Page 31 of Dark Therapy

UNDER THE SURFACE

Damien

I leaned back in the chair, smirking as Amelia’s steady, professional voice droned on about boundaries, self-control, and all the other bullshit she clearly thought I gave a damn about. She sat there, so fucking composed, her honey eyes locked on me like I was some goddamn puzzle she thought she couldsolve. It was almost funny.

That professionalism, those carefully measured words, the calm mask she wore so damn tightly—it was all so fuckingfake. I could see it, though. One crack, one shift in her expression, and I knew. Iknew. She wasn’t as composed as she wanted me to believe. She was unraveling, whether she admitted it or not. And I? I was the one pulling the strings, savoring every second of it.

“Are you even listening, Damien?” Her voice snapped through my thoughts, sharp and insistent. She cocked an eyebrow, her composure wavering just enough to amuse me.

I let the silence drag, let her stew in it, watching the way her fingers tightened around her pen. When I finally spoke, my voice was a blade wrapped in silk. “Oh, I’m listening, doctor,” I murmured, the corners of my mouth curling into a slow, deliberate smile. “Every. Single. Word.”

She didn’t believe me—of course she didn’t—but that flicker of doubt in her eyes? That wasmine. A fragile little thread I could pull until the whole goddamn thing unraveled. I leaned forward, closing the space between us just enough to make her feel it, to force her to notice how close I was.

Her composure cracked further as she broke my gaze, her eyes dropping to the safety of her notes. “Good,” she managed, her voice steady, though not nearly as strong as she wanted it to be. “Because I think it’s important we explore these issues more deeply.”

Oh, the cracks were spreading. I could hear the tremor hiding in her tone, taste the tension lacing every word. The brilliant, controlled Dr. Harper wasn’t quite as bulletproof as she thought.

I almost fucking laughed—God, it was right there, crawling up my throat—but I swallowed it down, keeping my face a blank slate of calm. “Oh, I agree, Millie,” I said, my voice a low, taunting drawl. “There’s so much for us to dig into. So muchdepthto uncover.”

Her body tensed, just a flicker, but I caught it. She shifted in her seat, her eyes narrowing as if she could sense the layers beneath my words but couldn’t quite grab hold of them. That was the best part—the goddamn game.Imade the rules; she didn’t even know we were playing.

She had no fucking clue how muchcontrolI had, how every goddamn breath in this room belonged to me. I could tear down her defenses, piece by piece, and she wouldn’t realize it until she was fucking hollow. And it was already happening. I could see it in the cracks spiderwebbing across that polished, professional exterior,feelit in the taut silence stretching between us.

I studied her—every twitch, every involuntary movement, every goddamn thing she thought she was hiding. She was good at it, I’ll give her that. Better than most. But not better than me. I saw the slight quiver in her hand when she reached for her pen, the way her eyes darted away from mine like she didn’t want me to see what was simmering beneath the surface.

There was something primal in the way her body reacted, a small, almost imperceptible shudder when I dropped certain words. Words that were harmless to anyone else but sharp as a fucking knife in this room.Surrender.Freedom. I watched her choke on those words, saw the way her breath hitched for just a second too long.

“Andsurrender, Millie…” I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a low rumble. “That’s where it all begins, isn’t it? Letting go. Giving in. That’s what realfreedomfeels like.”

Her composure cracked, just a little. Just enough for me to see the storm brewing behind her eyes. Andfuck, it was beautiful.

Her fingers curled around the notepad, so slight you’d miss it if you weren’t watching her like a hawk. But Iwaswatching.Every twitch, every hesitation, every goddamn moment where she thought she had her shit together but didn’t. Her gaze faltered for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to catch it before she tightened the leash on her composure.

She thought she was safe. That she could keep thoselinesbetween us neat, professional. That her memories were locked away, hers alone. But her body didn’t lie. Not to me. The tremor in her hand, the shift in her breathing, the way her lips pressed just a little too hard together whenever I leaned inclose—all of it screamed the truth she was too scared to admit. Iownedher now. Mind, body, every fucking piece of her, and she didn’t even know it yet.

She thought daylight and her sterile little office could protect her. That the space between us meant something. But I saw those tiny fucking fissures where I’d planted myself, deep and festering. Proof that she couldn’t escape me, no matter how many boundaries she scribbled into her little notepad.

It was funny how she still clung to this fragiledelusionof control. She thought she was the one leading the session, the one holding the power in this room. It was fuckinglaughable. Everything about her—her anxiety, her sanity—wasmine. I’d taken it, twisted it, and left her clutching at straws.

She cleared her throat, her voice calm but with that tiny edge of unease she couldn’t hide from me. “Today,” she said, her pen poised, her eyes meeting mine with forced steadiness, “we’re going to explore your emotions. Or perhaps…” She hesitated, just a beat. “Your relationship with them. You seem to experience them differently than others, don’t you?”

I let the silence stretch, leaning back and giving her my slow, crooked grin. “You havenoidea,”

Her voice almost masked the shiver creeping through her words. Almost. But I fucking saw it.Feltit. Like a crack spidering through glass, the kind you can’t stop no matter how hard you press to hold it together.Control?Fragile. A goddamn fantasy. She hadnone.

She glanced down at her notes, a safety net that didn’t fucking exist, then forced her gaze back to me.BravelittleMillie. “From our conversations,” she started, her tone trying for steady, “you strike me as… obsessive. An intense fixation, almost like an attachment that doesn’t quite resemble love, fear, oranger in the way most people understand them.” She leaned in slightly, her eyes sharp but not sharp enough. “I’d like you to explain it to me, Damien. What is it that drives you?”

Oh, she wanted to know. That curiosity burning in her gaze, the way her words tried to cut through me.Fascinating. She thought she was fearless, thought she could dissect me like one of her tidy little case studies. But I knew better. Knew the shadows that clung to her, the ones she shoved into the darkest corners of her mind because she couldn’t face them.Notyet.

I tilted my head, watching her. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, and I reveled in the way her breathing hitched, just barely, but enough for me to catch it. Finally, I let my voice cut through, low and razor-sharp, laced with venom and something darker. “You think I experience emotions differently, Amelia?”

She nodded, slow and deliberate, her hand tightening around that goddamn notepad like it might save her.

“Maybe,” I said, leaning forward just enough to make her pulse quicken, “it’s not that I don’tfeelemotions. Maybe I feel them too much. Obsession. Fixation. It’s not an absence, Millie.It’s a goddamn flood. A need so deep, so consuming, it drowns every other thing. Burns it away until there’s nothing left.”

Her hand twitched. A flicker of fear, or maybe curiosity, though I didn’t give a shit which. She was listening, caught in the web I’d spun around her, her breaths coming just a little too fast now.

“It’s fire,” I continued, my voice a low, dangerous murmur. “When I’m fixated on something…someone… it’s all Isee. All Iwant. There’s no boundary I wouldn’t cross, no line I wouldn’t obliterate. It’s consuming. Absolute.”