Chapter One

Raven

Sacred Heights Asylum. The name itself carries an unsettling feeling. Established in 1712, it’s stood for centuries in a small town named Morbid Crypt. This isn’t just any asylum—it’s an institute that houses the criminally insane, the kind of place where the darkest minds go to fester, and now, for the next month, it’s where I’ll be working.

As a student therapist, I jumped at the opportunity to intern there. Having Sacred Heights on my résumé is basically a golden ticket to a career in mental health once I complete my training next year. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. The thought of walking into a place with centuries of history absorbed by madness… it does something to you. But either way, I’m determined.

Four hours away from the city, I’ve rented a small house for the time being, not too far from the asylum. This place is isolated, surrounded by woodland and scattered homes, but I don’t mind. There’s no one waiting for me back home anyway, not since Dad died three years ago. I’ve been alone ever since. Except for my kitten, Midnight, who has been with me for the last three months and she’s with me on this journey.

We stayed there for the first time last night, and to say it’s an absolute dump would be an understatement; the place was falling apart from the inside out. The landlord did me dirty; it was nothing like what he’d advertised. I was so close to leaving as soon as I walked in there, but unfortunately, because this town doesn’t have much to offer, it was the only option without traveling in and out of the city. When I woke up this morning and left, I noticed something I hadn’t last night because it was dark by the time I arrived; a graveyard, right opposite the house, which just set the entire eerie mood of this small town, but me and Midnight bared it. We’ll have to get through it.

Dad always used to say, “Raven, if you want the finer things in life, you’ve got to work your ass off for them. You just have to just get on with it.”

Back then, we had no idea that I’d end up moving across state for a month, staying in some weird ass town and diving headfirst into a system that tries to sway the minds of the insane. I often wonder what he would have thought of my choices. He’d probably either tell me I’m out of my own damn mind for doing it, talking me out of it or that I’m a badass for stepping up to such a challenge. Knowing him, it could have gone either way.

When my dad died, everything inside me shattered, but it wasn’t just death—it was the way it happened. My dad took his own life. One minute he was here, my entire world, and the next, he was gone, swallowed by a darkness I hadn’t even known he carried. I remember the shock of it, the way it slammed into me like a tidal wave, dragging me under.

I kept asking myself why—why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I notice his pain? Why didn’t I do something? Why didn’t he tell me? Did I do something wrong? Didn’t he feel he could confine in me?

The blow of it made me isolate myself; I didn’t eat; I didn’t sleep; I didn’t socialize. My mind was consumed by guilt and grief, replaying every conversation, every missed sign. I thought, for a long time, about following him. About ending it all and being done with the pain. Feeling that alone, like no one could possibly understand or pull me out of it, was terrifying. The world felt like an empty, hollow shell, and I didn’t think I’d ever climb out of the darkness.

But somehow, I did.

Not all at once, and I’m not perfect, I never will be, but I’m better. Grief doesn’t go away, but it changes. It became something I carried, a shadow that walked with me, but one I learned to live beside. And in that learning, I realized something. If I could survive the depths of my own darkness, maybe I could help someone else survive theirs. Maybe I could be the person who saw the hidden pain that others, like my dad, tried so hard to hide.

Maybe I could be the voice that said, I see you or even be a light for one person. If I could give them a reason to keep going when they thought they couldn’t, then maybe all of it—my grief, my struggles, my guilt—meant something. Becoming a therapist wasn’t just a career choice really; it was a calling born from my own suffering. I knew what it felt like to fall into that void, to feel like no one could possibly understand.

So here I am. Ready to take on the darkest of the dark and hopefully understand the gloomiest depths of madness.

After a restless night of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed extra early, hoping to regain some energy by downing two cups of bitter black coffee before my first day. My stomach growled in protest; I haven’t eaten, but I made a mental note to stop for groceries on my way home—assuming I survive today.

I cleaned the living room the best I could with such little time, closing the doors so Midnight couldn’t escape, leaving her in a room where she’ll be safe for the day.

As I continue driving, the road becomes more remote, winding through thick forests and up into the hills. Then, through my fuzzy vision, I catch a glimpse of something looming ahead and the moment I make sense of it, my breath hitches.

There it is: Sacred Heights Asylum.

It’s not sleek or modern—no, this is like something out of a horror movie. Its stone facade is dark and striking, with narrow, barred windows. The building itself is enormous, sprawling out with wings on either side. The architecture is gothic, crumbling in some places, with distorted gargoyles leering from the corners of the roof. Twisting ivy climbs up the sides, suffocating the exterior, and the entire structure is shrouded in shadow, even in the pale morning light.

The iron gates in front of me are just as sinister, tall, and crowned with barbed wire that spirals menacingly above. I pull up to the gate and lower my window to press the intercom button. As I wait for a response, I can’t shake the growing dread settling in my gut.

Sacred Heights feels less like a standard asylum and more like a maximum-security prison. And here I am, about to walk straight into it.

But I remind myself why I’m here in the first place. It’s not just about my dad, although that was a trigger point. I’ve always been interested in the complexities of the human mind—how mental health weaves itself through our experiences, shaping them into something uniquely ours. What fascinates me most is that hidden corner we all have, that secret place in our mind no one else could ever reach or truly understand. It belongs to us alone, and that’s okay.

Still, I guess it’s strange that I’ve chosen a career where I’m supposed to gently coax people back toward society’s carefully constructed version of normality. The irony isn’t lost on me.

But what’s normality?

In my eyes, we all have the right to live uniquely, but there’s a fine line between being different and having darker instincts that make you want to hurt others, whether that’s physically or mentally. It’s a point where someone’s mind isn’t just of imagination or fantasy, but of real-life hatred, revenge, or even violence and that’s where I feel I’d like to help.

Society tends to silence those who don’t comply, forcing everyone into the same perfect bubble, where people who are different are suppressed, or have to pretend to be something they’re not. We’ve created a system that orders obedience and strict rules. And if anyone doesn’t toe the line? They’re labelled crazy or worse.

I have empathy for those who are struggling. There’s always a reason behind someone’s actions, a cause behind their pain, no matter how long they’ve been lost in their nightmare. I don’t believe anyone is born malicious; I believe something inside them was broken or consumed along the way.

After telling the woman on the other side of the intercom my name and reasons of being here, the gates finally creak open. I drive through slowly, my tires cracking over the rocky gravel beneath it as I make my way up a long driveway.

When I pull up and cut the engine, I reach over, grabbing the handle of my briefcase and then step out of the car. Closing the door behind me, the wind sweeps through my long, red hair, carrying chilling whispers in my ears. I take a glance around, noticing the few armed officers on the property, standing in the corners. I draw a deep breath, readying myself, then take slow steps toward the towering oak door entrance of the asylum.

As I approach, the door squeaks open unexpectedly, revealing an older gentleman with grey hair and stubble, dressed in a white shirt with black pants. His warm, friendly smile feels out of place against the backdrop of the eerie building. I come to a halt in front of him, and he extends his hand, which I accept.

“You must be Raven Tate,” he says, his eyes briefly scrutinizing me before softening.

“That's right,” I respond. “And you are?”

“Dr Moss. We spoke on the phone,” he replies with a nod. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Sacred Heights Asylum.”

His tone is welcoming, but there’s an underlying heaviness to his words, a subtle reminder of the seriousness of the place I’m about to enter. He steps aside, gesturing with a sweep of his arm for me to go first and I brush past him.

As the door shuts behind us with an echoing thud, I take in the surroundings. The interior is far simpler than I expected, almost clinical, but with a haunting charm. The high-vaulted ceilings loom overhead. Dark, ancient wood panels line the white walls, their edges worn and weathered by time.

The air smells heavy of disinfectant, but underneath that lies another scent—faint, yet unmistakable. A metallic hint, like old blood, or maybe rusted metal.

Ahead of me stretches a long, narrow hallway and along the walls, antique paintings hang in neat rows, each one showing grim-faced individuals, possibly old patients, their eyes fixed on me, tracking my every move.

Dr Moss watches me take it all in, his unchanging smile the complete opposite to the gloom of this place.

“Quite the place, isn’t it?” he murmurs softly, as if he can sense the discomfort stirring inside me. “It can be quite overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

I glance up at him, knowing this is only my first day and despite the unease, he’s right.

“So, you’re from Boston, and you came all this way?” Dr Moss questions as we slowly continue down the hall.

I smile and give a slight nod. “That’s right. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I’ve heard great things about SHA and how well the patients are treated here.”

He returns my smile, though something flickers in his dark eyes—pride, perhaps, or maybe something deeper, more guarded. As we enter what I assume is his office, he gently swings the door shut behind us.

“Please, take a seat, Ms Tate,” he says, gesturing to a chair in front of his massive oak desk.

I settle opposite him, the rich leather creaking softly beneath me. His office is big, with shelves crammed with medical texts, journals, and file cabinets. Dr Moss takes his seat on the other side, resting his elbows on the desk.

“That must have been quite the journey,” he continues. “Are you staying in Morbid Crypt?”

I nod as I place my briefcase down on the floor beside me. “Yes, I found a place to rent for the next month. Do you live nearby?”

He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “No, I live about an hour away. I travel here each day and have done for many years.”

I offer a polite smile, and he clears his throat before continuing to probe me, “So, you’re a student therapist?” he asks. “I’ve reviewed your documents, and I must say, you’re doing an excellent job for someone your age. Things can only get better from here.”

My eyes soften. “Thank you very much, Dr Moss. That means a lot to me.”

He leans back, folding his hands on the desk in front of him, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. “Alright. Have you researched the institute’s history as requested? And do you understand the types of patients we care for here?”

I nod confidently before answering. “Yes, I’m well aware. I’ve done extensive research into Sacred Heights’ history.”

“Good,” he replies, nodding sharply. “I believe it’s only fair that you start on the ground floor and work your way up in due time.”

I furrow my brows slightly, uncertainty crossing my mind at the mention of ‘working my way up.’ He notices and leans forward, his voice taking on a gentler, reassuring tone.

“Please, forgive me. You’re unfamiliar with our internal method here.”

He gestures toward the ceiling, then downwards, as if mapping out the entire facility in the air. “There are floors here. The patients on the lowest floor are those soon to be released. They’ve made incredible progress and are preparing to re-enter society.”

I nod slowly, listening intently as he carries on. “Those in the middle,” he says, his expression darkening just a touch, “are showing growth, but they’re not quite there yet. They need more time. More therapy. More medication.”

His gaze sharpens as he explains the top level. “And, of course, the highest floor is where our most severely mentally ill patients reside. They’re the ones who require the most attention, the most care. The more progress they make, the lower we bring them down. It’s a step-by-step process until they’re ready to face the world as reformed individuals.”

A small smile forms on my lips as I process what he’s saying. “I think you have a fantastic system here, Dr Moss. It shows patience... the lower they descend from their darkness, the closer they get to walking through the door into the light.”

Dr Moss’s face brightens with a large smile, clearly pleased with my understanding and he points at me. “That’s exactly right, Raven. You’ve got it.”

His approval fills me with a sense of satisfaction, but also a deeper realization of the gravity of the work I’m about to take on here. I watch Dr Moss’s every move as he stands and walks toward a tall, metal file cabinet in the corner of the room. His demeanor shifts slightly, becoming more focused and professional.

“I have a patient I’d like you to work with today,” he suggests, pulling out a manila folder from one of the drawers. “His name is Ty, and he’s convicted of double-homicide.”

His words settle between us as he turns back around, the file clasped firmly in his hands as he sits down opposite me again. I adjust in my seat, putting on my serious face as I prepare to dive into whatever this file has hidden inside.

“He’s been here for many years,” Dr Moss continues, his words steady, “and he’s set to be released in just a few days.”

He reaches over the desk, offering me the file and I lean forward, accepting it with a nod before settling back into my chair, my fingers hesitating on the folder’s edges.

“Take a look,” he encourages, watching me intently. “Tell me what you think.”

I briefly meet his eyes before lowering my gaze to the file. Slowly, I open it, the papers inside slightly worn from years of handling.

The first page reveals the basics. “Ty Easton,” I murmur faintly to myself, “twenty-eight years old.”

Ty was only thirteen years old when he committed the heartless act that would outline the course of his entire life—murdering both of his parents in cold blood with an axe. The brutality of the crime shocked not only his community but the entire region. Given his age and the horrific nature of the incident, there were countless questions surrounding his mental state.

When his trial began, it became clear that this was not a case for a typical juvenile court. Ty was ruled legally insane, his mind fractured in ways that no one fully understood at the time. Rather than sending him to prison, the court ordered him to be transferred to Sacred Heights Asylum, where he would remain indefinitely until he was deemed sane enough to face the outside world again.

And now, after fifteen years inside these walls, Ty has been declared sane. There are pages and pages of psychiatric evaluations in front of me, detailing his progress, his therapy sessions, and the various medications he’s been on, also a bold diagnosis of psychopathy.

“He has a diagnosis of psychopathy?” I ask, lifting my eyes to meet Dr Moss’s gaze, trying to piece together the fragments of Ty’s past.

“Yes,” Dr Moss replies. “He was initially diagnosed with conduct disorder when he was fourteen, which later changed to psychopathy on a mid-scale when he was eighteen. The details are in the file, but long story short, in his younger years and still now, he exhibits a complete lack of remorse or empathy—toward anything living or even dead, amongst many other traits.”

I nod slightly. “And you normally house children?” I question, feeling a small unease at the thought of young kids spending their growing years here.

He shrugs his shoulders and slowly shakes his head. “There have been a few over the years,” he says, his tone calm, as if discussing a mere statistic, “but no more than ten, roughly.”

Returning my attention back to the file in front of me, it seems Ty's progress is impressive—almost too impressive, given his history. Thorough medication, relentless therapy sessions, and, apparently, an incredible commitment to follow the program have all contributed to his current state. Last month, the doctors from Sacred Heights even presented evidence of his sanity to the parole board, and the judge agreed to his release on conditions.

Still, something nags at me as I skim through the detailed reports. The assessments, the psychological breakthroughs—it’s all there, but there’s a gaping hole in the narrative.

Why did he do it?

“Was there ever a reason as to why he killed his parents?” I query, glancing up at Dr Moss again, hoping for some scrap of understanding.

He gives a small shake of his head, his expression unreadable. “No,” he replies. “He’s always said he doesn’t remember the incident. Claims it was a total blackout.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair, closing the file in front of me with a soft thud. A blackout. It seems too convenient, but then again, how much can we really know about the inner thoughts of a killer’s mind? Maybe I’m just skeptical as it’s my first day. Let’s see what I think when I meet him.

“Okay,” I say after a moment, trying to wrap my head around the next steps, “so he still needs therapy before being released?”

“That’s correct,” Dr Moss states, nodding faintly. “A few more sessions here before his release certainly won’t hurt.”

I nod in agreement. “I believe you’re right, Dr Moss, and I’m more than willing to work with Ty if that’s what you’d like.”

He stands, a soft smile gracing his aging features. “He’s definitely one of our calmer patients.”

I smile back, reassured by his words, though a small part of me remains suspicious. Years in a place like this can leave imprints on anyone, no matter how calm they might seem.

Dr Moss steps toward the door, his hand resting on the knob for a moment. “Let me take you to meet him,” he says.

I nod, gathering myself as we step out of his office and into the long hallway. Dr Moss escorts me through the lower-ground corridors, the air becoming cooler with each step until we reach what he mentions as the residential side of the building. It’s unsettlingly quiet, almost too quiet, and as we walk, I notice the rooms on either side, the doors heavily secured metal.

“Is this the place where the patients stay?” I ask as my eyes drift from door to door.

“That’s right, Ms Tate. The patients on this floor have their own closed rooms, which are much larger than those on the other floors. These individuals are more trusted, they have more freedom since they’re showing great progress and are being taught how to return to normalcy.”

I nod, taking in the information. The place feels sterile, controlled, as if everything here is designed to keep chaos at bay. I wonder what the top-level floor is like. It can’t be this quiet, surely. We continue walking until Dr Moss comes to a halt in front of an open door and I stop a few paces behind him, out of view.

He steps forward, poking his head through the doorway with a calm, almost fatherly tone. “How are you doing this morning, Ty?”

I can’t yet see the man in the room, but I feel a strange tension, like the atmosphere is suddenly too thick to breathe. This is the moment I meet the young man who once committed an unspeakable crime—the boy who took the lives of his parents. A mixture of interest and anxiety warps itself around me, wondering if this meeting will be as relaxed as Dr Moss tells me—or if I’ll be staring into the eyes of something far darker than I’m prepared to handle.

I don’t hear a response, but given Dr Moss’s nod, I assume Ty answered him silently.

“I’d like you to meet a student therapist,” Dr Moss says. “She’ll be giving you a few sessions before your release.”

Ty says nothing, but Dr Moss doesn’t seem concerned. He glances back at me with a nod, inviting me to step inside. Taking a breath, I cautiously turn the corner, adjusting my glasses.

As soon as I lift my eyes, I see him. Ty is laid out on his narrow bed, leaning against the white wall, a book in hand with one leg hanging off the edge. His entire broad frame is draped in black, from tight jeans to a dark fitted hoodie that’s pulled up over his head, casting shadows across his face. He has an eerie stillness about him. His skin is warm, tanned, a harsh difference to the cold darkness that envelops him, and his longish, jet-black hair hangs just over his eyes, concealing them like a veil.

He isn’t what I expected at all.

He’s extremely attractive, but there’s something more—a presence that fills the room, a mystery that clings to him. His features are sharp, chiseled almost, carved perfectly, with full lips that seem too soft for someone with such a violent past.

His light brown eyes seem to draw me in, those intense spheres that seem to expand ever so slightly the moment they land on me. For just a split second, I see a flicker of something behind them—surprise, maybe interest—but then it’s gone, replaced by a distantness as he looks away, placing the book on top of his bedside cabinet with calm movements.

I stand in the centre of the room as he swings his long legs off the side of the bed, sitting upright, but he doesn’t say a word. The way he moves, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the calculated shift in his posture shows me he’s very aware of my presence, studying me, even though he refuses to make it obvious.

When Ty’s eyes finally return to mine, I clutch my notepad a little closer to my chest and my heart flutters as I extend a hand toward him.

“Hey, Ty, I’m Ms Tate,” I say, my words softer than I intended.

For a second, he just stares at my outstretched hand, as if considering whether or not to engage. Then, he reaches out and his hand—larger than I expected—envelops mine, the size between us clear. As his fingers close around it, a wave of sensations shoots up my arm, electric and unexpected causing my breath to stop entirely.

Ty’s brow lifts slightly at my subtle reaction, a faint glimmer of amusement dancing in his gaze as if he noticed. I quickly pull my hand back, trying to compose myself, but I can feel the heat rising in my neck.

I clear my throat, averting my eyes, inwardly disciplining myself. I’m not here to be affected by him, to crush on him—I’m here to be his fucking therapist.

I straighten my spine, my notepad now more of a shield than a tool and finally look at him again. “Shall we begin?” I ask.

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Tate, I’ll leave you two alone to get to know each other,” Dr Moss says from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, offering a polite smile and a nod. “Thank you, Dr Moss,” I reply lightly.

The door remains open as I watch him stroll away, his footsteps gradually fading. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ty watching me closely, his dark eyes dragging down my body, examining me with a force I’m not entirely used to. Maybe it’s been a long time since he’s seen a woman close to his age.

When I finally turn my full attention back to him, our gazes lock once more.

“May I take a seat?” I ask politely.

Ty tilts his head slightly toward the chair opposite him, a small gesture. I carefully take a seat, placing my notepad and pen on my lap, crossing my legs to get more comfortable.

“So, Dr Moss tells me you’re being released in a few days?” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

He doesn’t blink as he dissects my every feature with a detached stare, as if I’m something less than human—something to be studied, rather than a therapist. It’s not surprising; I don’t look the part, and my lack of experience probably radiates off me like cheap perfume. But it’s not just suspicion I sense—there’s something darker. Something predatory.

I try to remain still, refusing to prod him with forced conversation since this needs to be at his pace and trust, but the silence seems to stretch between us.

When he finally moves, it’s calm—his hands sliding down to his thighs before pushing himself upright, as if he has all the time in the world. My gaze follows his relaxed rise, and as I tilt my head back to meet his eyes, a cold shiver trickles down my spine. He takes a step toward me. Then another, and stops directly in front of me, looming like a storm on the verge of shattering.

He slowly crouches down, bringing himself to my eye level. My pulse races, the thud of my heartbeat extremely loud in my ears and my fingers tense around my notepad, the edges biting into my skin.

His gaze sweeps over every inch of my face before his head tilts, like a hunter analysing its prey and for the briefest second, I see something flash behind his eyes. Hunger? Whatever it is, it’s dangerous.

“Your glasses hide your beauty,” he finally says, his voice deep and smooth. He leans in closer, and I fight the instinct to recoil. “Show me what you look without them,” he demands.

It’s a command wrapped in velvet, seductive yet terrifying. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in as I think carefully. This isn’t part of my job, of course, and I should know better, but sometimes, you have to play the game—just enough to make them think they hold the upper hand. One little compromise, I tell myself, just to see where his mind is. To understand him before he slips back into whatever shadows he calls home.

I swallow again, harder this time, forcing my gaze away from his and toward the door. I feel a new kind of dread—the thought of someone walking in, seeing us like this, witnessing me unravel right in front of him.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I won’t tell them you were a good girl for me.”

The way he just said that hits me like a jolt, my eyes snapping back to his with a sharpness that almost hurts. His lips curl into the faintest grin, and there it is—small dimples that shouldn’t be panty wetting but somehow are. It disarms me, and I feel the tension in my body shift into something dangerously close to surrender. For a second, I could melt into this damn chair.

Shit. Get it together, Raven. This is a psychopath, of course he’s going to be unbelievably charming. It’s just a shame he’s extremely beautiful to look at as well.

I raise my hand, slipping my glasses from my face and rest them on my lap. When I meet his gaze again, his eyes are already sweeping over my face. First my blue eyes, then my lightly freckled nose and cheeks, until they finally settle on my lips, lingering there.

“You’re like a little kitten,” he remarks, his tone disturbingly even, his pupils dilating as they devour the sight of me. His face remains expressionless as his gaze starts to move down the front of my body, shameless, and unapologetic.

A shiver runs through me everywhere they reach, and before I can stop myself, I speak—anything to distract him from the way he’s undressing me with his eyes. “I have a kitten, now you mention it,” I say softly. “Midnight. That’s her name.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his eyes dart up to mine, and something shifts in the depths of them.. Midnight . I can almost feel him toying with the name in his mind, as if it feeds his fascination.

“Let me guess,” he responds as he arches a perfect thick brow. “She’s black.”

His eyes sharpen, narrowing as if he already knows more about me than he should and I just went ahead and handed him something personal, something he could use. But he isn’t wrong, she’s black with big orange eyes.

“Maybe one day, I could meet her,” he suggests, the words rolling off his tongue with a coldness that feels anything but innocent.

My reaction is instant, and I feel my eyes expand, betraying the shock that twists inside me. To hide it, I quickly drop my head, sliding my glasses back on and shift in my seat, clearing my throat.

“Maybe,” I manage to say, forcing the word out, now desperate to end this conversation.

From the corner of my eye, I can feel him observing me, watching every twitch, every nervous fidget. He knows. He sees it. He knows he’s gotten to me, and worse—I’ve given him the satisfaction.

“How many psychopaths have you met, Kitten?” He asks. “Are you afraid of me?”

My brows knit together as I shake my head once. “No, of course not. People don’t scare me. I’m here to help. I’m here to help you.”

For a moment, he just watches me, as if dismembering my every word .

“How many psychopaths have you met, Kitten?” he repeats, slower this time.

Fuck.

His pretty brown eyes bore into mine, unblinking, daring me to slip, to show weakness. He’s the first psychopath I’ve ever met in my short career—there’s no denying that. And I can feel it—feel him—swarming my mind, wrapping himself around my thoughts. But it’s no time to crack. Ty’s my challenge, my first real challenge, and I can’t let him play with me.

Under different circumstances, I’d shoot him back a few sassy remarks, maybe roll my eyes just enough to show I’m not here to be intimidated. But this is my new job, the one I fought for, so I push down the urge, press my lips together, and remind myself that sometimes holding on is the smarter weapon. I can learn from this every step of the way.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I meet his gaze head-on, lifting my chin with confidence. “You’re the first,” I admit, my voice firm. “And I’m looking forward to hearing about your progress here and your plans for the future,” I add. “If you’re comfortable with that, of course.”

For a second, his eyes gleam with something unreadable—enjoyment, maybe. He tilts his head slightly, dismissing my words as if they were nothing more than background noise.

“You’re a city girl, aren’t you?” he says, his tone casual, like we’re just making small talk.

I blink, caught off guard. He’s completely disregarded everything I just said, effortlessly shifting the conversation back to me.

“I’m sorry, Ty. I can’t answer too many questions about my personal life. It’s…”

“But you want to know about mine, though, right?” He cuts me off and the silence that follows is stifling, my skin prickling with discomfort.

“I don’t want you here, Raven,” he finally says, each word sinking into me. “You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You’re far too…” He pauses, his dark eyes creeping down my body with a slow, almost greedy gaze. “…precious.”

My pulse jumps. Raven . He just said my real name. I’ve only been in this fucking room for ten minutes—how the hell does he know my name?

“Ms Tate,” I correct, my voice tight as my eyelids narrow, my professional mask slipping for just a second.

His lips twitch upward again, just enough to reveal those damn dimples again, playful and mocking before his face hardens once more, his expression darkening. “I mean it,” he warns gravely. “Stay the fuck away from here.”

“I like my job, Ty,” I reply, forcing the words out almost sternly. “This is my first day. I’m here to help you. I want to—”

“Help me? I’m fixed, remember? That’s what they all said. So why would I need help from you?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The confidence I had a few seconds ago feels fragile now. Not willing to play any more of his games, I make the decision to end this session. It’s becoming clear that maybe Ty doesn’t want a therapist—or maybe it’s just me he doesn’t want. Either way, I won’t make him talk to me in the right way.

I give him a sharp nod, my throat tightening as I drop my gaze to the notepad in my lap. My fingers move quickly, gathering it and my pen. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, feeling his eyes follow my every movement as I start to stand up.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ty,” I say. “I understand if you don’t want me as your therapist. That’s fine. I won’t push. I wish you all the best in your future.”

“Sit your ass back down, kitten,” he orders sharply.

I freeze, halfway out of my seat, my body stiffening at the sudden order. His dominance hits me with such force that for a second, I don’t move—don’t breathe.

I hold my notepad tighter as I start to settle back down in the chair, the leather creaking lightly beneath me. There’s a beat of silence until I glance down at him, meeting his gaze. His lips lift just enough to hint at that wicked smirk he possesses, but the darkness in his eyes masks everything else.

“What’s the rush, Raven?” he asks, dragging my name out slowly, savoring the sound of it on his tongue. “We’re just getting started and I’m far from finished with you.”

That almost sounded like a threat, but I decide to let it slide as he slowly rises in front of me and the room feels shrunk as he towers above. Without a word, he turns his back to me, and despite myself, I can’t stop my eyes from trailing up his tall frame. The way his muscles ripple beneath that tight hoodie, the way his fitted jeans hug his firm ass. He radiates a confidence I’ve never seen in a man before—it’s magnetic.

“ Fuck, ” I mutter under my breath, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

Ty freezes and my heart lurches as he sharply tilts his head just enough to catch me with a side-eye and the heat that floods my face is instant. My stomach flips as I drop my head quickly, burying myself in the safety of my notepad, opening it with shaky fingers as if it can somehow protect me from the embarrassment coursing through me.

“Say something, freckles?” he asks as he turns to face me, taking a calm seat on the edge of his bed.

“Hmm?” I hum innocently, lifting my head as if I don’t know what he’s talking about.

We lock eyes as he leans over and pulls open the bedside drawer. He withdraws a pack of cigarettes, and I watch, almost fascinated as he bites one out of the packet and lights it, the orange glow of the flame glinting in his eyes.

He takes a long drag, inhaling deeply, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he exhales through his nose and the room quickly fills with the strong scent of tobacco.

“So…” I say, breaking the silence. “Are you looking forward to getting out? Will you be visiting anyone?”

He studies me through the haze of smoke, his gaze unnervingly relaxed, as if my questions barely register.

“You’ve clearly seen my file, so you know I killed my folks fifteen years ago. That should tell you I’ve got no one in life, Raven,” he takes a short pause before he continues, “But I have plans.”

I understand and feel for him because I know how that feels, but I steer toward the positives, hopefully. “Oh, yeah, what plans do you have?”

“Many, but I’ve got a feeling they’re all about to change,” he replies, and I feel an odd, unsettling sensation in my gut.

I inhale deeply, then give a small nod. My eyes drift toward the book sitting on the cabinet, its worn black cover standing out in the room. “You like to read?” I ask, trying to latch onto something neutral.

He follows my gaze to the book before he shakes his head once. “It’s a journal.”

My brows lift in surprise. “You write?”

The idea of him—a man who killed his parents—pouring his thoughts onto paper feels… unnerving, but also so intriguing. He looks at me, his eyes squinting slightly as he takes another deep drag of his cigarette. He holds the moment before finally exhaling and shrugging carelessly.

“They said it could help,” he says. “Getting my thoughts down rather than speaking them out loud.”

“And does it help?”

Just as his lips part to answer, something from the corner of my eye catches my attention—and his. We both turn our heads toward the door to find Dr Moss standing there, watching us. For a moment, his gaze shifts between Ty and me before finally settling on mine.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

I force a small smile, giving a quick nod, though my insides feel like they’re warped with emotions. “Perfect,” I lie because really, this feels anything but perfect, but at least Ty is starting to give me a little something to write down on this damn pad.

“That’s great, Ms. Tate,” Dr Moss replies. “Meet me in my office when you’re finished up here. There’s a couple more patients I’d like you to meet today.”

“Of course,” I respond.

I watch him leave until it’s just me and Ty again—just the two of us, alone in the thick, tense silence.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I question.

But he just stares at me, blankly again, offering nothing and the quiet stretches out until I realize this is it. We’re done here. I close my notepad slowly, and stand.

“It was really nice meeting you, Ty,” I say gently, trying to keep my voice even. “If I don’t see you before your release, I wish you nothing but the best.”

I begin to move toward the door, but after only a few steps, I feel a sudden grasp on my wrist—locked and firm. My heart jerks into my throat, and I whirl around, eyes wide. Ty’s no longer seated. He’s standing now, towering over me. Damn, this man has got to be around six and a half foot.

I hold my breath as my gaze travels over his firm torso. His presence is overwhelming, his body so close, too close, the heat from him seeping into my skin. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes, my chest tightening as he steps forward, closing the already small distance between us until our bodies are pressed together. I swallow hard, the movement of my throat betraying my anxiety as he leans in, ghosting over my lips.

He moves so fast I barely register it before his fingers clamp around my jaw, tilting my head sharply to the side. My entire body stiffens, instinct screaming at me to push him away, but I can’t—I’m frozen under his hold.

With his other hand, he gently brushes my hair away revealing my ear, the soft, almost tender motion a strange opposite to the strong hold on my jaw. His thumb slowly drags down the line of my jaw until it’s lingering on the edge of my tattoo behind my ear. That’s when it clicks into place—he’s seen it. That’s how he knows my name.

My small raven tattoo.

“Do you know what a raven symbolizes?” he asks, but I don’t answer.

“Evil,” he exhales, the word stabbing into me. “Death.” He pauses, his gaze darkening as he leans in close. “And here you are, like something pulled out of my darkest dreams.”

A shudder runs through me, his intentions becoming clearer every time he talks.

“Be very careful, Little Kitten,” he murmurs, the space between us shrinking until there’s none left. “I can smell your fear,” he continues, “and I fucking like it.”

The growl that rumbles from his chest makes my head spin. “And so will everyone else here,” he stops, the words dangling between us before he adds, almost as an afterthought, “But this place is the least of your worries now.”

Before I can even process what he just said, he inhales deeply, the sensation of his nose brushing against my neck sending a jolt through me and my eyes flutter shut involuntarily.

“Ty,” I whisper, his name laced with a desperate edge as I try to pull back to create some distance. But he’s faster. His hand slides to the small of my back, pressing firmly, locking me against him. There’s no breaking away, his grasp tightening just enough to remind me of the power he holds between us.

“ Fucking call for them, Raven,” he taunts, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Tell them I’m touching my new therapist inappropriately. Get me locked up for another fifteen years. Save yourself from me.”

It’s like he’s daring me, as if he knows I won’t. He’s pushing me, testing me, and the worst part is—I don’t. I don’t call out, I don’t scream for help, even though I should.

He turns his head slightly and my eyes snap open just in time to catch his profile. I side-eye him but his hold on my jaw doesn’t loosen—it only clenches.

“You’re very lucky you met me confined inside this shitty place.” His bites, each word a dangerous promise. “Because this meeting between us might’ve been a very different experience if I had my freedom to say and do what I really wanted.”

His thumb slides back up my jawline, tracing the soft skin as if he’s memorizing the shape of me. When it brushes over my bottom lip, he pauses and his eyes follow the movement intently, dark lashes lowering as he watches the way my lip gives under the pressure of his thumb.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. “So pure and delicate,” he continues, his gaze flicking back to meet mine, holding eye contact. “So ready to be tainted and shattered by me.”

He looks at me like I’m something fragile—something he could break just for the satisfaction of seeing it destroyed. His thumb lingers on my bottom lip, pressing just enough to part it slightly, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. Then, with a sudden movement, he releases me.

His heat dissipates from my body as I draw in a sharp breath, my chest tight as I lower my head, fiddling with my outfit. I steal one last glance at Ty, lowering my voice.

“You don’t know a thing about me, Ty. Don’t underestimate me. I may be a professional at work, but I’m still a normal independent woman outside of these walls that will fight any person if I have too. Don’t make me regret this.”

His brow lifts at my brazenness, “I won’t ever underestimate you, Kitten. I think you’ve got exactly what it takes.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

We have a silent moment of intensity, his dark eyes still burning with feral desire until I turn and leave without any more hesitations.

My heels echo sharply down the quiet hallway, each step too loud, too fast—desperate to put distance between me and that room, between me and him . I scan each door I pass, looking for a restroom until finally, I spot one opposite Dr Moss’s office and yank the door open, slipping inside.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my forehead against the cool wood, closing my eyes. One day. One fucking day. That’s all it’s been, and already, Ty has dragged me so far out of my depth I can barely think straight.

I turn, facing myself in the mirror, my glasses sitting perched on top of my head. I straighten my shoulders, then reach for the tap, twisting it open and cupping my hands under the cold water. When I splash it over my face, the chill bites into my skin, shocking me back to the present, back to reality.

Why the hell am I here? I stare at myself, water dripping from my chin, my thoughts spiraling. This was supposed to be a challenge—a chance to push myself, to grow, to help people. Maybe even help myself.

I grab a paper towel and pat my face dry, my eyes never leaving my reflection. The woman staring back at me looks fragile, but I can’t afford to be that. Not here. Not now. I came into this line of work for a reason, to find the strength I’ve always lacked.

I’m alone in this life. That’s my reality. I have no one to lean on, no one to save me but myself. It’s time to stop being that girl. I need to survive. Because in this place, hesitation means weakness, and weakness is something I can’t do. Not if I want to make it in this line of work. I straighten myself out one more time, but this time with purpose, my fingers tightening around the paper towel before tossing it in the bin.

Fuck this. I can do it.

After I’m done, I walk straight across the hall to Dr Moss’s office, pausing before gently knocking my knuckles against the wood. A moment later, I hear his calm voice from inside.

“Come on in.”

I push down the handle slowly, summoning a small, polite smile as I step inside. Dr Moss looks up from his paperwork, his brow lifting as he slips off his glasses.

“Is everything okay, Raven?” he asks.

I nod, careful not to let anything waver in my expression. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

His gaze remains on me for a beat longer before he gestures to the seat across from his desk. “How did you find your session with Ty?”

I let another small smile slip into place. “I believe we’re making progress, but it may take a few sessions,” I say smoothly with the well-rehearsed lie. Progress. The word echoes in my mind. Hollow .

Dr Moss’s face relaxes, and he nods approvingly. “Good to hear. Ty’s… a special case.”

He leans back, observing me carefully. “I know you’re new to this but trust your instincts. He’s the kind who’ll test every part of your will power if you let him. He’s extremely smart yet slightly closed off. But if you hold strong, he’ll eventually open up.”

I nod and Dr Moss gives me a reassuring smile, his gaze softening. “Good. It sounds like you’re handling it well.” He leans forward, gathering a stack of files. “Take a few minutes, then I’d like to introduce you to another patient. Today will be a long one, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” I reply, but my mind is already wandering back to Ty—how he found out my real name, how easily he slipped beneath my skin. His subtle threats, his mocking smile, the way he touched me, tested my boundaries, my self-control… And the worst part? I let him. I could have shut it down, told Dr Moss about every remark, each line he’d crossed. But I didn’t.

Maybe because deep down, there’s this strange pull telling me he doesn’t have much time left here. Only days until he’s free. A part of me knows I should do everything by the book, keep things professional, give Dr Moss every warning sign so he can make up his mind whether Ty should ever leave these walls. But then, what would that make me? Another name in the system that let him down, caged him when he was so close to living his life on the outside. He was only a child when he did what he did. What chance at life has he actually had? So I tell myself it’s fine to let the small things slide. Maybe that was just his bizarre way of flirting.

Facts are facts, I don’t know him at all. I don’t know his personality or whether he was just teasing. And in reality, this is only temporary. I’ll never see him again once he’s gone.

“Here’s a panic button just in case you need it, Ms Tate. Keep it on you at all times while you’re here. You can never be too sure with some of these patients,” Dr Moss asserts, snapping me out of my thoughts as he leans over his desk, handing me the small, white device. I reach over, taking it from his hand before slipping it into my pocket.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Billy Wade is yet another patient on this floor and I’d like you to meet him today as well. He hasn’t been scheduled to be freed yet, but he’s another that is making incredible improvements.” He says, handing me a file which I take and open.

As I skim through the case file, my stomach knots. Billy Wade, thirty-six. Convicted eighteen years ago for crimes so unspeakable. He had abducted two young women, chained them together, brutally abused them in ways that make the words on the page feel dark and heavy, and finally murdered them after weeks of torture. He also recorded every minute of the horrific act before selling it on the dark web. The cruel images his file paints settle into my mind, and I find myself shuddering internally.

According to these reports, Billy’s been diagnosed with psychopathy as well, yet he’s managed to show what they call “significant progress.” I remind myself that the doctors here know what they’re doing. They’ve seen this side of humanity more closely than I have, and if they think he’s progressing, it must be true.

I take a deep inhale, struggling to silence my mind. Professionalism is supposed to be my armor in situations like these. I’m here to understand, not to judge. Yet, I’m also a woman. And somewhere in the dark corner of my mind, beneath the polished therapist mask, I feel the fear, the disgust, the heartbreak for the lives he tore apart. I’m only human, but I have to walk in and engage, even if my heart hurts for those poor women.

I close the folders, stacking them neatly before pushing back from the desk with a sense of calm determination and place them down in front of Dr Moss.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

As we step out of the office, we walk side by side toward the residential wing. When we pass Ty’s open door, I peek inside briefly, but I notice he’s no longer there. I continue confidently alongside Dr Moss until we reach Billy’s room. Pausing at the doorway, I look in to see Billy reclining on his bed, a book in hand. He lifts his gaze in our direction as Dr Moss clears his throat, his dark eyes sharp and probing, but I hold my ground. I won’t let him get under my skin like Ty did. No way.

“Billy, this is Ms Tate,” Dr Moss says with a slight nod in my direction. “She’ll be leading your session today.”

Billy closes his book and sits up, eyes still locked onto me. “Of course. Ms Tate,” he says, with an almost challenging emphasis, “please, have a seat.”

I step forward before settling into the chair opposite him and crossing one leg over the other, my notepad balanced in my lap. I catch Dr Moss’s approving nod as he leaves, keeping the door ajar. Now alone with Billy, I adjust my glasses with a calm smile and make my introduction.

“It’s so good to meet you, Billy. Let’s talk about you—tell me a bit about yourself,” I say. “What keeps you occupied?”

Billy pauses, assessing me, but I keep my expression calm. “Well,” he says slowly, testing my reaction, “there’s not much to do but read and talk to the others here.”

“Sounds like a great use of time,” I say smoothly. “Any favourite genres?”

He shrugs, his gaze narrowing. “My first choice would be horror, if they’d allow it. Otherwise, whatever they’ve got in the library.” He lets out a low chuckle, his bright yellow teeth showing just a little.

I smile slightly before I continue, “Have you thought about what you’d like to do once you’re out?”

He nods, shifting as he studies me. “Yeah, I’ve got family—my momma, an aunt, cousins…” His gaze narrows, gauging my reaction. “And my girl.”

I keep my expression neutral as I look up, surprised but relaxed. “You have a girlfriend? I’m sure she’s looking forward to seeing you.”

His smile widens, as if he's savouring some private triumph. “Of course, I have a girlfriend. She’s stood by me through everything. She knows I didn’t mean to do what I did—I wasn’t myself.”

A chill works its way up my spine, but I keep my face neutral, nodding as I jot down his words. “I’m glad you’ve had support through all this, Billy,” I reply, measuring each word. “That can make a real difference.”

Billy’s smile stretches, eyes fixed on mine. “I don’t know where I’d be without them,” he says, voice strangely flat. “I’m a reformed man now, Ms Tate. I’ll be out of here in no time.”

I nod thoughtfully, holding his gaze for a moment longer before shifting in my seat. We speak for a while longer, getting to know him and all about his plans when or if he leaves this place, then I think it’s time to move onto the next patient.

“Is there anything you need from me?” I offer, voice steady. “I’m here to help, anytime you need.”

He shakes his head, gaze shadowed. “Not today, Ms Tate,” he murmurs. “But I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

When he leans back, the glint in his eyes is as unreadable as it is unsettling. But I remind myself to stay firm and wrap up our session with a smile. “Thank you for talking with me today, Billy. I appreciate it.”

Billy watches me wordlessly as I exit, his eyes following every step until I’m around the corner. Exhaling, I feel the anxiety of the encounter settle in as I head down the corridor.

I spot a nurse wheeling a medication trolley and approach her with a polite nod. “Hi, I’m Ms Tate,” I say, introducing myself with a warm smile. “A new therapist here. I’d like to get to know the patients a bit better—would it be alright if I tag along?”

The nurse, Cathy from what I see one her name tag, gives a small nod, her expression impassive. “Sure.” She agrees gravely.

I fall behind her as she continues her rounds, watching as she distributes small pots of medication to each patient. When we reach Ty’s door, I hang back, observing him through the cracked door as he takes his pills, even opening his mouth to show Cathy he’s swallowed. She moves on, satisfied, and I keep pace, but something makes me look back.

Ty spits the pills into his hand before his dark gaze suddenly snap up to meet mine at the doorway. We lock eyes, and a silent understanding simmers between us. I know I should say something, again, report it even—but instead, I simply let my eyes linger before turning and following the nurse down the hall, leaving Ty to his secret.

Here I go again.

As I catch up to Cathy, I glance back, just once, over my shoulder. Ty stands in his doorway, checking out my ass, also watching and probably waiting to see if I’ll deceive him. I turn away, pulse quickening, unsure why I’m keeping quiet. Fuck.