Chapter Six

Raven

I burst through the side door, the relentless downpour soaking me in seconds. I dash across the desolate, rocky parking lot, hyperventilating, my hair and long, open jacket blowing in all directions. The alcohol begins to cloud my senses, my vision spinning as I try to keep my balance, every step growing heavier. I struggle to walk in a straight line, my speed increasing despite my wobbling. As I tug the middle of my coat around myself, I glance over my shoulder—and that's when I see him exiting the side door.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The words escape in a panicked rush, but they do nothing to steady my heart. I push myself harder, my strides lengthening, but the damn heels slow me down.

I stop dead in my tracks, kicking them off and grabbing them in one hand with my bag in the other, my bare feet sinking into the wet, jagged stones beneath me. The pain is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the terror gnawing at my insides. I keep glancing back, each time seeing him closer. His hands are casually tucked in his pockets, his hood shadowing his face, but I know those eyes are fixed on me. His long legs eat up the distance between us, and with every step, I feel smaller, weaker.

The moment my bare feet hit the cold, flat pavement, I pick up speed, sprinting down my street toward my house. All I can think about is locking myself away from him. I fumble with the zipper on my bag, fingers shaking as I dig for my keys and phone. I glance back, heart pounding, and there he is—still following, still relaxed, his unhurried steps in chilling opposite to my panicked scramble. It’s as if he’s relishing every frantic move I make, and that only deepens the anxiety I feel.

I can’t believe he did it—no, I can. I knew Ty wasn’t afraid of death or violence. I just didn’t realize he was still willing to kill so easily, so brutally. It’s terrifying proof that Ty hasn’t moved on from his violent past at all. He’s still the same, maybe worse. The life I thought he’d left behind. It’s clinging to him, darker than ever. What have I done?

I need to call the police. I can’t let him stalk me like this. I can’t ignore that he’s hurting people again, that he’s taking justice into his own twisted hands. Sure, maybe he thought he was acting for the right reasons, but you can’t just fucking drown people in a shitty toilet, cut their fingers off and then rip their eyes out. My stomach churns as the memory flashes again—blood, the raw horror of it.

I steal a quick glance over my shoulder just as I reach my house, relief flooding me as I see he’s far enough behind for me to make a run for it. I bolt up the steps, heart hammering, and my hands shake uncontrollably as I jam the key into the lock, rotating it as fast as I can. The door creaks open just as he reaches the foot of the steps, his pace quickening, his shadow looming larger. I lunge inside, dropping my heels and bag before pushing the door shut with a panicked scream, but his gloved hand snakes around the edge, halting it.

He pushes back against my desperate hold before I stumble backward, spinning toward the kitchen. My mind races as I tear through the dim light, my hand finding the cold handle of a knife in the block. I turn, clutching it in front of me, the blade trembling in my grasp as I face the darkened doorway.

My ears strain to hear the front door close and track his slow, heavy footsteps as they cross the creaking wood floor, each step drawing him closer. I can barely control myself, my chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic wheezes. Then, he crosses the threshold, his shadow stretching across the floor. His figure looms impossibly large, like a phantom set on destruction.

“Get the fuck out,” I warn, my voice quivering with fear despite the blade I hold out between us.

My fingers tighten on the handle and my, forcing my grip to steady, but he doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t even pause. His dark gaze is locked on mine, his steps closing the space inch by inch. I back away, the edge of the counter pressing into me as I try to keep distance, feeling the walls closing in, knowing he’s not stopping until he’s got me cornered.

The tip of the blade brushes against his abs, and I have no choice but to ease it back, my hold faltering slightly. My chest restricts as I feel his heat against my cold skin.

“I will… I will kill you,” I whisper, the words trembling on my lips as tears begin to spill over. The knife shakes in my hand, the threat sounding weak, even to me.

He smirks, his eyes narrowing with a wicked gleam as his hands slide to either side of the counter behind me, caging me in. I’m forced to tilt my head back, his face so close I can see every drop of water glistening on his skin, feel the heat of his breath mingling with mine. Dark strands of his wet hair drip onto my face, cold against my flushed cheeks.

“So do it,” he murmurs, rough and deep, taunting me. “Pierce my fucking heart, kitten. Stab it. Cut me open. I’ll only ever happily bleed for you.”

He dips closer, his lips grazing mine, a shock of electricity shooting through me, coiling something deep inside. “Do it!” he barks, his teeth clenched, his voice loud enough to make my body jolt.

I stay silent, and he sees it—he sees every crack of my hesitation, my helplessness. His dark eyes flicker, drinking in my trembling gasps, tracing the curve of my throat as I swallow, the rise and fall of my breasts. His hand moves, rising slowly before his gloved palm presses against my chest, cold over my frantic heart. I flinch, but he doesn’t stop; his hand glides up, claiming each inch until his fingers are cradling my jaw.

With one rough push, he snaps my head back, exposing my throat to him, forcing my gaze up to the ceiling. My eyes squeeze shut as my body trembles, caught in the tension that winds tighter and tighter, my clutch strengthening around the blade I don’t have the strength to drive into him.

His hand slips around to the back of my neck, and his mouth hovers over my throat, sending a shiver that’s both electric and chilling down my spine. I feel his fingers weave into my hair, grabbing tightly, holding me in place with an almost cruel gentleness. His other hand, now gloveless, slides along the inside of my thigh, inching upward, his touch both searing and soft.

Instinctively, I force my legs together, trying to resist, but he doesn’t falter. His hand presses further until it’s just grazing the edge of my lace panties, and my limbs almost buck under his touch.

I want to say something, to snap out of this, but my voice is lodged in my throat, suffocating under the load of his closeness, his scent, the brush of his nose along my jawline as he teases me.

“This is what you want, isn’t it, therapist? It’s why you keep covering for a fucking murderer? But not just any murderer. Me. ” he murmurs, his words menacing, yet full of desire. “You want your psychopathic patient to shamefully ruin this little pussy. To show you what it feels like to be fucked senseless by a maniac.”

His fingers move over the curve of my pussy possessively, rubbing and needing to feel every inch of me. I can’t help but gasp in response, my body betraying me. His tongue flattens against my throat, and he trails it upward until his lips are above mine.

I search his dark eyes as sneaks his fingers beneath the trim of the delicate lace, the back of them running over my bare lips and just as I part my legs, desiring to feel more, he grabs my hand that’s holding the knife and snatches it from my grasp with a speed that makes my breath catch, his hand tangling in my hair brutally.

Before I can react, he spins me roughly, forcing me to face the counter and my hands shoot out instinctively, my phone flying across the counter as I brace myself against the cold surface. He shoves me forward, bending me over, then his hold on my hair loosens, but there’s no pause.

His hand clamps down over my mouth, muffling the scream that almost tears from my throat, the sound dying against his palm, leaving only the frantic pounding of my heart and the cold, metallic thud as he slams the knife onto the counter beside me. Testing me to see if I’ll use it.

“Don’t worry, my little kitten. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s the fucking opposite actually. I just want to make my girl feel good. For now.” He whispers against my ear.

The air between us hums with tension, charged with the thought of what he’ll do next. His hand slowly trails over the curve of my ass, before curling around the hem of my dress and he yanks it upward, the fabric ripping over my skin, exposing me to him. I tense instinctively, my hands clenching as his fingers hook beneath the thin string of my panties, dragging it down my crack before he tugs sharply enough to make the fabric snap.

My eyes squeeze shut as he yanks me upward toward him, my back hitting his front, then pushes my feet further apart with his boots. He gazes down at my side profile as he lifts the knife again before he slips it down between my thighs and the dangerous sensation making me weak.

“Has a psychopath ever fucked your hungry cunt with a knife before, Ms Tate?”

The cold handle glides through my lips, its odd surface alien and invasive, making my legs quiver uncontrollably. He teases my clit with its edge before dragging it downward until he suddenly drives it deep inside me with a single, brutal shove. The scream that rips from my throat is muffled against his hand, the sharp stretch in my pussy burning through me like a mark.

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t let me adjust. He thrusts the handle in and out of my pussy violently, his movements relentless, feeding off every muted cry that escapes me. His breathing is harsh, uneven, almost guttural, as if my discomfort fuels him, pushing him further to whatever darkness that controls him.

My cries turn into unhinged, shameless moans, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. Come seeps from my pussy—unrestrained—dripping in a slow, rhythmic pulse that taps against the tiled floor between my legs. My knees threaten to give way, but he holds me, keeping me upright as he repeatedly plunges it deeper and harder, almost striking my cervix. I push my ass back like a slut, letting him ram it into me, chasing my orgasm, which is already quickly building.

The world around me becomes a blur of forbidden pleasure and pain, and I lose myself in the madness of it. I can’t escape. I’m fucking shattering. With one last, brutal thrust, my body convulses violently, every nerve on fire as a mind-ripping climax crashes over me, tearing through the very core of my being.

“You break so beautifully for me, Raven,” he growls against my ear breathlessly. “Like I’m the one who built you just to fucking destroy you.”

His thrusts gradually lose their frantic pace, the force fading until he rips the handle out of my soaked pussy, leaving me hollow and trembling. The cold steel of the knife clinks sharply against the counter as he tosses it aside carelessly, his movements shifting from raw hunger to something colder as if his job here is done.

Without warning, he spins me by the hips and before I can even pull myself together, his hands are on me again—lifting me, effortlessly, and dropping my ass onto the counter. I hang my head, my wet red hair cascading over my face like a veil, hiding the chaos swirling in my eyes.

My body is strangely satisfied, my pussy screaming that it’s what it desperately needed after almost five years of deprivation, but it’s my mind that fractures the most. Guilt and shame coils deep in my gut, mingling with the undeniable ache of desire for him, the raw need to give in—and yet, I can’t.

Not him.

His hand grips my jaw, forcing my face upwards, then he leans in to kiss me, but I flinch pull back, yanking myself from his hold and look away.

“I can’t,” I whisper, my eyes glazed over with unshed tears. A helpless shake of my head follows the words before my gaze drags back to his. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I can’t give it to you, Ty. I can’t fix you. Not like this. Maybe in another life… but…”

His jaw clenches, his gaze darkening with a burning intensity. “You think I want you to fix me?” he bites out, his head tilting to the side, hardly holding onto his anger. “I don’t need you to fucking fix me, kitten,” he spits. “I want you because I want to fix you.”

Confusion clouds my mind, but I can’t waste any more time caught in these twisted mind games. This isn’t some game. Not here. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened between us.

“This is my life, Ty,” I say, my voice shaking with every word. “Don’t make a game out of it. I don’t want you. I don’t want your bloodshed. I don’t want the guilt. Please, just leave me alone.”

His eyes flash with something colder, and in an instant, his face is dangerously close to mine until our lips brush and I try not to flinch back.

“Bullshit,” he snarls with frustration. “There’s no getting rid of me, Raven. You’re seared into my insane fucking mind—etched into my demented soul. You’re mine. All. Fucking. Mine.” His words are a bitter growl, each one wrapping around me like chains. “And the more you reject me? The more I fucking want you. You think you can push me away, but your little no’s mean fuck all to a psycho like me.”

He steps back unexpectedly, and I slump forward, my body heavy with defeat. Through blurred vision, I watch as he calmly crouches and Midnight pads toward him, her small body pressing against his leg. Her trust is almost too painful to witness as his gloved fingers scratch behind her ears while she purrs, melting into his touch, her surrender as stupid as mine.

When he’s done, he stands, his gaze flicking over to the knife on the counter that he just fucked me with, but his face shows nothing—completely unreadable, a mask of perfect composure before his eyes snap back to mine.

“I’ll see you soon, my beautiful girl.”

His words land like a death sentence but they, as always, stir something else inside me. Something unwanted. Something shameful. I can only blink, numb to the ache in my chest as a single tear slips down my cheek.

Without another word, he turns, his boots heavy against the floor as he disappears into the suffocating darkness beyond the door like a ghostly entity. The moment the front door clicks shut, a sob tears its way from my throat, breaking the silence he left in his wake.

I sag against the counter, my shoulders weighed down. I close my eyes, feeling the phantom cold of his touch still pressed against my skin and the sharp sting of his last words cutting through me.

After a while of gathering myself, I sluggishly slide off the counter, turning around to find my phone. My blurred eyes sweep across the counter, but it quickly becomes clear, he’s fucking taken it.

I growl, swiping the tears off my face with my palms before leaning down and scooping Midnight into my arms. As I lock the front door and climb the creaking stairs, my limbs feel like lead, my mind clouded, and by the time I reach the bedroom, exhaustion clings to me.

I flick on the light and place Midnight onto the blankets on the bed before moving toward the window to close the curtains. As my fingers wrap around the heavy, floral fabric, something pulls me to look down outside.

And there he is.

Ty stands at the entrance to the cemetery across the street, lit up by the faint halo of a streetlight. Rain pours down in relentless torrents, soaking his black hair until it clings to his handsome face. Water drips from the sharp lines of his jaw but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it, he seems to relish it.

In one hand, he holds a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly against the downpour. His other hand hangs loosely at his side, but everything about him is taut, coiled, like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His brown eyes bore into mine through the rain, and it feels as if the distance between us doesn’t exist.

My mind churns with the havoc of what just happened between us downstairs, the way he made me feel. Rough. Violent. Wrong. And yet, somehow, it felt stupidly right. He felt right.

I ask myself why? Over and over, the question loops in my mind like a broken record. Is it because I’ve lacked intimacy for so long, craving the touch, the connection I’ve been deprived of? Is it because he’s undeniably beautiful, with a face that could disarm any woman? Or is it something darker—because he’s like the forbidden fruit, tempting and dangerous, offering a thrill I’ve never allowed myself to chase before?

Or maybe, somewhere deep down, I see beyond the facade. Beyond the degrading words and the haunting smirks. Beyond the killer's confidence and the chaos he wields like a weapon. I see the lonely man he’s become. Broken. Lonely. Just like me.

But the thought sickens me even as it sinks its claws deeper into my chest. How the fuck can I feel like this about him? I don’t know him—not really—and what I do know is drenched in constant blood and horror. He’s done terrifying things. Horrific things. Fuck. He’s getting into my mind isn’t he? Or am I the problem?

In another crazy life, maybe I wouldn’t have fought it. Maybe I’d already be on my knees for him, surrendering to his obsession because at least it’s real. That dedicated, deranged keenness he shows—it’s frightening but strangely intoxicating. Yet it’s not simple. Nothing about this is simple.

I’m a therapist, and he’s a psychopath. We’re two forces that shouldn’t collide. That shouldn’t want to collide. Therapists don’t do this. They don’t lose themselves to the patient. They don’t erase guilt with violent fucks or entertain the idea of covering for someone capable of countless murders.

I shouldn’t even be thinking about him.

And yet, here I am, drawn to him still. He’s dangerous. So fucking dangerous. And no matter how I twist it into my mind, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe that’s exactly why I didn’t say no. Why my knees go weak in his warped presence. Why I blush when he calls me kitten or beautiful girl. Why I keep covering for him, shielding him from his own violence.

Every single time I done that, I’ve only fed his obsession, let it grow—let him get deeper under my skin. But not anymore. Tomorrow, this ends. This dark pull he has on me? It stops now. I’ll break this mentality before it breaks me.

My heart slams in my chest while we stay locked in an unbearable stare. When I can’t take it anymore, I yank the curtains closed with trembling hands, shutting out the sight of him and the storm. I draw in deep gasps of breath before turning around and climbing into bed, hoping tomorrow I’ll have a clearer mind and plan to deal with this.