3

Present

Don't fucking ignore me, Jackson.

Don't try to hide.

I know you can hear me. The voice from the part of you that you pretend doesn't exist. The part you can't quite remember.

Remember the dream from last night?

Yes. You can still see it now. Almost like it's a memory.

You bring the knife up, then sink it down into his body, again and again.

Revenge tastes sweeter than you could have even imagined.

You've satiated one sin: the desire for blood.

Now, what about the other sin that's coursing through your veins?

The most powerful sin of all.

Lust—

"Dr Keller?"

I blink. The sound of my patient's voice brings me back to my senses.

My patient, Aaron, sits in the chairacross from mein my office. Light streams through the windows into the clean, bright room. He's looking at me inquisitivelyand,frankly, I have no idea what he just said.

Aaron is a neurotic young man; his shoe taps out an anxious beat against the carpet. The affluent patients in my private practice tend to be this way.The cops I treat on the side; now they're a different matter.

The remnants of last night's dream slowly fade from my brain like a wisp of smoke dissipating. The violent images ofanimalisticbloodlust. I uneasily ignore thelastpulse of pleasure as it leaves my system.

"My apologies, Aaron. I'm with you. Please do continue."

I give a warm smile, concealing what's locked behind my eyes.

I became a therapist for two reasons: I'd always been fascinated by the mind,andIwanted to make the world a happier place in some small way.

A therapist isn't supposed to be distracted from his patients by the violent dreams of his subconscious. Especially not a therapist with a spotless reputation like my own.

I listen attentively to Aaron's work dilemma that's been causing him stress, advising him on a few techniques to manage his emotions more effectively. After a couple more minutes, the clock hits elevenandthe sessionis up.

I'm not expecting another patient immediately, but the door swings open again after Aaron leaves.

Dr Henrik Lund walks in.As ever,he's wearing his signature tweed blazer and meticulously pressed shirt.He's a tenured psychology professor at a prestigious local university and has published enough for several academics' lifetimes.

Henrik has been my mentor over the last decade, but he's more like a father to me. He's the reason I'm running one of Brookhaven's most successful therapy practices and not dead on the streets somewhere.My biological parents are probably still somewhereout therein the Pacific Northwest, but I'll nevergo searchingfor them.

I grin, shaking Henrik's hand. "You know you're always welcome in my office, Henrik. But you don't have to keep checking in on me."

He hangs up his jacket, taking the seat opposite me. "Since when am I not allowed to drop by to see my favorite protégée at work?"

"I'm not that twenty-year-old interloper crashing your college lectures anymore. With all due respect, I don't need your supervision."

He peers at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.Henrik has a way of lookingrightthrough me, something no one elseis capable of.

"You know why I'm here, Jackson. Tell me, how have you been feeling since you began your self-inflicted… cognitive interventions?"

He overpronounces the words with obvious mistrust.

In the last months, a darkness that I haven't felt sincemychildhood has been rising in meonceagain.Like a beast that's gnawing down the bars of its cage. If Iwas advisinga patient on such a matter, I'd tell them to find the root in their past.

Here is the problem: my past is a mystery to me. I know I ran from home at seventeen. I know ended up in Brookhaven working in bars for meager pay. I know I crashed Henrik's psychology lectures at the local university until he took me under his wing.

But before that? That's when the memories grow hazy.

I remember my parents sending me to see Dr Blackwood. I know my body still bears scars from that time.

But that's it. All the details feel like they've been covered by fog thatjustwon't lift. I've tried. I've seen therapists andbeen through unconventional treatments, but the fog never clears.

Part of me is concerned that what my brain has hidden away might be too muchfor meto handle. That'scertainlywhat Henrik is worried about.

"I'm not bound by convention," I reply with a shrug. "It's all going well. You don't have to worry."

Henrik sighs, adjusting his glasses. "Innovate all you want, Jackson. But I knowthat yourreason for experimenting with this technique is not academic. It's personal."

"I need to know more about my past. I've run out of other options.Ineed tounderstand why I keepbeingplagued by… certain emotions."

The memory of my dream flashes back into my head. Blood. Rage. Lust.

Henrik rises to his feet, picking up his jacket. "Be cautious, Jackson. The mind is our most powerful toolandmanipulating it can be dangerous." He pauses, his expression softening. "You're like a son to me. I don't want to see you get hurt."

I smile as I open the door for him to leave. "I assure you, Henrik. You have nothing to worry about."

My gaze shifts past Henrik to settle on the woman seated behind him in the waiting room. She's tapping her fingers agitatedly against the arm of the chair, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for escape routes.

Lust.

Heat explodes within my chest, flooding through my system with primal savagery.

The voice from my dreams speaks in a loud growl inside my head.

There's the answer to your next sin, Jackson.

"Goodbye, Jackson." Henrik's voice sounds distant as he leaves with a smile. I feel myself nod in return, but all my focus is suddenlyfixatedon the woman in front of me.

My next patient is here.

Detective Ava Cain.

I only received the brief details from CaptainHawkins:a promising young homicide detective who disobeyed command and was stabbed by a suspect. She saved an abducted child and got the man arrested, but she irritated her bosses in the process.

Her hair is a jet-black bob falling a little past her chin. It's dyed; lighter brown roots are teasing the top of her hair. She's dressed in a worn leather jacket, dark jeans that hug her legs, and black, chunky-heeled boots.

My eyes take in her beauty. Her thick, arched eyebrows. The sharp cupid's bow of her full upper lip. The slight curve of her aquiline nose. The ring of darkness under her glinting, gray eyes.

I've had attractive patients before. I've had no trouble compartmentalizing it effectively.

But as my eyes travel over my new patient, I feel desire clawing viciously inside me. I clench my hands into fists, willing this sensation to stop.

Out of nowhere, the voice from my dreams bursts into life like in my brainlikea flare shot from a gun.

Don't fight what you're feeling, Jackson. Look at her beauty. Let the obsession take you over. Let it poison you.

Pin her against the wall. Strip her clothes, layer by layer. She'll cry and beg for it. Fuck her until she's sobbing and whimpering, pleading for you to never stop fucking her.

Bring the knife to her throat and see how she squirms.

With oneglanceyou can already sense there'ssomething twisted behind her beauty.

You're going to tear it out of her. Even if it makes her bleed—

No. I wrench myself back from the sensation, my heart crashing in my ears.

I want to help others. I want to tend to their minds with kindness andcare,in the way that was denied me. I want to choose goodness, even ifthere's something dark lurkingin my heart that I still can't understand.

I snap back to reality just in time to meet the sharp, watchful eyes of Detective Cain.

I slowly exhale, smiling warmly. My pulse begins to slow.

But I can still hear the final, fading whisper in my ears.

You can't hide from me forever, Jackson.