Page 10 of Kiss Me Honey Honey (To Love a Psycho #2)

Chapter nin e

You Can’t Quit Me Baby

Aaron did see Kenny in bed.

Only a glimpse. Fleeting. Hazy with the edges of exhaustion. He arrived late, well into the next morning, slipping under the covers with a careful grace only half-rousing Aaron from his restless sleep. He barely registered the shift of the mattress before Kenny’s arm encircled him, pulling him in with a tender, unrelenting strength.

With his back pressed against Kenny’s chest, body aligning with his instinctively, and the sweep of Kenny’s lips along his bare shoulder, more than a whisper, soft and reverent, a ripple of sensation tap danced down Aaron’s spine. But it was the rasp of Kenny’s beard that destroyed him, and Aaron stirred, just enough to lift an arm free of the duvet, fingers seeking Kenny’s hair, threading through the familiar strands and gripping tightly, keeping Kenny’s mouth where he needed it. On him. He ached for Kenny’s lips on him. Anywhere he was willing to put them.

“Sleep.” Kenny’s hot breath trickled on Aaron’s shoulder. “We’ll do this properly.”

The words, heavy with promise, made Aaron’s heart clench, but his body betrayed him. Too tired to question, too lulled by Kenny’s presence to push, he let go of Kenny’s hair, tucking his arm back under the duvet. Kenny didn’t move away, didn’t leave him wanting. Instead, he draped his leg over Aaron’s, locking them together in a tangled intimacy so natural it was almost unbearable. And Aaron gripped Kenny’s thigh as if holding him there, anchoring himself to this moment.

To Kenny .

Even if he couldn’t have all of him, he’d take these fleeting moments where he could pretend he felt the same. So he allowed his eyes to drift closed, falling into the comfort of Kenny’s arms for as long as Kenny allowed them to be there.

Those arms were gone in the morning, replaced once again by empty sheets. But when he opened his eyes, Kenny was crouched before him, chin on the edge of the bed, stroking Aaron’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Aaron blinked, lifting his face from the pillow. Kenny had his three-piece suit on. Navy, this time. Glasses. Work mode.

“I need to go to work,” Kenny said, voice light. “And you have a lecture in two hours, which I’m delivering.”

Aaron swallowed, the realisation Kenny was kicking him out causing a lump in his throat. Their weekend hiding away was over. He was shoving Aaron back to the wolves. Cranking up those professional walls again.

“Now we can do this in one of three ways.” Kenny stood, adjusting the sleeves on his jacket to poke out the slight hint of burgundy shirt cuffs.

Aaron hoisted up, sitting against the headboard, duvet draping down to cover his bottom half, and ruffled his hair back. “Do what?”

“Get through this.”

Aaron arched an eyebrow.

“If you need more time, completely understandable, I’ll mark you absent. Sick. You stay here. You do not leave. However, faculty will expect you to explain why you were not in a core module. Your bursary package requires perfect attendance, and we report on that to the department who issued it.”

“The other option?”

“You get up now. I take you to your room. You either stay there, be sick, or you turn up at my lecture. That will, of course, rouse suspicion.”

“Third choice?”

“You stay here, you wear what you wore to the party, you leave in one hour when I’m already on campus, you turn up to my lecture and you do not, under any circumstances, make eye contact with me.”

Aaron exhaled a sharp laugh, more a release of tension than amusement, bowing his head to hide the smirk pulling at his lips. “Okay.”

But Kenny didn’t move, didn’t let it end there. His stare bore into Aaron, unyielding, charged with something more than frustration. Aaron shifted, peering up through his lashes, and it was as if Kenny reached inside him, dragging feelings to the surface that Aaron hadn’t wanted to face.

Guilt. Concern. Fear .

Not for himself—Aaron had long since given up fearing what the world thought of him—but for Kenny. The man standing before him, trying so desperately to hold himself together, to cling to the boundaries he’d set even as they frayed. Just Aaron being here, in this house, in Kenny’s bed , could ruin him. Burn his career to the ground. But then there was the rest of it, everything else between them, each moment, each slip, each kiss . Every single one adding another strand to the noose Kenny seemed intent on wrapping around his own neck.

And Aaron? He was complicit. Every word of defiance, every teasing smirk, every time he let himself linger too long in Kenny’s space, he tightened the knot that would eventually hang him.

“I’ll leave after you,” Aaron said, trying to rid his voice of any sulk about it. “I won’t even acknowledge you in the lecture. Probably won’t even listen to you.”

“Very funny.”

“Would say I’m here all week, but…” Aaron started the no eye contact rule early.

Then the mattress dipped, Kenny’s knee digging in beside him as he leaned over him, tucking a hand behind his neck to drag him forward.

“There are things I need to sort out,” Kenny said, coffee breath warming Aaron’s face. “And only once I have, can I let you burrow yourself inside me any further than you already have.”

“So, this is all my fault?”

“No. It’s all mine. And I expect full consequences. But somehow, I can’t fucking stop this.”

With a surge of brutal determination, Aaron seized Kenny’s tie, yanking it free from neatly tucked into his waistcoat, silk skating through Aaron’s fingers like a ribbon of defiance, and held him a whisper away from his lips. He poured everything into his gaze. Anger. Longing. Vulnerability of knowing how much he needed Kenny, wanted him, and the wild hope that Kenny might need him just as much. Or at least want him. And he fisted the fabric of Kenny’s blazer, pulling him down, dragging him physically and emotionally into his chaos.

Kenny didn’t resist. He folded into Aaron’s pull, burrowing his face into Aaron’s neck, his academic armour slipping as Aaron wrapped his legs around him, locking them together. Kenny pressed him into the mattress, the searing heat of their connection ruffling Kenny’s meticulously groomed exterior, unravelling him, and his groan was guttural, torn from deep within as he licked along the tattooed Mars symbol on Aaron’s neck. He gripped his hips, fingers digging into the fabric of his borrowed underwear and Aaron moaned, because he knew then, knew that when Kenny walked out of this house, when he returned to campus, when he stood before a lecture hall and donned his professional facade, it would all be a lie. Because Kenny had been here . Been on top of him, contained cock hard within his suit trousers, and biting his neck to claim him. Aaron would make damn sure Kenny wouldn’t forget it.

Eventually, Kenny ripped himself away, standing and wiping his mouth, ruffling his hair back in place. He then pointed at him. “No eye contact.”

“Wouldn’t want to look at you, anyway.”

Kenny adjusted his tie, tucking it back into his waistcoat. “Liar.”

Aaron smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

Then Kenny was gone. The sound of a door slamming. A car engine starting, tyres scrunching before fading into the distance.

This time, Aaron did sort himself out. How could he not? Rock solid enough for Kenny to have noticed, with his borrowed underwear already bearing a patch of wet pre cum, he was horny as fuck. So Aaron ripped the boxers off, rolled around in Kenny’s scent and fucked his fist, staining the sheets with his release, then fell back, a sweaty, disgusting mess.

Only slightly satisfied.

He showered, leaving the mess in the bedroom for Kenny to find, and the heat of the water did little to ease the tightness in his chest. The events of the past few days swirled persistently in his mind. He dressed back in his party gear, which wasn’t too far removed from his usual style, hair a damp, floppy mess which he pushed back half-heartedly, and caught his reflection in Kenny’s dresser mirror. It would do. It had to do.

Adding a spray of Kenny’s aftershave, he grinned at his deceit.

Let’s see who breaks first, indeed.

Then he rushed downstairs, but he snagged on Kenny’s open office door. He slowed his steps, the room calling to him, like a siren song he couldn’t ignore. Kenny’s files were in there. His records. Research. Maybe even the files on the Howells.

Mum .

Aaron hesitated, the rational part of him knowing he shouldn’t invade Kenny’s privacy. But curiosity, that gnawing, relentless beast that forced him back here to Ryston in the first place, overrode reason and he stepped inside, pulse quickening as he scanned the room. Shelves upon shelves of books, lever-arch files, and box files lined the walls. Papers stacked neatly in trays and scattered with organised anarchy across the desk. Each file held a story, a case, a piece of someone else’s tragedy Kenny had worked to untangle.

Then he saw it.

A huge box file. Howell scrawled across the front in bold letters.

The sight of his surname written there, stark and clinical, froze him in place.

He had to know.

Dragging a chair over, he stood on it, hands trembling as he reached for the file. It was heavy, the weight of its contents echoing the lead in his chest. Carefully, he set it down on the desk, heart thudding as he flipped the cover open. Inside were pages upon pages of reports, photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes, but the first thing he saw was his mother’s face. Roisin Howell stared back at him from a mugshot. Expression unreadable. Yet her eyes bore into him like she could still see him. Like she knew exactly where he was and who he’d been seeking comfort from.

Aaron sat, unable to stand under the sheer gravity of it.

He flipped through.

Diagnosis : Schizotypal Personality Disorder. Paranoid delusions. Hallucinations. Borderline traits with a tendency toward charismatic manipulation. Narcissistic sociopath. Psychotic tendencies. Anti-Social Behaviour Disorder .

Words leapt off the page, jagged and unrelenting, medical jargon weaving a cold, detached narrative of the woman Aaron had called his mother. Each line secured her deeper into the role of a manipulative predator. Clinical precision stripped her of humanity, rendering her a case study, a cautionary tale. Then the accounts shifted, plunging into the horrors she’d orchestrated.

The murders. Each one meticulously detailed, each victim a grim testament to Roisin’s delusions. Lives snuffed out like the wicks on candles, their last moments grotesque reenactments of her warped beliefs. The language was sterile, but the imagery it conjured was anything but.

And there were survivors! Ones who’d got away.

One account stood out—a boy, barely into his teens, lured into a car by use of sweets and treats, then taken to the house where Roisin had played the part of the nurturing caregiver. Even cooking for him. But the ingredients she chose had been deception and death as, after gaining his trust, she’d drugged him —”delivered a lethal dose of sedatives .”

Aaron’s breath hitched. Like the ones she’d given me?

But unlike on him, they hadn’t been used to soothe, allowing for a peaceful sleep. The boy’s body, pacified and unable to fight back, had become a canvas for Roisin’s madness. Over days, she’d inflicted unimaginable torment, because he was “ of the devil,” and his suffering was penance. A cleansing. The description the boy gave of his mother burned in Aaron’s mind: serene as she inflicted pain, as though she were conducting a divine ritual. He’d spoken of her calm, methodical nature and the almost motherly way she’d mollify him between bouts of agony, hands cold and gentle as they wiped his tears. She’d even sung to him. Soft lullabies turning into a haunting dirge, voice lilting over his screams.

Dream a Little Dream of Me…

Aaron’s stomach churned.

He flipped to the next report. Frank Howell. His father. He read how he’d taken a more violent approach, preferring knives and brute force and much younger female victims whom he would sexually violate. His was a classic case of sexual deviancy. But together, they were a lethal partnership, feeding off each other’s twisted psyche.

Aaron hovered his fingers over the handwritten observations, pages littered with Kenny’s precise scrawl. Roisin’s charismatic tendencies suggest an ability to attract and control those around her, including her victims. Frank’s role was often that of enforcer, fulfilling her perceived “spiritual” orders. Flipping further, he found the crime scene photos. Ones he hadn’t seen before. Blood. Symbols painted on walls. A twisted shrine to whatever belief system his parents had created and his hands trembled as he turned another page. Kenny’s psychological assessments of his parents were next, his analysis methodical and chillingly detached. Kenny described his mother as a magnetising figure whose delusions of purification and spiritual transcendence drove her to extreme acts of violence. Of his father: A willing participant, feeding off Roisin’s charisma and direction. Likely codependent, but his sadistic tendencies suggest an enjoyment beyond her approval.

Aaron felt sick, and he accidentally dropped the file, its contents spilling. “Shit.” He gathered it all up, trying not to see the pictures, read anything more, and just shoved them back into the box. Then a page stuck out beneath others, the typed writing capturing his attention:

This profile emphasises the critical need for monitoring and therapeutic support to mitigate the likelihood of Child A adopting the destructive behaviours modelled by their parents.

Aaron went cold. Child A? That was him. Wasn’t it? He shoved all the other papers in the file, closed it, then perched on the desk, biting his thumbnail as he read the top.

Psychological Profile: Child A. Prepared by: Dr Kenneth Lyon s

Overview : Child A’s upbringing in the Howell household reveals a deeply troubling portrait of a child shaped by profound psychological trauma and manipulation. Their formative years were spent in an environment where control, delusion, and violence were pervasive, leaving indelible marks on their psyche. Without intervention, the child’s behavioural tendencies and coping mechanisms pose a significant risk of perpetuating the cycles of psychosis and dysfunction modelled by their caregivers.

Aaron went to keep reading, but a high-pitched ringing and vibrating jolted him back to where he was. Fuck . Had Kenny returned to the house? Hastily, Aaron folded the piece of paper, shoved it in his back pocket, then stepped on the chair to tuck the file back in its place on the shelf as the ringing increased. He ran downstairs to a vacant house, following the vibrations to the kitchen diner. Plugged into a charger on the wall, his phone rang incessantly. He’d left it off all weekend, but Kenny must have thought he needed it and put it on charge before he left and now the whole world could get hold of him.

Aaron rushed over, picked it up. Taylor .

He scrolled down the list of other missed calls: Taylor. Taylor. Taylor. Mel. Mel. Taylor. Sade. Random number. Taylor.

He didn’t bother to read the messages and instead yanked the phone off charge, shoved it in his jeans pocket and launched for the front door. After opening it, he paused and checked the pot by the door, where Kenny usually threw his car keys. A set was in there, bound by a ring and a chain that said, spare . So Aaron grabbed them, put them in his pocket.

For safety reasons.

Kenny should know as well as anyone not to leave keys in a pot by the door.

* * * *

Kenny stepped into the chemistry department’s building. Stark white and modern, it differed vastly from the psychology faculty’s dated walls and antiquated interior. Here, the faint tang of chemicals lingered in the air, a mix of sterile antiseptic and something metallic, almost like blood, but at least the halls were quiet except for the occasional clink of glassware and murmured conversation.

He rarely ventured into the Faculty of Natural Sciences and he adjusted his tie, a reflexive gesture to steady himself when walking into a world of formulas and compounds with a question sounding more like the plot of a bad crime thriller. But when he had a university full of experts at his disposal, he needed to utilise them to his advantage.

It helped keep his mind off other things, too.

The professor Kenny sought to help him worked in a corner office on the second floor of the Chemistry department, tucked behind a maze of labs and corridors smelling faintly of ammonia and solvents. The plaque on the frosted glass door read Professor Vijay Menon, PhD – Analytical Chemistry . And Kenny knocked, thankful he wasn’t the only one in early that morning, the muted thud breaking the quiet hum of the building.

“Come in!” Menon’s voice carried the subtle irritation of someone constantly interrupted. Kenny understood that wholeheartedly. For an academic, there wasn’t much down time.

Kenny stepped inside where Menon hunched over a desk cluttered with papers, chemical models, and an array of glass flasks containing what looked like varying shades of sludge. The office was typical of someone deeply engrossed in their field. Certificates and academic accolades lined the walls, interspersed with photographs of Menon at conferences, always mid-lecture or deep in conversation. Despite their disciplines being vastly different, academic achievements were the lifeblood of those who worked at Ryston and Kenny appreciated having access to colleagues with as much experience in their fields as he did in his.

“Dr Lyons!” Menon stood, round frame jostling the papers on his desk as he extended a hand. He looked every inch the quintessential professor: slightly dishevelled, eyes bright with curiosity, and utterly in his element. “To what pleasure do I owe this visit? A long way from your department, aren’t you?”

Kenny shook his hand. “I need your expertise on something unconventional.”

Menon’s eyebrows shot up with interest, and he gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Unconventional is the heart of science. Please, sit.”

Kenny dropped into the chair, adjusting his bag on the floor. “I’m consulting on a police case. A student, Connie Bishop, found dead under suspicious circumstances.”

“Ah, yes.” Menon frowned. “Terrible business. The university’s abuzz with speculation.”

“Well, the toxicology report found an unknown neurotoxin. Something fast-acting and undetectable through standard tests.” Kenny leaned forward. “I’ve developed a theory, but I need to know if it’s scientifically plausible before I present my report to the DI in charge.”

Menon steepled his fingers. “Go on.”

“I believe the toxin might have been transferred through a kiss. Applied externally to the lips, absorbed lethally through mucous membranes.”

For a moment, Menon blinked, a mixture of intrigue and scepticism. Perhaps even thinking Kenny might be winding him up. A sort of academic joke. Then his face lit up with enthralled excitement. “Fascinating. And theoretically possible. But the chemistry would have to be impeccable.”

“That’s what I need to know. Could someone synthesise a compound that remains stable and potent enough to transfer lethally through such a small dose? ”

Kenny could see the scientific cogs whirring, along with the images of formulas and compounds flashing before Menon’s eyes.

“There are substances that absorb through the skin or mucous membranes. Think of scopolamine patches or certain nerve agents. However, achieving lethality through such a minimal application, especially on the lips, would require extraordinary precision. Modified neurotoxins could work. You’d have to stabilise the compound to ensure it remains active until contact and account for environmental factors like saliva or temperature.”

“So, it’s viable?”

Menon scratched his head. “Viable, yes, but it would require significant expertise. Whoever did this wouldn’t just have a passing knowledge of chemistry. They’d need to understand molecular structures, reaction pathways, and absorption mechanisms. It’s not the thing you whip up in a garage.”

Kenny nodded, mind racing. “What about aconitine or ricin? Could those be modified?”

“Hmmm.” Menon’s hum carried an eager edge. “Aconitine, for instance, is a highly complex natural alkaloid that might lend itself to modifications to change its activity, make it more amenable to transdermal absorption. Combine that with a synthetic carrier and you’d have something potent. Ricin, though, it’s a protein toxin. It would degrade too quickly on the lips. Aconitine’s a more likely candidate.”

Kenny’s stomach turned at the clinical way Menon spoke of such a deadly concoction. But he needed answers.

“Hang on, let me get us a second opinion.” Menon pressed a button on his desk intercom. “Peter, can you join us for a moment?” He smiled at Kenny. “My technician. Absolute genius.”

A minute later, the lab door creaked open, and a figure emerged. White lab coat, slightly hunched, with unruly hair and a surgical mask covering his mouth.

“Peter.” Menon gestured to Kenny. “This is Dr Lyons. Our very own criminal psychologist expert. Worked on that Howell case, you remember?”

Peter stared blankly at him.

“Anyway, he’s working on a new case and came to me with a question about compounds and absorption. I know your knowledge is far greater. Specifically, have you come across any substance designed to remain stable externally and deliver lethality through mucous membranes?”

Peter looked between the two men before settling on Menon. “No. Nothing like that. It’s not feasible.”

Menon frowned. “Not even theoretically ? Let’s pretend we’re writing a crime thriller here. Selling it to the bigwigs in Hollywood.”

Peter shook his head. “Not possible.” His eyes darted to Kenny for a split second before looking back at Menon. “Can I get back to work?”

Menon sighed. “Yes, of course.” He waved him off. “Thank you, Peter.”

Peter retreated without another word, slipping back into the shadows of the lab.

“Brilliant chemist.” Menon waited until the door closed before continuing. “But not the most social, I’m afraid. I’m suspecting some undiagnosed disorder. Ah, perhaps you can help on that front? He’s had a few…challenges. Bounced around universities, as they didn’t seem to know what to do with him. But I have a nephew with autism, so I’m determined to help the young man. Can’t put him in front of a class, though. He’s not much of a people person.”

Kenny nodded absently, filing the exchange away. “Thank you, Dr Menon. Your insights have been invaluable. ”

“If you need samples tested or further advice, don’t hesitate to ask. The students love a real-world case.”

Kenny shook his hand again and left the office, mind churning. Menon’s explanations confirmed the killer had to be meticulous, knowledgeable, and methodical. Someone with access to specialised equipment and a mind for detail. Now for the harder task of figuring out why the person chose the victims they did. Once he had that established, it would help paint a clearer picture for the police to start interviewing potential suspects. But it certainly added weight to his theory enough to let Jack know where his thoughts were. And he’d do that once he’d attended to his actual work.

Which included taking a lecture. Aaron’s lecture.

How on earth did he think that was a good idea?