Chapter 1

Court. Appointed. Therapy.

The day my high school peers had paraded across a stage, I'd stood in front of a judge in a moldy courtroom. They'd gotten a smile, a handshake, and a diploma. I'd got stapled papers demanding forced rehabilitation or else . How ominous.

I rolled my eyes and leaned on the steering wheel, looking at the brown office building in the night. Everyone else was going off to college while I had a year long date with cognitive behavioral therapy.

My new therapist I'd yet to meet, Doctor Orson, was sitting up in his office right this very minute, probably staring at his watch and wondering if he should call my probation officer to report me as a no show. Most of the offices were dark but on the second floor I saw one light on. Was that him? Maybe I could lob a molotov cocktail up there to find out.

Therapists were tedious and I hated them. I always had to balance on a tightrope to get the right result—sharing just enough for them to be happy but not enough I'd end up involuntarily hospitalized. I definitely should be but that wasn't my problem. Everyone else's problem? Yes. Not mine though. I was perfectly okay being a free roaming terror one breath away from psychosis, even if it was lonely... Perhaps being institutionalized would let me meet some people I had something in common with. Fun food for thought.

I groaned. The choice was simple here and I couldn't keep putting it off. After a quick swig of warm energy drink that I nearly gagged back up, I opened my car door and got out. I smoothed my short skirt down as my pink platform boots hit the pavement. I couldn't afford to piss my new therapist off for too long or I'd level up to incarceration. I'm sure that would do wonders for my rough edges… not .

Outside the office building was quiet. The sky was already black and a long dark pole held a bright yellow light with insects swarming the glass. The wind shook the leaves of the large tree that shaded the entrance. I liked the sense of solitude as I opened the front door to an empty, dim hall. It made me feel like I was trespassing, which was infinitely more interesting than the truth.

The large foyer smelled like cleaning solution and there were yellow signs cautioning me the floor was wet. The janitor had already come and gone.

The nine pm meeting time was pretty odd but I dragged myself up the stairs to suite 203. I'd rather listen to a therapist tell me everything that's wrong with me than have six months of bright lights and bologna sandwiches in the adult justice system. It certainly wasn't the first time I'd been to therapy, I'd survive. What's the worst that could happen?

I brushed long strands of red hair out of my eyes as I stomped into the office suite, starting to get pissed before I'd even met the guy. But seriously, screw whoever this dude was—making a fucking job out of judging me. I could just imagine him, Doctor Orson, some unwashed asshole who was going through the motions to get his government paycheck.

Luckily, being a bitch was my speciality and I was looking forward to making my case a special little nightmare. As long as I showed up for each meeting and avoided any more arrests, he couldn't easily do jackshit to get rid of me. So he and I were going to ride this ship to the bottom of the ocean and see just how miserable we could make each other before drowning in Hell.

The waiting room was empty and dark. Behind a plexiglass protected counter a buzzing light illuminated the gray carpet that I walked across. A blonde woman in scrubs looked up at me from her chair. The nametag read Katie. Her voice was marred behind the plexiglass, a sleepy mumbled collection of words. I understood enough to slide my court paper through the little hole and explain I was late for my very first appointment. I considered apologizing then allowed myself to forget that thought immediately.

"If it's too late…" I trailed off, hopeful I could turn around and go back home.

"Not at all, come this way, Miss Hamilton." Bleh, fuck this. She showed me down the hall and I was creeped out by the fact this place looked closed entirely. All the office doors were shut and the lights were off. There were no other doctors or patients here. Even the hall light was off for some strange reason I couldn't fathom. Could they not afford their electricity bill?

"Here we are," Katie said and I groaned internally while turning into the room. One year with Doctor Orson. I hoped I left him mentally scarred. Creepy office space, meet creepy stupid middle-aged therapi—

I blinked at the man standing in front of me.

"Miss Bree Hamilton, I was afraid you weren't coming," a smooth, deep voice said. I stood there blinking without a thought in my head as the most attractive man I'd ever seen stood ten feet away. "Please, have a seat," his muscular arm swept the room, his finger pointing at a chair. I nodded and quietly dropped in my seat while he went to his.

Doctor Orson sat in his chair with the grace of a prince. His shoulders were back and his back was straight. The vest he wore showed off a slightly tapered waist. I didn't know what to do with myself. Where did I put my hands? Hang them limply beside the chair? Was I staring?

Why did he smell so good? I never thought people smelled good. The receptionist had smelled like chemical flowers trying to roughly assault my nostrils.

Why was every move he made precise and smooth? Most people walked around jerky and rough. His looks were otherworldly but his presence was something else. Nothing about him was abrasive or coarse. My therapist was refined, subtle, strong…

Was it an age thing? No, I'd known plenty of older men and none of them made my mind want to purr. I didn't know anything anymore because he was now smiling at me. My throat started to close up as dimples appeared beside his perfectly sculpted lips.

He looked like he should live behind a paywall.

What was wrong with me? I frowned. I'd never in my life felt like this for someone I just saw. Why were his eyes violet? That couldn't be real. I swallowed thickly, trying to convince myself he was an apparition—a tan body built on lies. But the facts were right there in front of me. Whereas nearly everyone I met was too loud and clumsy, smelled too strong, and just overall grated my sensitive nerves… he was not.

I was comfortable, I realized. Comfortable around someone else for maybe the very first time in my life because he spoke soft and smooth, because the lights were dim, because he walked gracefully, and smelled subtly divine. I didn't have to ask him to do any of those things either. It was as if he knew I needed that. Or maybe he was just like me and couldn't stand buzzing overhead lights and strong scents.

Well, not just like me or I'd be in trouble.

Either way, it was so refreshing I was completely flabbergasted by it. Calm and relaxed weren't things I experienced often but the feelings spread out across my limbs until I was subdued and warm in the nice leather chair that hugged me.

Even the walls were nice, a mellow taupe instead of harsh white. The entire room, really. Now that I took a moment to pull my eyes away from my therapist I was intrigued by his collection of things—modern woven tapestries hanging up, little round tables with collections of colored glass jars. A couch covered in a lush red blanket.

"Bree, before we get started I wanted to tell you," he began. His hair was nice—black and cut stylishly. It looked like he used product to keep it up and out of his eyes. The front sat on his head in a soft wave. "I'm here to help you."

Ugh, he was ruining the mood already. I sighed in disappointment. Well, here we go. The whole "you can trust me, I'm not like everyone else" spiel that made my eyes roll in the back of my head.

Doctor Orson observed my reaction and then leaned back in his chair with a frown. My eyes detoured over the details of his suit. It looked expensive—pants, shirt, and vest that hugged him in all the perfect places to allow my eyes to understand exactly what was underneath.

Maybe he wasn't like everyone else.

For a heavy moment, he stared right back at me, his eyes digging in like meat hooks to tender ham. My face began to heat, goddamnit . He smirked. Fuck . He totally could see my painfully apparent blush.

Suddenly Doctor Orson leaned forward, plucking one of his business cards from his desk to write something on the back.

He slid it across the table towards me and I saw a phone number.

"That's my personal cell phone. You can call me outside of therapy." I plucked it up and eyed his looping calligraphy. He had the opposite of serial killer handwriting, whatever that was.

"I don't like talking ," I said pointedly. AKA fuck your therapy. He smirked and dimples blossomed on his face again. Shit. Fuck. God, he could see me blushing again . I tried to will the heat away from my face but it only grew hotter.

"If you don't like talking, text me. I'll always respond."

I stared at his face, dumbfounded. I felt like laughing. I actually had to suck my lips into my mouth to stop myself. He was trying to make besties with me. This was not going to go smoothly for him.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you're here," he said, his voice smooth and warm.

His eyes were purple. That's why I felt hypnotized. That's why I opened my mouth and giggled my way through explaining kidnapping and attempted homicide while sliding his card into my pocket.

"It wasn't a real kidnapping," I explained. Doctor Orson smiled and nodded. I stared at his hands. He'd rolled up his sleeves while I had been talking. He had very nice forearms. Doctor Orson managed to hit the perfect combination of refinement and masculine power that made me feel like I was vibrating in my chair. Where had he come from? Were all the men there like this?

"But you did make this boy from school go with you on this little joy ride?"

"He was into it," I responded automatically.

"Didn't he beg you to let him go?" Doctor Orson asked. I rolled my eyes.

"Eventually. And I did let him go when he asked." Actually he overpowered me and got away. "The sobbing was just him being dramatic." Because I'd tried to kill him. "Plus, he was all for it when he got into the car because… " I trailed off, unsure if I should talk about that here… with him.

"All for what?" Doctor Orson asked smoothly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile.

"Well…" I nibbled on my bottom lip.

"Did you two have sex?" He asked in entertainment.

"That was the idea," I whispered back. God, when have I ever been shy? I was intimidated by this man for some reason. He was making me feel every bit like the patient I was.

"When did things go bad then?" Doctor Orson was giving me all his attention and I was giving him all of mine right back. I felt like I could tell him everything. Might as well, really. It all already came out in court. But before I could admit anything, he answered for me.

"You tried to slit his throat, didn't you?" He'd read the court case then. I swallowed thickly then nodded. I didn't even manage a nick either. All this trouble for not even a scratch. That's what I got for trying to overpower someone twice my size.

"Bree, this next part is important."

"What next part?" I asked in confusion. He stared me down and I started to feel nervous. My eyes darted to the door.

"Did you want to drink his blood?" My eyes widened in shock and I recoiled away, my face flaming.

"You're sick," I hissed, my voice shaky. How the fuck did he know that ? Here came the straightjacket. Where were all my plans of being a bitch? I should definitely get back to that.

"It's okay, Bree. I like your honesty. Especially about this."

"Okay," I said tentatively, not trusting him. He was acting abnormally calm though. I licked my lips and put my hands back on the desk between us. If he could be calm, I could be calm… maybe.

"Have you ever drunk someone else's blood?"

"What?" I asked, letting out a nervous laugh. Doctor Orson leaned forward on his desk so he was closer to me. His hand gently laid on top of mine. It made my entire body feel on fire.

"Have you ever drunk someone else's blood?" He asked, eyes boring into mine. I shook my head. He was zoning in on my pressure point, the one part of the entire ordeal that felt sensitive and shameful. This conversation was suddenly way more intimate than it had been a moment ago.

How did he know? Who told him? It had to be my aunt. My face flamed and I had to work to control my breathing. God, he really knew.

"Are you very certain you've never drank someone else's blood?"

"I swear," I whispered, wanting him to believe me. I'd been fighting the urge to taste blood for as long as I could remember and I nearly lost it that day in the car. It was fortunate I wasn't very strong or I'd have killed that guy and finally succumbed to the freakish desire.

It was a strange, shameful kink. Not something fun and quirky like handcuffs. It was fucked up and disgusting is what it was. I'd tried to bury it until the want overflowed and I had found myself holding a knife at someone's throat, frantic to get a taste of ruby red gore.

"It's okay, Bree," he said and I looked into his eyes. It genuinely felt like he wasn't judging me as I shook in his office chair, peeled open and exposed.

"Can you make a promise to me?" Doctor Orson asked, leaning forward further. I found myself leaning towards him as well, my body pressing into the desk to eat as many inches as possible.

"A promise?"

"Never drink someone's blood." His words sunk into my mind.

"Fuck you, I wouldn't." I snatched my hand back, feeling too ashamed to keep talking about this. My eyes found the colorful glass collection and I kept my attention there, following the finely crafted swirling lines. They looked like antiques from another country.

He knew too much already. Why was I spilling my guts? Because he was so hot I was forgetting who I was. It wasn't just that though. It was because this fucker was flirting with me. He was manipulating my attraction to get what he wanted. It had to be that but… I didn't mind.

"That's very good, Bree," he purred, leaning back in his chair. Pretty sure I forgot how to breathe. My eyes were wide as I stared at him, hearing the words "very good, Bree" echo in my head. I wanted praise from this man more than I wanted my next breath.

His eyes flicked to the wall above my head and his smile dried up.

"Time's up," he announced, shoveling all the papers on his desk into a deep drawer in one sweep. He slammed it shut, locked it, and then looked at me as if confused as to why I was still sitting there and hadn't raced out the moment he spoke.

The weird thing was, I didn't want to leave. I wanted to have him manipulate a few more honest confessions out of me. It was embarrassing but made me feel a little better, to be honest. How could someone be this good? Understanding, non judgemental, hot…

"That didn't seem very long…"

"Then don't be late next time," he responded smoothly with a charming smile.

"I didn't even tell you about—" my words stopped when Doctor Orson stood up then walked to the door. He opened it before calling for the receptionist.

"Katie will show you out," he told me as if he was doing me a favor. A moment later the receptionist was grabbing and shooing me like a wild seagull that found its way inside after scenting a french fry.

"Same time next week," Doctor Orson called out chipperly, not even bothering to watch as his receptionist dragged me from the offices. Oh, fuck this guy. Fake ass motherfucker, flirting with people to get them to talk.

I hated him. I planned to march home and tell everyone who would listen that this guy was a fucking sicko. Of course, I'd sound deranged saying it was because he smiled at me. Ugh.

The receptionist deposited me in the building hallway and closed the door in my face. I heard the deadbolt snap. Fuck her too! I'd find out where she lived and send her pictures of herself from outside the window. Let's see how confident she was then. She'd be too busy looking over her shoulder to sweep me into the corridor.

I stomped all the way back to my car and slammed it shut once I was inside.

My phone dinged and I ripped it from my pocket expecting to see a text from my job. Instead, it was an unknown number.

"Text me if you feel like drinking blood again."

I eyed the number then pulled out the business card Doctor Orson gave me. It was the same one he'd hand written on the back. I bit my lip to keep a stupid grin from blooming on my face. Then I searched his phone number online to see what sort of information I could get.

My eyes tipped up to the single light shining on the second floor . I can't wait for us to get to know each other, Doctor Orson.