Page 117 of Carved Obsession

I shake my head, gaze fixed on her mesmerizing, dark eyes. “The second discovery, after further doctor visits, was my low emotional intelligence. Looking back, it’s rather amusing how she skirted around the words ‘lacks empathy’ as she explained it to my parents. The third one was a hunch. The doctor whispered the word to them—psychopathy. But I was too young for such a diagnosis, so she couldn’t brand me with it. There were other possible explanations, but I didn’t dwell on any of them.”

Scarlet doesn’t flinch at my words, though part of me expected her to recoil as I spoke them. Her eyes don’t shift away from me. They don’t fill with indecision or fear, and her touch never falters.

Why?

Any sane being would walk away right about now.

“Did they treat you differently after receiving those results?” she asks.

“Yes and no. Similar to you, my mother didn’t take it very well, and my father insisted on understanding me. But there’s no trauma there.”

For the first time, in the face of Scarlet’s confessions to me, I hear the lie in that last sentence.

“Do they know . . . everything?” She cocks an eyebrow.

“You mean my predilection for slicing into people so I can experience that complex range of emotions I’m not able to otherwise?”

She smiles, and once again, I’m fascinated by her lack of negative reaction. Talking to her is...easy. Unrestricted. No mask needed.

“My need surfaced early on. What I have become...my father knew parts of it, before he died.”

“I’m so sorry, Carter. That must have been...difficult.” She chooses her words so well.

And she’s right on the money too, because losing my father was indeed difficult. Frustrating for such a man in my complex world to be taken by a mundane illness. There was anger. Even more so at my lack of grief.Difficultis the right word.

Sadness breaches her gaze. It doesn’t shine. It’s a dull ache, reflected in the slight crease of her brows, the curve of her lips, and her slowing breaths.Thatis empathy, and as much as I appreciate it coming from her, I’m grateful I don’t get to experience the oddity for myself. It looks tedious. Exhausting. Highly unnecessary.

“And your mother?” she asks.

“Still alive. Living up north. And no, she knows nothing of me.”

She smiles, something interesting flickering through her gaze. “You know you’re not that bad, right? I remember what you were doing the first time we met. You guys might be a feared criminal organization, or whatever you call yourselves, but what you were fighting for then was good.”

“I know,” I agree. “But I could have just as easily been a lone serial killer seeking only my pleasure.”

“What stopped you?”

“It was a choice, Scarlet. I do not need to be...stopped.”

I don’t miss how my words sink in, the gentle realization of what I’m capable of but choose not to do. I’m still a serial killer, but my chosen family weaved a moral compass through my cruelty.

Would she run away if I became something else?

Something worse?

Myself?

Chapter 31

Scarlet

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Carter calls out from the bedroom as I lock the large safe room leading from my office. “I found your sealed record from when you were sixteen.”

Oh, there we go. This should be fun.

I walk out of the office and toward the bedroom, where we retired when the night was getting a bit too old and we were growing quite hungry. We ate the leftover pasta I thought he might be too fussy to eat, since he seems more like a “gourmet meals” kind of man. Yet, he enjoyed it without an issue. He wasn’t even too good to eat in bed with me.

“What about it?”