’s about grounding himself in my body, in my love.
“I need you,” he says against my skin. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you.”
“Then have me,” I whisper, my hands going to the button of his trousers. “I’m yours, Dominic. Always.”
Standing, he unzips his pants, letting them fall to the floor. He quickly sheds the rest of our clothes until there’s nothing between us but skin and the faint light from the window. He positions himself between my legs, his cock hard and heavy against my entrance, though he doesn’t push inside, not yet. Instead, he looks at me, his eyes roving over my face, as if trying to memorize every line, every freckle.
“You are my home, Ellie,” he says, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re everything.”
Then, slowly, he pushes into me. He fills me completely, a slow, deep, deliberate joining that feels less like sex and more like a sacred vow. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my arms encircling his neck. He begins to move, his thrusts slow and rhythmic, a steady, rocking motion that’s both comforting and intensely intimate.
“You’re so good,” he groans, his face buried in my neck. “You feel so good. So perfect for me.”
I hold him tighter, my fingers forking through his hair. “You’re a good man, Dominic,” I whisper into his ear. “The best. Don’t ever let them make you forget that.”
He lifts his head, and his emerald eyes search mine. In their depths, I see the storm of his pain beginning to calm, the chaos receding, replaced by the unwavering light of his love for me. He increases his pace, his hips rolling against mine, each movement a declaration.
“I love you,” he says, again and again, a litany against the darkness. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
“I love you,” I answer, my voice catching. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
The pleasure builds, not a frantic fire but a slow, blooming warmth that spreads through my entire body. It’s in the way he looks at me, in the way his hands hold me like I’m precious, in the way he moves inside me with such profound tenderness. When my orgasm comes, it’s a gentle wave, a soft, cresting release that leaves me trembling and breathless. He follows me over, a deep, shuddering groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep inside me, his body pouring all his pain, his love, his relief, into mine.
He collapses against me, his weight a welcome anchor. We stay like that for a long time, our bodies entwined on the bed, the moon shining through the window our only witness. He’s still inside me, still connected, and I feel the last of the tension leave his body, replaced by a bone-deep peace.
He lifts his head, his eyes clear now, the sorrow replaced by a quiet, fierce love. He presses a lingering kiss to my lips.
“Thank you,” he whispers. And I know he’s not only thanking me for the sex. He’s thanking me for saving him.
29
ELLIE
“Ithink it would be a good idea for you to see a therapist.”
I practically spit out my eggs—chewy and flavorless, though at least we know they weren’t laced with poison since we watched her make them—at Aria’s random declaration.
It’s been a few days since Doyle and Harvey were murdered, and we’ve been trying to go about our lives the best we can.
Kind of hard to do, considering we’re prisoners here.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Fischer in days. I have no idea where he is, and when I broached the subject with Aria the night before, she evasively answered, “Working.”
If that isn’t as ominous as fuck…
“Excuse me?” Zane stabs at his sausage link with more force than necessary. And when I say “stab,” I mean with a literal dagger. He doesn’t even bother to look at the fork and spoon we were provided, choosing instead to jab at his meal with the tip of his bedazzled dagger.
Sometimes, I imagine swiping the weapon from him and slicing at Aria’s throat with it. The only thing that stops me is the plethora of security guards she keeps in the house.
And the fact that the Paragons of Prosperity will reign supreme, even after she’s dead.
Calm yourself, Ellie. You can’t kill the bitch until we have a plan in place for taking down the organization once and for all.
Aria daintily dabs at her mouth with a napkin. She’s been insisting on all of us having “family breakfasts” before she leaves for the day to do who knows what. The four of us have been left alone for the most part—if you don’t count the armed guards manning all the doors and pacing the perimeter of the property.
Bitch doesn’t trust us, and I don’t even blame her. We’re all on tremendously short fuses, and one wrong word will send her—and everything she loves—into a fiery explosion. We’ve already torn this bungalow apart searching for clues or evidence. Of course, we came up empty-handed.
“You want me to see a therapist?” I repeat incredulously, wondering if the twisted bitch has lost whatever remained of her mind.
She’s the psychopathic murderer, and I’m the one who needs to see a shrink?
Fucking seriously?
I would laugh if I weren’t so stunned.
Aria feigns concern as she lowers her napkin to the table and folds her hands, the epitome of demure consideration.
“You lost two of the men you love,” she says, her lips tugging down in the corners. Somehow, her frown looks…wrong, as if she’s mimicking what she has seen other people do. Her eyes remain blank, not a hint of genuine emotion seeping through. “Everything you’ve been through over this past year…” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t even imagine.”
Dominic’s hand tightens around his butter knife, his glare firmly fixed on Aria’s face. That glare seems to be a permanent feature on his face whenever he’s in the same room as her. I imagine he’s remembering the moment she aimed that gun at his brother and father, splattering their brains across the office wall.
“Everything she’s been through has been because of you, you sick, twisted, psychopathic bitch,” he hisses.
Aria ignores him—as she always does. My guys insult her a lot, but she barely even reacts.
“This isn’t a suggestion, Ellie.” Aria resumes eating, her fork scraping against the plate with a clanking noise that rattles around in my skull. “You will begin seeing Dr. Peter Churchill. He’s a trusted ally of mine, and I really think he can help you.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s your angle here? Do you honestly believe I’ll divulge all my deepest, darkest secrets to this Dr. Churchill?”
Aria heaves out a sigh, as if my arguments are inconveniencing her. “Is it so hard to believe that I want the best for my daughter?”
“Yes,” Beckett says, at the same time Zane snaps out, “Fuck, yes,” and Dominic deadpans, “You’re an evil bitch.”
Aria drops her fork, all pretenses of a “concerned mother” wiped from her face. She rests her forearms on the table and leans forward, spearing me with a look that makes my stomach curl in on itself.
When she speaks, her voice is harsh, matter-of-fact, concise, each word the equivalent of a whip slashing at my back. “The Paragons of Prosperity can’t be led by a depressed, hormonal teenager.” Instinctively, her gaze dips to my wrists, which are covered by my sweater.
An uneasy feeling arrows through me.
She…knows?
That I used to cut?
How the fuck did she figure that out?
I can’t remember a time I’ve ever shown her my scars—my skin nothing but mutilated flesh and wispy white and red lines.
Has she been stalking me?
Probably.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised.
“You will attend your appointments with the doctor,” Aria continues, that cold glare of hers turning my blood to sludge. “And you won’t complain.” A malevolent smile tugs at her lips. “You won’t like the consequences if you do.”
At this, I think of Harvey and Doyle.
The gun aimed right at Beckett’s head.
Her cold, cutting voice whispering, “I lied.”
She promised she wouldn’t hurt, rape, or sell my men, but if I disobey her, then she won’t hesitate to do exactly that. I can’t allow that to happen. I won’t.
And that’s how I find myself in a minuscule, nondescript office, watching exotic fish swim around in their tank.
I feel like those fish.
Trapped.
“Hybristophilia. Have you heard of it before?”
Fuck, his voice grates on me, slashing at my skin like the blunt edge of a blade. It isn’t sharp enough to cut, but it leaves behind an uncomfortable, tingling sensation that doesn’t dissipate no matter what I do.
“It’s a disorder where a person will feel romantic or sexual attraction to criminals, particularly serial killers.” He watches me carefully, but if he’s expecting a reaction, he isn’t going to get one. “Sometimes, these people believe they can change the killer. Others believe that it’s romantic to have someone go to the ends of the earth for them—even if that includes murder.”
I stare at him blankly.
He leans forward so he can rest his arms on his thighs, a decidedly casual posture despite the cunning gleam in his eyes.
“Tell me, Ellie… Which category do you fall in? What made you fall in love with five deranged serial killers?”
I match his posture, allowing my mask to slip, for him to see the darkness in my eyes—a darkness that has been brewing steadily over the years, just waiting for an outlet.
“You want to know how I fell in love with a serial killer?” I whisper, my voice a soft caress that actually makes him shiver.
Five serial killers, technically.
But…semantics.
I feel my lips stretch into a macabre grin. Then I answer simply, “I became one too.”
That’s the first and only time I went to see Doc Pete.
Aria never broached the subject of therapy again.
30
LANDON
Aria lives in an apartment three towns over.
The complex consists of three low-rise, tan-colored buildings arranged around a small central courtyard. The paint is a little faded from years of sun, but everything is kept reasonably clean. The landscaping is simple but cared for—patches of grass, a few trimmed shrubs, and a couple of oak trees that offer streaks of shade.
We go in the middle of the day.
If we were to go at night, the neighbors would bust a nut seeing two full-grown men trying to break into Aria’s apartment. During the day, we could pretend to be friends or colleagues. Most people don’t give a damn what their neighbors are up to.
As it is, we don’t run into any residents. They, no doubt, are either at work or school.
Ryker pushes a few buttons on the tablet Raymond gifted us. The scowl on my brother’s face deepens with every second that passes.
“It should…fuck…yes…maybe…if we…” He begins to mutter to himself as the furrow between his eyebrows intensifies.
