Page 115 of Healed Heart

Someone did this to him.

And I’m pretty sure it was orchestrated by the man in this bed.

Because that’s what a sociopath would do.

His pulse is staying constant at seventy beats per minute.Which also means he’s not in a lot of pain, either.He could be doped up on drugs, or he could just be a fucking iceman.

Then again, if heisa sociopath and an iceman, could he still be obsessed with Lindsay?

I watch him carefully, studying every flicker of his expression, every shift in his breathing.He lies there, bruised and broken, but there’s no real distress beneath the surface.No fear, no panic—just calculation.A man like this should be seething, should be lashing out, should be grasping at any last shred of control he can find.But his pulse stays steady, unnaturally so, like he’s already ten steps ahead of me.Like he’s already decided how this will play out.

Sociopath or narcissist?

There’s a difference, but right now, the distinction feels thin.

A narcissist craves attention, feeds off the reactions of others, twists the truth until it serves their purpose.

But a sociopath—he doesn’t need admiration.He needs control.

And this one?He’s been playing the long game.

He accused me without hesitation, with all the certainty of a man who’s rewritten reality to fit his needs.He expected outrage, maybe desperation.He expected me to crumble under the weight of the accusation.Instead, I told him I had proof.Hard evidence that I wasn’t the one who left him like this.

And still, his pulse never wavers.

Normal people react—spikes of adrenaline, anger, relief, even regret.But he simply watches me, as if my proof is nothing more than an inconvenience, an obstacle he’ll sidestep when the moment is right.He isn’t trying to convince me of my own guilt.He’s waiting.Calculating.Already shaping his next move.

Sociopath.He’s a fucking sociopath.

A narcissist would be unraveling by now.But he remains composed, knowing that truth has never mattered as much as perception.

He thinks he’s still in control.That’s his mistake.

“You see, Ralph,” I say, remaining as calm as I can under the circumstances, “I know you.”

He scoffs.“You don’t know shit about me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”I slowly pace at the foot of his bed.“This was never about Angie.It was never about medical school.”I shrug.“Hell, it wasn’t really even about me.”

He glares at me.“You think you can outsmart anyone, don’t you?The great physician, head of his class.On to becoming one of the best general surgeons in the country.”He laughs coldly.“None of that happened, did it?”

“No.It didn’t.”I draw in a breath, count to ten.

I can’t let him get to me.That’s what sociopaths do, thrive on control.On watching people collapse under the weight of their manipulation.They push buttons, prod at weaknesses, and wait for the inevitable snap.But I won’t give him that satisfaction.

Not now.Not ever.

I hold his gaze.“Our pasts can be funny things.No one really knows when they’re going to collide.My past has been filled with loss, trauma, sorrow.Yours?Yours has been filled with a single thought.One singular possession.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”I lean over him, sear my eyes into his.“Mr.Burgundy?”

He swallows hard, his pulse still steady but his breathing just a fraction off.

Good.Even sociopaths have their limits.He’s not as calm as he wants me to think.

“It’s Normandy,” he says.“Ralph Normandy.”