Page 2 of Lethal (Wellard Asylum #1)

I always scheduled them last, at the end of the day.

I don’t know if that was in hopes that their energy and intensity had waned, their boundaries were down, or just because I wanted them to be the last thing I thought of before I returned from this dreadful place, and went home to the safety of my walls, and my locked doors.

Not that I didn’t think of them regardless.

The Norwood twins are two of the most dangerous and notorious individuals to ever enter this building, and that’s saying a lot, considering where we were, and its prolific, deadly inhabitants.

Both of them could be captivating, charming, manipulative, and discerning, and it helps that they are visually stunning.

A trifecta of deadly sins. This session, once a week, was the only one that ever mattered to me, and I feared that my interest in them was becoming all-consuming.

You want them, but not as patients, as men, even knowing that they would take your life in an instant.

You have a death wish, one they will gladly grant you.

Yes, I desired to help all the other patients assigned to me within Wellard’s psychiatric walls, but those other patients didn’t cross my mind when I left here daily.

They didn’t linger with me, and make it into my nightmares at night.

They didn’t cause emotions, and dark desires, that I had no business having, to rise within me.

No, the Norwoods had a hold on me, metaphysical fingers slowly pulling me closer and closer, wrapping themselves around my neck, until even taking a breath couldn’t be done without thoughts of them.

My pen scratches across my notebook, underlining the words ‘personal targeting’.

I try to move past Wren’s threatening remarks, disguised as some sinister, fucked up nursery rhyme.

Anyone else but him and I would think it was make-believe, that he’s just trying to make me give up and flee, but I know the extent of his medical file, and it’s thicker than my calf.

Perhaps we need to up the dosage of his antipsychotics?

The minute the thought even passes through my mind, I have to consider that I’ll have to speak to Dr. Halstead in person to do that.

Just the possibility of having to be alone with that man creeps me out.

Maybe we’ll wait a little longer on that, and see if this is just an off day.

Yeah, right, even I can’t convince myself of that.

I feel a shift, a creeping tension, that causes a chill to race down my spine, as Sebastian stares at me with those unnerving, stony eyes, which conjure up images of a cold, bleak, and violent winter storm.

I remind myself that I’m safe, that they’re shackled to the chairs, and the large orderlies are just outside the door.

All I have to do is press the button on the side table, and they will storm in here, like disgruntled, and underpaid, knights to save me.

Where were those orderlies when she needed help?

How come no one came to her rescue, huh, Cat?

I clear my throat, breaking the connection between us, and force my gaze above his head, staring at the faded and aged damask-style wallpaper.

I have to be careful here; he’s the shrewd and calculating one of the pair, and I know he’s been watching and assessing me.

Where his brother Wren brings unhinged violence and pain, Bash, as he likes to remind me to call him, prefers to play psychological warfare with his victims. It doesn’t slip past me that they’re predators, and they view me as their newest prey.

I have no doubt that, given the chance, they would both hurt me without the slightest hesitation.

I’m not naive or stupid. The problem is that I think, deep down inside, if I were to examine myself, in the parts I like to hide, I might like that. No, not like, I might crave that.

You’re just as messed up as they are, and you know it. You belong in here just as much as they do, sinner.

“Let’s return to my question, shall we?” I try to ignore the unease that’s growing in the pit of my stomach.

Maybe I’m out of my depth here. All of this seemed feasible when I first planned it out months ago, but now I’m unsure if I have the mental capacity and fortitude to deal with the Norwood twins, or what I strongly suspect is happening inside Wellard Asylum.

Keep it together, Caterina, you have too much to lose if you don’t. We have to find the truth. Only the truth will set her free. We have to punish them for what they did to her. They can’t escape unscathed.

My eyes skim over the small, puckered marks visible on Wren’s uncovered, muscular forearms; some are concealed by his dark, swirling, and menacing tattoos, while others remain untouched.

I have to fight back the wave of nausea that assaults me, every time I get a glimpse of them.

I know what those are from. I’ve read every inch of their files.

Every physical wound and scar inflicted on them is thoroughly documented, so that we can dissect and study whether nature versus nurture is the cause of their mental state.

So many scars, and healed injuries, that the files are thick, and reading them is akin to watching a horror movie, where there’s no way to believe that a human can endure all that has been done to them.

Don’t feel sympathy for them, that’s what they want, I remind myself.

Yes, they suffered, but that doesn’t excuse their horrendous actions, and all of the people that they’ve hurt or murdered along the way.

They’re violent and psychotic serial killers, ones that have racked up an impressive, and horrifying, body count, and I can’t forget that whatever humanity they had is long gone, or was never present to begin with. Monsters. Evil. Broken.

The words ‘I’m sorry’ lodge in my throat, and I force them down.

It’s not my place to apologize to them for what occurred years ago.

Bash’s gaze crawls across my skin, leaving fire in its wake, as I raise my eyes to meet his.

He must sense the direction of my thoughts, and has caught me staring at his brother’s arms. Dangerous.

You have to be more careful. You’re in peril here.

His dark eyebrows rise sarcastically, almost daring me to unleash my meaningless words of sympathy.

The ones that won’t change what happened to them, or what might have led them to become what they are.

They don’t want my pity. They’re not those scared, abused little boys anymore, and they haven’t been for many years.

Now, they are monsters who have committed unspeakable, and unforgivable, crimes.

Don’t play into his games. He’s not smarter than you, and he doesn’t have as much to lose.

The musky, damp scent of the room, the hint of their sweat, and the whisper of the draft, coming through all the nooks and cracks in the decaying walls, all play with my senses.

A cold shiver races up my spine, as if a skeletal finger is sliding along my skin.

There is no denying the evil within these walls, not just in this crumbling office, but in the whole of the asylum.

Wellard is a place where evil is trapped, maggots fill every available inch, and madness is ripping at the seams, demanding to get out.

These two before me are no exception. They’re evil, but so are you.

I can’t allow myself to imagine a younger version of Wren and Sebastian.

To humanize them would be a mistake. I know that they use their charm and intelligence as powerful weapons.

It’s how they lured so many women to their deaths.

I also refuse to underestimate them. They may be locked up in this place for the mentally disturbed, but I’m in here with them.

Behind the walls of Wellard Asylum, we are all prisoners.

Some of us just get the chance to leave, while others wait to die.

There is a danger of my emotions taking over, and seeing them as broken boys who became damaged and brutal men.

Someone hurt them, just like her, but they didn’t have anyone to save them.

I’m already crossing so many professional boundaries, allowing them to suck me into their hemisphere, and it’s only been a short time since I’ve been exposed to their company.

My mind is attempting to twist my thoughts, and find excuses for the crimes they have committed.

I need to stay the course, because my livelihood and life depend on it.

I need to finish my research, complete my mission, and get as far away from Wellard, and these two, as I can.

Traitor, you should never get to leave this place.

You deserve to be in a cell, just like they do.

The overhead lights flicker faintly, distracting me from my thoughts and self reincrimination.

I force myself to project the appearance of a calm professional, and I decide to try a different approach.

“How are you feeling today, Wren?” I inquire, my tone soft and soothing, as if I were dealing with small, terrorized children, or talking someone off a ledge, instead of a man who consumed the flesh of his victims. The question was automatic, but the answer was usually never forthcoming, and I prepared myself for further disappointment.

My glance slides to Wren, observing intently as his thumb runs over his forefinger in a relentless pattern.

At first, I don’t believe he’ll answer me, as he rarely does.

Usually, he mumbles incoherent things to himself, or whispers to Bash, so imagine my shock when he raises his eyes and meets mine, his lip quirking upward in what would normally be a devastating, flirty smirk, if he weren’t a psychopath.

“Better,” he replies. “I like blue. It’s my favorite color. ”